
THE BLOOD GATE
by David Ross Erickson
Copyright © 2011 by David Ross Erickson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from David Ross Erickson
March 2011
Cover design by Glendon Haddix.
Contact him at streetlightgraphics.com
Published by
Rockford Road Publishing
If you would like to read more of
David Ross Erickson's books
or contact the author, please visit his blog.
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THE BLOOD GATE
"When the author promises unforgettable characters, non-stop action, romance and intrigue, he most certainly delivers. A definite 5 stars out of 5.
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"Sure to keep you engaged until the end ... All of the book's subplots weave together beautifully and leave the reader invested in the characters/world."
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"You will never get bored and the writing is well done ...When you read the battles, you feel like you are right there as the background of research is spot on."
--Bab's Book Bistro
"Rich characters, tons of action and intrigue, romance and great storylines ... The world the author created for this book was extraordinary ... [The Blood Gate] has a very historical feel to it, thanks to an incredibly well-created world ... [The] great pace...kept me turning the pages."
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MY CLOCKWORK MUSE
A Poe Files Mystery
New York City, 1847: A madman is on the loose. Someone is committing murders in the manner of Edgar Allan Poe's tales of terror. The police are stymied. When a corpse is found interred in a masonry wall in a subterranean chamber, they call on Poe himself to help solve the crime.
Edgar Allan Poe's fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin, has made the author famous as the master of deductive reasoning. But when "the father of the detective story" applies his powers of discovery to the "Poe Murders", he finds that the clues lead in only one direction: to Poe himself.
Poe soon becomes the prime suspect, and he begins to doubt his own sanity as the evidence piles up against him. What of his somnambulistic trances that often find him at the graveside of his late wife, Virginia? Or the bizarre raven that visits him in his Fordham cottage? The strange mark on his neck? The odd behavior of his one-eyed cat, Pluto? And what of his doctor, Coppelius--he of the bulging pale blue eye--and his beautiful, other-worldly daughter, Olimpia? Nothing is as it seems.
As the police tighten their noose around Poe's neck, he races against time to solve the crimes and clear his name. But he soon finds himself confronting horrors that not even his macabre fiction could have envisioned--and a conspiracy that threatens the very fabric of reality itself.
Once again for Roli
You are my wings
MAN OF PAIN
After their horses died, Xanthippus and Nydeon walked the last few miles to the Tygetian border. The road they followed was little more than a dirt track which for short stretches disappeared under massive drifts of windblown sand. Though more accustomed to drifts of snow than sand, the men said little as they staggered over the dunes. The Albyans had told them that it was the only route through the desert into Tygetia, a fact that now seemed like an understatement. A waterless waste stretched away for endless miles on either side of the road and anyone who wandered into it would surely die.
Xanthippus was willing to admit now that the horses had been a mistake. The sandfarers had tried to warn them to take malecs instead, but Xanthippus wouldn't listen.
"I would sooner walk than have that thing spitting on me all the way to Tygetia," he had said.
His words had proved prophetic, but neither man spoke a word of it. They had merely taken the packs from the dead animals, strapped them onto their own backs, and continued along the track.
The horses would last no longer dead than they had alive. For days, sandrunners had been peering at them over the dunes. The reptilian scavengers might have been keenly eying the men, but would have to content themselves with horsemeat for now, for the men would not fall so easily. Members of the famed Prathian Guard, both were prodigies of brutality and endurance, trained from youth to withstand every hardship. Though the legend of the Prathian Guard was long past, men still knew to fear them, and if the Tygetian prince Hurrus had known that two of them had just entered the country with his name on their blades, he would not have rested easily, whatever their tarnished glory.
Xanthippus unwound his headscarf from his mouth. "This must be it." He nodded toward the border. A simple swinging gate spanned the road, a chest-high web-work of slim timbers. To one side stood a little guard shack. The fence that separated Tygetia from the Albyan desert ran to the horizon on either side of the gate. In places, its ragged black posts just barely broke the skin of the shifting sands.
Nydeon nodded, saying nothing. Both men wore the long white kaftans of Albyan traders. Scarves covered their heads and faces and brass visors protected their eyes from sun and sand. Nydeon cocked his head in the characteristic manner of a man trying to see an object through the narrow slit of the visor.
He was looking beyond the fence and the gate to the border complex itself, a place the Albyans had simply called The Crossing. A palace, stables, and an entire small village of mud brick houses and shops crowded around an oasis of green sprouting from the desert. Tall date palms shaded the narrow alleys of the village. In front of the stables was parked a caravan of laden wagons where Albyan traders conferred noisily with Tygetian officials who wore red-trimmed tunics and black wigs. Malecs, horses and mules snorted and shuffled in the dirt. Some of the malecs laid upon bent knees in the shade.
Here they were to meet the administrator, a man named Seus, as themselves, a Gyriecian, they had been told. If so, he would be the only Gyriecian in sight, for, The Crossing appeared to be populated by no one but Tygetians and Albyans, from what Xanthippus could see. At least their kaftans might allow them pass for sandfaring traders. Without them, they would be recognized as foreigners a league away.
"We don't get many walkers here," a voice said in the Common Tongue. A shirtless guard wearing only a white linen kilt had emerged from the guard post and stood at the gate scrutinizing the two men with an expression of amused contempt. A short sword hung from his belt and the braids of his black wig fell about his brown shoulders. He had the arrogant bearing of a civilized man of authority accustomed to dealing with simple sandfarers.
"We are Albyans, lost in the desert." Xanthippus had had to uncover his mouth to speak and saw that the guard was watching his lips. Even though his close-cropped black beard gave him a slight Albyan cast, his lips were thin and pale. They were the lips of a foreigner, not an Albyan. Certainly not a Tygetian.
"Lost in the desert?" The guard laughed. He leaned on the gate and crossed his legs at the ankles. Obviously, the gate would not be opening anytime soon. "Albyans don't get lost in the desert, and you don't look like Albyans."
Nydeon turned to Xanthippus. "This is not the man," he said in Gyriecian.
Xanthippus agreed. Shaking his head, he uttered a curse.
The guard stiffened. "What is that you're saying? That doesn't sound like Albyan to me."
Xanthippus looked into the guard post and saw no one, only a parchment-strewn wooden desk, an empty stool, a door leading into some other room. In the distance, the Albyan traders gestured flamboyantly while the Tygetians haggled with them. Malecs barked angrily, releasing showers of spit.
"To get past this gate, you'll have to come up with a better story than this 'lost in the desert' business." The guard stood straight and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'll tell you this, friend, in case you don't know. Anyone lost in the desert here is a dead man. Now, why don't you take off those visors..."
"Then I am a ghost," Xanthippus replied.
He reached across the swinging gate and grasped the guard by the throat. He spun him around and held him in the crook of his elbow, squeezing until the guard's eyes rolled up in his head. He climbed through the gate and lowered the unconscious man gently to the ground. No one had seen a thing. Xanthippus dragged him into the guardhouse. Nydeon scooped up the man's wig and hurried after.
Inside, they put their packs down and shoved the guard under the table.
Still crouching, Xanthippus said, "We will take this out of Seus' hide!"
"Let us hope he has not betrayed us," Nydeon said. "There is no escape from here."
Xanthippus felt a presence. When he turned his head, he saw a young man standing in the doorway that led into the next room. When he realized what was happening, his eyes widened. He turned and fled.
"Damn!"
Xanthippus sprang to his feet. He lunged through the doorway and found the young man unlocking a cage. His hands trembled as he struggled with the key. The cage was full of sandrunners. Knee-high, they stared at him, bird-like, their unblinking yellow eyes set in green lizard faces. They had been warned back in Prathia about the Tygetians' sandrunners. Alone, a single sandrunner, a scavenger by nature, was a skittish, timid creature. In packs, they could be fearsome killers.
Xanthippus grabbed the lad at the same instant that the lock came free. Running on two legs, the sandrunners spilled into the room, fangs bared. Xanthippus held tightly to the terrified Tygetian and kicked one of the biting creatures across the room.
"Nydeon!" he called. "The vial!"
The sandrunners were beginning to swarm. They lunged at Xanthippus' legs and he winced as he felt fangs digging into his flesh. Nydeon rushed into the room and fell headlong to the floor when his feet became entangled in his long kaftan. Holding the guard and fending off sandrunners, Xanthippus could not move to help him. Nydeon lifted his visored face and a sandrunner lunged at him, its fangs glancing off the brass that covered his eyes. He rolled away from the attack. Reaching frantically under his robes, he produced a small glass vial. He smashed it to the floor. Tendrils of vapor rose from the liquid that spilled over the floorboards. The first sandrunner to breathe it calmed down immediately. The calming effect quickly spread throughout the room. Soon, all the sandrunners stood about docilely. Their eyelids -- eyelids that Xanthippus had not even realized they possessed -- were half-closed. They appeared to be in some kind of lizard rapture. Nydeon stood and herded them easily back into the cage, like sheep. One leg of Xanthippus' trousers was now spotted red where the creatures had bit him.
"Damn their fangs!" Xanthippus turned and through his visor looked the frightened young man fiercely in the eye. "You will take us to Seus," he said. He shoved the lad outside and he scampered away, across the courtyard and up the steps of the palace.
"He will bring guards," Nydeon said.
"Let him. I only want Seus now."
The two men followed in the young man's steps toward the palace. Tall pillars lined the wide staircase, all of them carved full of the Tygetian's colorful picture-writing. Xanthippus supposed some Tygetians could still read the inscriptions, their priests perhaps. But he thought the figures made neither good writing, nor good pictures.
An instant after the young man had vanished into the palace, Seus himself appeared in the arched entryway. He hurried out the door and began making his way down the steps. Xanthippus at once noticed the man's pale skin. He was Gyriecian. He was dressed in the manner of the Tygetian nobility, however. He wore a long white robe and a solid neckpiece of gold and jewels that spilled over his shoulders. He clamped his black braided wig down on his shaved head as he scurried toward the Prathians. The terrified young border guard followed nervously behind him.
"It was the wrong man!" Xanthippus shouted as he strode to meet the minister at the base of the steps.
"Where is he?" Seus asked, peering out over the yard as if he expected to find his man there lying in a bloody heap.
"We had to put him down."
"You didn't kill him? Fools! Do you want to bring all Tygetia down on my head?"
"Calm yourself, Minister," Xanthippus said. "He is resting comfortably. In there." He nodded toward the guardhouse.
"Go tend to him," Seus commanded the guard. He grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him toward the little wooden building. The guard sprinted across the courtyard. "And say nothing! Neither of you!" Seus shouted behind him. Despite his appearance, he had a Tygetian accent.
"It was the wrong man," Xanthippus said again. He watched Seus adjust his wig, which had been sitting crookedly upon his sweat-slicked cranium. The aspect of a Gyriecian in Tygetian garb fascinated him. Of course, he had known Tygetia was ruled by Gyriecians now. What place was not? But he never thought he would see it with his own eyes. At least none of the Tygetian Gyriecians were Prathian. He was spared that dishonor.
"We are a little busy here," Seus said when he had finished with his wig. "You might have noticed."
"Sorry to inconvenience you," Xanthippus said, though he would rather have wrung the man's neck.
Seus waved his hand dismissively, as though he were brushing off a sincere apology. Perhaps the Common Tongue did not convey sarcasm as sharply as Gyriecian did. Seus gave his robe a final straightening tug and then turned and started back up the steps. "Come along with me," he said. "I have papers for you. And take off your visors. You're not in the wasteland anymore. You're attracting attention to yourselves. You have blood on your pant leg."
Xanthippus and Nydeon removed their visors, squinting in the bright flood of light. They followed Seus up the steps. Xanthippus' anger had been replaced by a feeling of puzzlement. Only a few minutes inside Tygetia and he already felt hopelessly out of his element.
"I was not expecting you," Seus admitted and they continued to climb the steps. "Apparently General Menleco cares little for schedules and plans. I trust your journey was a pleasant one. How is life in Prathia these days?"
"Like living in the bottom of a latrine," Xanthippus said.
Seus paused on the palace portico, considering his comment. "That is what it is like here, too," he said at last, resuming his quick strides. "Now come along inside."
The interior was bright but cool. A central courtyard oasis dominated the great hall. A blue pond inhabited by wading birds and bounded by reed beds and palms stood open to the sky above. Flying birds twittered in the trees and darted freely through the open roof. Others clung to the sides of the massive painted columns that surrounded the courtyard. They peered down inquisitively at visitors passing below them. In the pillared hall around them servants, slaves and officials bustled about their duties. Xanthippus saw only Tygetians and Albyans, no Gyriecians. At the exits were stationed small groups of armed guards. A black-wigged official led a noisy delegation of Albyans briskly out of the hall, while another man and his attendants approached Seus in the same officious manner. He held out parchment and pen, speaking in Tygetian. Seus unquestioningly took the pen and motioned toward an antechamber between two of the columns.
"Go along inside," he told the Prathians. "Wait for me there. I'll be with you shortly."
He was applying his signature to an entire sheaf of documents when Xanthippus and Nydeon passed him and made their way into the small side chamber. Inside were a desk and several chairs. A closed cabinet stood along one wall. The windowless room was devoid of decoration. The two men sat down, the first time they had been off their feet since the horses died.
"This is not what I expected," Xanthippus said. "Do you think this Seus even understands what we're doing here? Look at us. " Xanthippus gazed around the little office in amazement. "We sit here like we're applying for tourist passes!"
"Tygetians are strange people," Nydeon said. "You can't say we weren't warned."
"But this Seus is Gyriecian."
"I suppose the Gyriecians who run the place are all Tygetians by now. Xarhux himself could not resist it."
Xanthippus shook his head. "Madness... But we will be in and out quickly."
He rubbed his dark eyes and ran a hand through his straight black hair and over the close-cropped beard that came to a point on his chin.. It felt good to have the visor off and his face open to the air. He looked up at Nydeon, a lighter, thick-necked man with a clean-shaven face. They had been teenagers together and had been companions ever since.
They could hear Seus approaching. They saw him linger in the hall for a few moments, issuing commands. Finally, he barged into the office in a flurry. He pulled off his wig, dropped it on the desk and sat down heavily. He ran a palm over his smooth cranium.
"This was not the day for you fellows," he said. "The monthly Albyan caravan has just arrived. I am up to my eyeballs--"
"And yet here we sit," Xanthippus interrupted, leaning forward. "Not your monthly Albyans come to trade their trinkets and flea blankets. Do you even know why we're here?"
Seus grasped the arms of his chair and sat up straight. Anger and fear replaced the fatigue in his eyes. "Of course I know why you're here," he said. He stood and closed the door. A latticed opening in the bottom of the door emitted light and sound. Outside, one of the wading birds loosed a squawk and the sound echoed hollowly amid the marble pillars. "I am taking a great risk having you here." He came back to the desk and produced a key from a drawer. He crossed to the cabinet and began unlocking it. "If my guards get it in their heads to report your abuse of them, I'll have the Mejadym swarming all over me. The last thing I want--"
"It was supposed to be a simple matter, Minister. I will do more than abuse the next man who tries to stop us. Now, what is this Mejadym? I have never heard of this." Menleco had supplied them with the vial of sandrunner musk -- if that's what it was. Where he got it, Xanthippus had no idea. What he had failed to supply them, however, was any word whatsoever about this new danger, what Seus called Mejadym, whatever that was.
"Not what," Seus explained, "but who. They are the king's police." When Seus opened the cabinet, Xanthippus saw that it was full of scrolls, each in its own cubbyhole. The minister withdrew two of them and relocked the door. "If you can call them that. 'Tygetian police' I guess would be more accurate. They work on behalf of the kingdom. They are as old as Tygetia itself. Even the king does not fully control them. You don't want them taking an interest in your affairs, believe me. Here at The Crossing, I give them little cause for concern. Here. These are your passports." He laid a leather-encased scroll before each man and sat down across the desk from them. "The Mejadym care little what happens here, so I seldom see them. There are plenty of Mejadym where you're going, though, so I would advise caution."
Xanthippus did not like the sound of this Mejadym.
"We will be in and out quickly."
Seus held up a hand. "What happens when you leave here is not my affair. My job is to get you into the country safely. These are your passports to the interior." He indicated the scrolls. Xanthippus lifted the leather cylinder to his eyes and inspected it closely. The case was made of some kind of tough hide, reptilian - lizard or snake - open at one end. He could see the scroll curled inside. The wax seal on the parchment bore a long-legged wading bird. It was the same symbol he noticed on the ring Seus wore on his left hand, his personal seal.
"Who do we show these to?" Xanthippus asked.
"Anyone who asks to see them," Seus replied quickly. "You are foreigners, so you are likely to raise suspicions wherever you go. Personally, I would have requested more local looking fellows than you two. No offense. But you'll pass for Gyriecians easy enough, I suppose."
"Why would we not pass for Gyriecians? We are Gyriecians."
"You aren't Tygetian Gyriecians," Seus said. "They could never get Tygetians to do this, though."
Xanthippus snorted a skeptical laugh. "And why not? Tygetians are incorruptible, I suppose?"
Seus regarded Xanthippus coldly. "Because of the Mejadym," he said. "Tygetians know who they are; you do not. So you show your passports without complaint to any who ask. Do not draw attention to yourselves. But don't let anyone examine your passports too closely, either," Seus added, raising a warning finger. "I tell you for your own good that what you have here are not authentic passports, but clever forgeries."
The Prathians exchanged a look, but before either could speak, there was a knock on the door and a servant entered carrying a large tray.
"Ah, our food," Seus said, rising to his feet.
The servant laid the tray on the desk and offered a plate to each of the three men. He gave each a cup and left a flagon of wine with them. On their plates were some peas, figs, and some kind of greasy meat cut into bite-sized chunks. The meat and peas were steaming.
Seus filled their cups and then forked some of the meat into his mouth. "Roast quail," he said, chewing. "Really quite good. Go on. Eat up. This might be your last chance for a while. You must leave immediately and you have a long journey ahead of you."
Xanthippus looked down at his food and then back up at Seus who was shoveling peas into his mouth.
"What do you mean forgeries?" he asked. "We could have had forgeries made back in Prathia and been spared your damned deserts and sandrunners--"
"Ah, but not like these," Seus interrupted. "Oh, no. I have seen--" He paused to drink a long swallow from his cup, holding his place with an upraised finger. When he finished drinking, he dropped his finger and continued. "As Border Minister, I have seen plenty of your forgeries. Laughable! Ours are undetectable at a glance. They will survive any kind of cursory inspection. But -- and this is the important point -- the forgery is easily revealed to the king's justice, if it should come to that. The wording of the text includes some quite damning Gyriecian constructions."
"But is this not your seal?"
"The Ibis seal? The one on your parchment contains five errors that distinguish it beyond a shadow of a doubt from this ring," he said, holding up his fist. "What I'm telling you, gentlemen, is that when you leave here today, you are on your own."
Nydeon shook his head in dismay. He speared a piece of quail and began eating. Again, Xanthippus huffed a sardonic chuckle.
"Is life so precious here in Tygetia that you put such effort into your cowardice?"
Unmoved, Seus took another drink. "You call it cowardice?" He shrugged his shoulders. "As you will. But it is not Tygetians who travel across the sea and through the desert to kill an innocent man." He bit a fig in half and the juice ran down his chin. "It is you," he said.
When they had finished eating, Seus led them out of the palace back into the bright sunshine.
"Now, these passports will take you as far as Jakuk," Seus was telling them as they walked. He was a habitually fast walker. As he spoke, he half-turned to make himself heard by the men behind him. "Jakuk is the first city on the Albyan road, capital of Arwar province and the home of Governor Sotheb. The papers he gives you will be good all the way to Archentethe."
"A Governor? By the Gods!" Nydeon mused.
Crossing officials, servants, slaves and clusters of Albyan clients passed them in every direction. The bustle of activity made concealment unnecessary. Unconcerned, Seus spoke in a normal tone.
"You understand who it is you seek, do you not?" he asked. "Prince Hurrus sits at the right hand of the king, my friend. Do not be so impressed by governors. This Sotheb is nothing -- a man seeking to save his own skin. Like me. Ah, here we are."
From the palm-shaded path, they turned a corner and entered the stable yard where advance elements of the Albyan caravan had put in. Seus led them past the hagglers and into the dark enclosure where the animals were kept. Malecs brayed while mules and oxen stared dumbly into space. Horses started and nickered whenever the malecs barked. Xanthippus did not blame them. The malec was perhaps the foulest beast he had ever laid eyes on. And that included sandrunners.
"You have a three-day ride ahead of you," Seus said. "You'll find two Travelers' Posts between here and Jakuk. Comfortable accommodations. I would still suggest you take malecs, though. This is no longer wasteland, but they are nevertheless more suited to the climate."
"I'm not touching your damned malecs," Xanthippus said. "In fact, I've pretty much had my fill of all your pleasant little native creatures. We're taking horses."
"As you wish."
The Prathians loaded their packs onto the horses and rode through the caravan hagglers and into the road. As Xanthippus looked back, he saw that Seus had already gone. They turned east toward the heart of Tygetia and left the Crossing behind them.
The road ran straight as an arrow through the desert. The land became less sandy and they had no need of their visors. Scarves covered their heads and faces, but their eyes remained clear and their vision unhindered. Far to the south, they saw distant mountains rising above the brown haze of the landscape. Signs of civilization became ever more abundant as they rode. They passed numerous wagon trains, fully laden heading east, empty as they made their way back to the Crossing. No one paid the Prathians any heed.
"The man thinks we're cowards," Xanthippus said as they neared the first night's Travelers' Post. He had been ruminating on Seus' words ever since he had uttered them.
"Brave words only," Nydeon said. "The man is driven by fear and thinks he is wise for it."
"I wouldn't have thought anyone would have that opinion of us. Or of Prathia itself," Xanthippus said reflectively. In fact, Seus had uttered exactly what Xanthippus himself had been thinking for some time. He sighed. "We are not what we used to be."
Seus' words had shaken him. That a man in the middle of a desert a thousand leagues from Prathia could hold such an opinion gave him pause. How could it be that a land and people so rich in former glory should be mocked in the remotest corners of the Lands of the Middle Sea? When Xarhux had united all of Gyriece, did he not do so with a core of Prathian Guard at his side? And was it not on Prathian spear points that Rexseus' invading hordes had impaled themselves in the Thermician Pass? If Xanthippus could be said to be from anywhere, he was from Prathia. But he held a reverence for the institution of the Guard as only an outsider could. By the Gods, how the Guard had fallen!
"We are what we have always been," Nydeon said.
"We are what we have always been," Xanthippus countered. "But not Prathia itself, not the Guard. We were the protectors of all Gyriece. There was honor among the Guard; there was no higher calling--"
"The Guard is famous throughout all the Lands," Nydeon said. Xanthippus saw anger flare in him. "You heard the sniveling bastard back there. His own people are too cowardly to carry out their own ... to do their own dirty work. So where do they turn? The Prathian Guard! Now, here we are, riding through their stinking desert..."
"Famous throughout the Lands as cutthroats and mercenary murderers! It was not always like this--"
"And lucky for us it is no longer!" Nydeon snapped. "Do you think either of us would have had a chance in the Guard during your Age of Heroes?" Nydeon snorted a laugh. "Not damned likely..."
Xanthippus clenched his teeth, knowing it was true. That was perhaps what galled him most of all. At its conception, only Prathian citizens could enter the Guard, not runaway bastards like Xanthippus and Nydeon. But Menleco had changed all that, no longer filling the Guard with honorable fighting men but with murderers and brigands whom he hired out as mercenaries and assassins.
Xanthippus had come to Menleco a natural killer and the old man had loved him, eventually making him his right hand. At first, Menleco had been like a father to him, until Xanthippus realized that he hated the man. It was Menleco who was responsible for the decimation of the Guard's honor. He had stolen it from Prathia no less than he had stolen his bride from her, the king's niece, and kept her in unhappy bondage. She was the most beautiful woman Xanthippus had ever seen, and when he saw her face in his dreams, he remembered that he had hated the last man who had called himself his father, and had, in fact, killed him when given the chance.
"You are becoming arrogant, Xanthippus. You forget who we are."
They dismounted in the yard of the Travelers' Post. Xanthippus let it go. Nydeon, who was his senior, had obviously been mulling the issue for the last few miles. Xanthippus was not going to argue the point. He was neither arrogant, nor did he forget who he was.
Travelers' Posts dotted long, barren stretches of desert road throughout the kingdom. Narrow, rectangular buildings of mud brick - all of them identical - they provided food, water, fodder and comfortable beds. When the Prathians arrived, wagons and animals already crowded the yard. The desert sky was purple, deepening to black, when they entered their sleeping room, the last available. Inside, they heard men snoring and talking through the walls, hissing in their harsh cat-like language. The room contained two beds. Between them stood a stone statue of a crocodile-headed man, some Tygetian deity. What he signified exactly neither man knew. His outstretched hands held a dish for offerings. Xanthippus reached under his robe and produced two coins. They clinked in the dish.
Nydeon laughed. "For a couple of coppers, this fellow will not eat us?"
"If a man with the face of a crocodile is accepting offerings, you offer!" Xanthippus said.
Moments later, as he lay in his bed in the blackness of the room, Xanthippus asked, "Do you suppose this Prince Hurrus is an innocent man, as Seus said?"
Nydeon's voice came to him in the darkness, gravelly with fatigue. "I doubt it. He is a prince, you know."
Xanthippus waited, thinking Nydeon was going to add something, but all he heard was deep breathing descending into snores. Nydeon was fast asleep.
Xanthippus closed his eyes.
That night, he dreamed of crocodile-headed men biting his ankles.
Far in the distance, Hurrus could see the dogs stiffen. They pointed into the reeds and the weed-beaters rushed forward and began thrashing the reed bed with their long sticks. At once, the brush came alive as innumerable birds burst from the cover. Madly flapping ducks, a loping crane, and a flock of pin-wheeling laquiis, little fluff-balls of startled feathers, poured out of the reeds, which just seconds ago had stood still as death along the riverbank. Last out flew the prize: an immense male pheasant. It darted above the reeds, its drooping tail feathers streaming after it against the pink dawn sky.
The honor of the first flushing belonged to the king. Myletos let out a cry and his charger bolted forward at a gallop. His purple cloak billowed behind him as he rode. On his leather-gloved right hand stood Zarces, the great royal eagle, its wings parted slightly as it clung to the king's wrist. The piercing gaze of the raptor mirrored the fire in the king's eye. His lined face was aflame with passion. Hurrus' heart leapt at the sight.
"Fly!" Myletos cried. With a great crack of wings, Zarces rose into the sky, propelled by Myletos' thrusting arm.
When Zarces took wing, it was the king's spirit that soared. Gaining altitude, the eagle raced toward its quarry. The pheasant skimmed the reed-tops as Zarces folded in its wings and plunged toward it, talons bared. The king's charger skidded to a halt and Myletos turned in his saddle. His mouth hung open, frozen in a grin. He was transfixed by the coming kill. The pheasant was still rising when Zarces slammed into it. Both birds tumbled to the ground. Myletos raised his fist.
"Oh, what a kill!" he cried. "What a magnificent bird!"
They could see Zarces' head above the tall grass on the far side of the river. In a moment, he spread his huge wings and flapped into the air, carrying the pheasant.
"Oh, well done!" Governor Kheror shouted. His hawk sat stiffly on his wrist as he trotted over to be near the king. Kheror was smiling ear to ear, his braided wig atop his head. He wore a jeweled collar that spilled over his shoulders and on his ungloved hand was a sparkling bracelet that covered half his pudgy forearm. Rings of precious stones adorned his thick fingers.
Zarces landed at Myletos' feet. Slaves rushed forward to retrieve the pheasant. One of the men carried it by its neck and threw it into the wagon. Myletos reached down and Zarces hopped up onto his wrist. The king stroked his feathers and cooed softly at him.
Hurrus was happy for his adopted father, the king. With Zarces on his wrist, the cares of the kingdom faded away. There was no feast or festivity and no face of family or friend that could induce such joy in the man as Zarces did. Zarces, indeed, was his delight.
Hurrus watched Kheror as he showered both king and bird with profuse words of praise, speaking with jowl-jiggling, braid-bouncing intensity. A group of white-robed nobles, mounted and carrying their own birds, hunting enthusiasts all, clustered round the king boisterously recounting the kill.
Turning to observe the rest of the hunting party, Hurrus caught sight of Prince Garon, heir to the throne of Tygetia, eating choice morsels of the party's lunch. His attendant held his bird while Garon sat upon his bay mare spreading jam on bread. The wagon slaves handed him up food and drink as he commanded them. High Priest Jhar sat mounted nearby dressed in the multi-colored striped robe of the Kunuumi priesthood. He was speaking to the young prince with about as much enthusiasm as he hunted. It was a large party. The king went nowhere without his personal bodyguard and attendants. They sat their horses among the slaves and mule wagons watching both the hunt and Garon eating with little interest. Ahead of the party were the weed-beaters and dogs. Hurrus sat with Bellog, Myletos' Master of Arms, and a full-blooded Tygetian.
"A beautiful bird," Hurrus said. Unlike the Tygetians, he wore his own natural hair. His blond curls fell about his shoulders, as radiant as sunlight. His handsome face appeared even younger than his eighteen years. Myletos often remarked that he closely resembled his father, a comment loaded with meaning. Hurrus himself could not say, for he had never known his father. Memories of him, however, plagued not only his dreams now, but his waking moments as well.
"Yes, a pretty bird," Commander Bellog said. "But why, young prince, send a lion to do the puma's work? My own Tailia would have brought down that pheasant -- and made a sport of it."
"Ah, little Tailia could surely bring the pheasant down," Hurrus observed. "But she could scarcely bring it back."
Bellog pressed his lips close to his falcon's hooded head. "Don't listen to him," he cooed. He was a big man with a booming voice. His neck and forearms were all bulging veins and rippling muscle. Yet he comforted his killer bird with a girlish singsong. Hurrus viewed him with distaste. The commander had been in the service of his father for all of Hurrus' life. At best, Bellog had always treated him with a remote condescension, often commenting on his un-Tygetian appearance. Hurrus found him decadent and lazy, like the rest of the Tygetians in his father's court. "Don't listen to the bad prince with his 'cannots' and 'do nots' ..." He raised his eyes to Hurrus. "The kill is the thing, young man. Any of these lesser beasts can be trained to retrieve -- dogs or slaves. Perhaps even those mules there." He laughed. "But my Tailia is a trained and passionate killer, a possessor of rare talent. Let the dead remain where they lay."
Hurrus gave the commander a sidelong glance. "Like the Sarians on our eastern border that you leave uncovered for the ravens? Hardly possessors of rare talent there, Commander."
Bellog shook a finger at Hurrus. "It takes more than birds to kill Sarians, Prince..."
"I beg your pardon. The barbarian descendants of Sarians, I meant to say. For the Sarians you encounter are not the same race of men who in their full flower ruled Tygetia, are they? Not the same people as those Xarhux defeated, to be sure."
Bellog's face grew stern. "They make trouble enough, young man. As you will soon find."
"Hurrus, my boy! Did you see it?"
Hurrus looked up and saw King Myletos riding toward them. Hooded now, Zarces perched on his arm, his giant talons gripping the leather glove. The king wore no wig today. His shaved head was smooth while his face was lined and old. His smile trimmed twenty years from his age.
"Superbly done!" Hurrus called. "Zarces performed as splendidly as ever."
"Good day, Commander," Myletos said to Bellog. "A wonderful morning for a hunt, is it not?"
"Indeed it is, my king."
"A wonderful morning for Prince Hurrus' birthday as well -- and his betrothal to my sweet Antona. Congratulations, my boy!"
"Thank you, Father. I am truly blessed."
Commander Bellog closed his eyes and dipped his head. Hurrus acknowledged him with a shallow smile. It seemed to him that he had always been waiting for this day. In flashes of crystal cogency, like shards of a shattered dream, memories flooded his mind of the day he was smuggled out of Epiria. When will I return? The three-year-old Hurrus had asked. Your eighteenth year, old Nadia had assured him. It was Nadia who would never allow his golden locks to be shorn. When will I see Father and Mother again? Every night in your dreams, little Hurrus. Every year after was just so many short of the day of his return. Now, here it was. Yet he felt no happiness, only a bitter longing.
"This is certainly a momentous occasion," Bellog said. "You are well and truly a full member of the royal family now. And I must say Antona has grown into a beautiful young lady. Your Gyriecian gods have certainly blessed you, Hurrus."
"My father honors me beyond my merit," the prince said.
"And what is your birthday wish on this day of your eighteenth?" Bellog asked.
"My birthday wish? It is the same as my wish of yesterday. I wish for men, sir," Hurrus said. "I wish for an army."
Myletos shook his head. "Always an army..."
"Ah, but for your eighteenth you shall be awarded the blue war crown of Zarcen," Bellog said. "You are to command the Corps of the Eagle Man. Is this not so, my king?"
"Just as your brothers are the hands of Ume and Cretis, men of the crocodile and snake," Myletos said.
Hurrus frowned. Parade ground soldiers, nothing more.
"Ten thousand men," Bellog said. "Is that not army enough for you?"
"For what you have planned for it?" Hurrus asked. "Perhaps rather too much," he said. "Father, before you arrived we were speaking of how a killer is judged by his quarry. I have half a mind to train Osa here to hunt Sarians." He nodded toward the hooded desert hawk on his wrist. "To save Bellog and my dear brothers, Garon and Kerraunus, the bother of it." He glanced over at the supply wagon where Garon sat filling his face with the sweetbreads of their lunch. At least Prince Kerraunus' pointed absence was less visually offensive.
"Oh, the unhappy prince..." Bellog said with a biting affability that made Hurrus seethe. The big man had not faced a challenge in years, perhaps decades. He was due to be tested. "Perhaps I will dispatch you to the eastern border to have at these barbarians, as you call them."
"I believe the eastern border is in good hands, Commander. Prince Garon, Crocodile Man, scourge of the Sarians..." Hurrus proclaimed with dripping sarcasm. "I understand these barbarians still fight in chariots. Oh, what a plum that must be for your cavalry, eh, Bellog? No, I would have a go at the occupiers of Epiria."
Both Myletos and Bellog gave a start. Myletos especially was aghast.
"And for that I will need a real army," Hurrus added in a loud voice above their protestations.
Just then, they heard cries and whistles coming from the group of nobles. They looked to see half-a-dozen birds, desert hawks mainly, diving into a flock of terrified quail. The kills brought a chorus of cheers.
"You should ready your birds, gentlemen," Myletos said. "No more talk of Epiria. Hurrus, do not ruin this. It is your birthday. All of these people are here to honor you, Commander Bellog included."
"My father was king of Epiria," Hurrus said. "I cannot forget that."
"The Eagle Man stays in Tygetia," Bellog said. "If you go to Epiria, you go alone."
"No one is going to Epiria," Myletos said. "Look! The dogs have found new prey..."
The weed-beaters set out for the reed bed. They were working parallel to the river now to flush their prey toward the hunters. Hurrus had lost his taste for the hunt. Bellog, he knew, was an enthusiastic sportsman. For Myletos' sake, Hurrus would participate with as much zeal as he could muster.
Both men unhooded their birds and rode forward. Tailia, Bellog's prized falcon, with its sleek bluish-gray feathers, peered toward the distant beaters expectantly, the unhooding a signal for the coming action. Hurrus' desert hawk, Osa, larger than the falcon, shifted its weight nervously from one leg to the other. Hurrus stroked it lovingly.
The beaters thrashed at the reeds and out rose a cloud of small birds, flapping and tumbling crazily toward the hunters. With a cry and a thrust of his arm, Bellog launched his Tailia and the falcon flapped away swiftly. Hurrus did the same with his Osa, but with a last-second propelling twist of his forearm, he gave the hawk a different target, and Osa made straight for it: Tailia.
They were the only two birds of prey in flight. All eyes were fixed on the graceful falcon as it rose into the sky. The group of nobles, Kheror prominent among them, grinned in anticipation, pointing out the exquisite bird as it soared. Even Garon looked up from his chewing. Jhar watched disinterestedly, but then leaned forward when he saw the ascending hawk. He seemed to be the only one who noticed that while the falcon picked out a target from among the scattering quail below, the hawk had targeted the falcon. Even before Tailia could begin its killing dive, Osa slammed into her with a cloudburst of feathers. For a moment, there was stunned silence as Osa climbed and wheeled. When Tailia began a pin-wheeling plunge to earth, the nobles erupted.
"You bastard!" Bellog turned on Hurrus. "You did this!"
"I don't know what got into her," Hurrus said, playing the wide-eyed innocent.
"It was a mistake," Myletos said. "We will get you a new bird, Commander."
"I don't want a new bird," Bellog said as he slid off his horse. He pulled a wooden fighting staff from a sheath on his saddle. "I want the little whelp's hide."
Bellog strode around the front of his horse and approached the prince. Seeing him coming, Hurrus leapt out of his saddle. Twirling the staff once in his hands, Bellog crouched in a fighting position, fire in his eye.
"I have taken enough insults from you for one day," Bellog snarled.
"You mean to strike down an unarmed man?" Hurrus asked. This was exactly what he had wanted. The arrogant fool, he was unworthy of his position. For all his bulk, Bellog was soft and comfortable. Hurrus wanted nothing more than to plant a spear butt right between the man's crossed eyes.
Several of the nobility had ridden forward. One of the men dismounted, aiming to put an end to this foolishness.
"Your Grace, you must not allow this--" he began.
Myletos held out a hand, cutting the man off. He stared Hurrus in the eye. "A fighting staff," he called. When no one moved, he shouted, "Now!" One of the nobles quickly produced a staff from his saddle sheath and handed it to the king. Myletos flung it to Hurrus. The prince caught it, the thick wood slapping the palm of his hand. The crowd backed off to give the men room. Hurrus crouched and circled slowly, holding the staff with both hands.
"I have to warn you, Bellog," he said. "I am not a Sarian."
Bellog was grinning with an evil glint in his eye. "Of course not. You are Gyriecian," he said, "which is just as well. By the time I'm through with you, you'll have--"
Before he could say another word, Hurrus whipped his staff around and caught Bellog on the temple. Thwack! The big man dropped his weapon and fell to one knee, dazed. Hurrus lunged forward like a sword fighter. He rammed the point of his staff into Bellog's breastbone. With a gasp, the commander fell over backwards. Grinning himself now, Hurrus placed a sandaled foot on Bellog's chest and held the point of his staff to the man's throat, as though it was a cutting blade.
"Foul!" one of the noblemen cried.
Bellog opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but Hurrus pushed him to the ground with the point of his staff. Bellog looked surprised and angry.
"I don't fight like a Sarian, either, Bellog. You'll have no easy victories from me."
Bellog swiped away the staff at his throat and sat up. "You have proven nothing -- except that you are a dishonorable cur." Bellog screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his head.
"I have proven that Tygetians are soft and complacent," Hurrus said.
Bellog snorted sardonically. "And what are you then, if not a Tygetian?"
"You said it yourself. I am the son of a Gyriecian. In fact, Master of Arms, I am the son of the twin brother of Xarhux himself."
"Son of the twin brother of Xarhux..." Bellog scoffed. "What on earth does that make you?"
Hurrus regarded him with a quizzical expression. "A descendant of the gods," he said. He thought it strange that it had not already occurred to the man. "Perhaps even a Son of Kunuum..."
Bellog burst out laughing. "Oh, so that's what this is all about," he said. Then he winced and groaned.
Hurrus offered his hand. Bellog swatted it away angrily. One of the noblemen leapt out of his saddle and helped Bellog to his feet.
"I have changed my mind," the Master of Arms said, turning to the king. "I think I would like the prince better in Epiria, after all."
The gathered nobles murmured disconsolately, unhappy with how the duel had played out. Most of them had had dainty, precious sons vying for the hand of Antona. Hurrus knew that it would have pleased them to see Bellog thrash him.
"Enough of this," Myletos said. "There will be no more fighting." Despite the harshness of his tone, Hurrus thought he detected a twinkle in his father's eye. Was Hurrus blessed by the gods? Perhaps. But he was adored by the king in fact.
Myletos held out his hand and Hurrus gave him the staff. The king tossed it to the man to whom it belonged and he resheathed it, having finally, Hurrus thought, had occasion to use it for something other than beating slaves. The nobles went back to the business of hunting and, rubbing his head, Bellog walked off to where a man held his horse for him.
"Son of Kunuum..." he muttered to himself.
Afterwards, Hurrus could not keep his mind on the hunt. He had awakened on the morn of the day of his manhood thinking not of hunts and feasts and betrothals, but of his father and Xarhux and Epiria. Picking a fight with the Master of Arms had done little to ease his bitterness. He wanted to know what Xarhux knew. He was convinced that while Xarhux had brought an army to Tygetia, Hurrus would leave with one.
After a couple of hours, he approached Jhar, the High Priest of Myletos' court and master of the Kunuumi. He had lingered in the back of the hunt all day.
"High Master," Hurrus began with a bow of his head. Jhar turned toward the voice. His black, neatly trimmed eyebrows shot up when he saw the prince. Jhar had thin, sharp features and wore a little triangle of beard on his chin. His braided wig flowed over the shoulders of his rainbow-striped robe. Around his neck, he wore a large gold medallion adorned by the bull's head of the Kunuumi.
"Ah, Prince Hurrus," he said. "Are you enjoying your birthday hunt? As you can see, your wedding feast will not lack for fowl." He motioned toward the wagon. It was now full of birds.
Hurrus glanced disinterestedly at the wagon and then back at Jhar. "I want you to show me the Temple," he said.
"Oh, certainly," Jhar said, surprised by the request. "All the temples of the kingdom are open to you, Prince. Many fine ones exist in Archentethe, as you know. Anytime of the day or night, you are welcome. Did you have an offering in mind?"
"No, no," Hurrus said. "Not any temple. Your temple. The Temple of Kunuum."
"Ah, Kunuum," Jhar said. His long fingers went to his medallion. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed it as if it were a talisman. "Yes, of course. As you wish. However, you must know that Kunuum is not the finest temple in the kingdom, by any stretch. We are not used to royal visitations. Some of it remains in ruins from the Sarian occupation. It has not yet been fully restored."
"I don't care about that," Hurrus said. "I want to see Kunuum, to see if what is said about it is true." Hurrus regarded the priest closely. "Is it?" he asked.
"That depends on what is said about it," Jhar said, scrutinizing the prince carefully. "I overheard your...your conversation with the Master of Arms. I'm not sure what you believe, but... Well, perhaps we should just go there. When would you like to see it?"
"Now," Hurrus said.
He left Osa with one of his attendants and after excusing themselves from the hunt, he and Jhar set out for the Temple of Kunuum, not more than half a day's ride away, Jhar told him. For several hours, they rode through the rich farmlands and grasses that sprouted in the floodplain of the river. Then they entered the dry, brown, rocky landscape that characterized most of Tygetia.
"I have great respect for Kunuum, Master," Hurrus said as they traveled. "I understand Xarhux himself was an initiate."
"Great respect for Kunuum," Jhar repeated with a convulsive little laugh.
Hurrus was puzzled. He had never known Jhar for a jovial man. In fact, though he forever had seen the High Priest in his father's court, he could not remember ever seeing the man even crack a smile. His laughter now troubled him.
"Did I say something funny?" Hurrus asked.
Jhar cleared his throat, collecting himself. "You say you have great respect for Kunuum. Yet you have an interesting way of expressing it, Prince, for you humiliated his Hand on earth before the entire court of Tygetia. I daresay you knocked him flat on his bullish ass."
Jhar went on laughing. Of course. It had not occurred to Hurrus that while his own soon-to-be-acquired army corps was commanded by the Hand of Zarcen on earth, the Eagle Man, supreme command of the entire army was given to the Hand of Kunuum on earth, the Bull Man: Bellog.
"Bellog is a disgrace to Kunuum," Hurrus said with a spark of unconvincing anger. In fact, he could feel himself blushing, afraid that he had committed a transgression. "I did Kunuum a favor."
Like most of the Gyriecians, he did not fully comprehend Tygetian religion. The Gyriecians who ruled the country, from King Myletos on down, took little interest in it. The people were devout adherents, however, and the Gyriecians respected local traditions and customs, but they thought of Tygetian gods as little more than primitive representations of proper Gyriecian deities.
"Kunuum requires no favors from us. Not even from a prince," Jhar said. He must have noticed the cloud that had passed over Hurrus' face. "Don't worry about Bellog..." He paused to chuckle again. "He is no more the Hand of Kunuum than the horse he rides. He is the hand of Myletos, as are all military commanders. It is a mere honorary title now."
"But surely there are still initiates?" Hurrus asked. "Xarhux--"
Jhar raised a hand, cutting him off. "Of course there are still initiates. I am one, along with all of the priests of the Temple. But you should not be so eager to emulate Xarhux in all particulars. I know he was your kinsman--"
"He was a Son of Kunuum," Hurrus said. More of Nadia's teaching. She had come with him from Epiria and would not let the old life die. She would not let him forget that Xarhux, sired by a god, was the twin brother of his father and that the throne of Epiria was his birthright.
"Yes. Indeed, Xarhux had been Bathed in Blood, it is true. But he was the last. Before him, there had been no true Sons of Kunuum for a thousand years. And there will be none now."
"But if it is not passed down, how do you become a Son of Kunuum?" Hurrus asked.
"There it is," Jhar said, pointing to the Temple as it appeared on the horizon. The priest had said that it was not the finest of temples, but the sight of it took Hurrus' breath away. The Temple of Kunuum was built into a massive outcropping of fissured rock. The brightly painted temple seemed to be carved out of the living stone. Giant images of Kunuum, the bull-headed man, were sculpted into the wall, so realistically depicted that Hurrus felt a flash of fear when he saw them. The giant bull-men looked as though they could step away from the walls whenever the urge moved them, and Hurrus was loath to contemplate the unknowable urges of fearsome gods.
As the two men rode closer, the ground descended into a valley and they soon found themselves peering up a sheer natural hillside to the temple perched on its summit. The stone Kunuums loomed above them, gazing inscrutably to a distant horizon with black, pupil-less stone eyes. In the shadows between the figures, Hurrus saw that the walls were covered with the ancient Tygetian picture-writing that only the priests could read -- gaily-painted carvings of men and sun disks and animals and a myriad of abstract symbols and arcane devices. Not a spot of wall was left undecorated.
"By the gods, Jhar!" Hurrus exclaimed. "Why haven't I ever seen this place?" He felt humbled, frightened and excited all at once.
"We are exactly in the middle of nowhere, Prince," Jhar said. "We are leagues from the Royal Road. We are too far from the river for even the bargemen to stop."
They followed the base of the hill until the ground flattened and they came to a large paved courtyard flanked by bright red obelisks of stone. A throng of peasants had gathered at the altar where a little fire burned. The people brought offerings of small animals, lambs and goats. Others carried clay jars of produce or coins clutched in their fists. Priests at the altar relayed written prayers up the wide steps to the inner temple. Illiterate supplicants whispered to the priests and the holy men scurried away with the words in their heads to utter them into the ears of the gods.
When Jhar and Hurrus reached the edge of the courtyard, one of the priests came rushing toward them and took their horses.
"High Master," the priest said with a bow. He wore a long striped robe identical to the one Jhar wore. He acknowledged Hurrus with surprise. His astonishment gave way to excitement when he turned back to the high priest. "Kunuum is speaking today," he said as the men dismounted.
"Ah, that explains it," Jhar said. "Normally, we are visited by nothing more than the whistling wind."
"And rats," the other priest said, as he tethered the horses.
"Yes, and the rats. We spend much of our time catching them. Brother Hersut has become something of an expert in that regard."
"What does he mean 'Kunuum is speaking'?" Hurrus asked.
Jhar started up the steps. "Come along," he said. "I will show you. Normally, the inner temple is reserved for initiates. But I make an exception for royalty."
Hurrus gave a little smile.
"When Kunuum is speaking," Jhar went on as they climbed, "word spreads quickly among the villages. No one knows how long it will last. It could be days and we'll be fiercely busy here. Even some from Archentethe will make the trip. On the other hand, it could be mere hours. Come along inside."
Two of the huge stone Kunuums flanked the entrance to the temple. The carving gave the illusion that the roof was supported by the sharp tips of their horns. The Kunuums' featureless eyes stared nowhere and everywhere at once.
Inside, the great hall was a forest of massively thick soaring pillars that supported a roof so high that the tops of the columns were lost in gloom. The far side of the hall was open to the air as the entire wall was a crumbled ruin. Workmen pushed handcarts full of crushed stone while shovelers and pickmen cleared debris.
"We have come far in our renovation," Jhar said, pointing out the work party. "This temple lay in ruin for two hundred years during the Sarian occupation. Everything you see here has been rebuilt since the time of Xarhux." Jhar held his arms outstretched in a gesture that encompassed the entire building. "All that was left of the original temple was the wall we saw when we first approached."
"The great carved gods?"
"Indeed. Superstitions had grown up around them, that they were constructed by a vanished race of giants or that they were living creatures who by day hid from man in plain sight by transforming themselves into stone. By night, they stalked the land. No one would come near this place." Jhar laughed. "Without the priesthood, I tell you, the people descend into darkness."
"Xarhux began the rebuilding?"
"Not exactly. Xarhux allowed the rebuilding. When he liberated Tygetia from the Sarians, the priesthood came out from hiding. We kept Kunuum and the rest of the living gods alive. We rebuilt everything after the Sarians were gone."
"You were here under the Sarians?" It occurred to Hurrus that he knew nothing about Jhar.
"I was just a boy. We kept the Kunuumi alive in cellars and in dark rooms with hooded lamps. The Sarians hunted us, but Xarhux loved us."
As they conversed, a priest hurried past them, weaving his way between columns to a back wall where a window opened into a dark chamber beyond.
"We have to work fast when Kunuum is speaking," Jhar said. "The people are mad to get their prayers heard while the god is here."
Hurrus watched the priest with interest as he spoke into the opening in the wall. He was reading from a scrap of parchment, a supplicant's prayer. Hurrus could not make out the words. The chamber beyond the wall swallowed the priest's voice. He finished and cocked his head as if to listen. He waited and then Hurrus heard rising out of the chamber a sound that started as a low, plaintive wailing and gradually grew in volume. He didn't know what to make of it. Was it human, even? Was it Kunuum? A shiver ran down his spine. In an instant, the wailing was replaced by rapid speech in a language he did not recognize. It was not Tygetian, nor the Common Tongue, not even Gyriecian. He wasn't sure that it was a language at all.
"What on earth is that?" he asked. There must have been fear in his eyes, for Jhar laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. He was not surprised that he had been unable to conceal his fright. The sound was not of this world.
The babbling ceased abruptly and the priest began speaking silently to himself, his lips moving without sound. Then he scurried off toward the courtyard.
"He has interpreted Kunuum's answer to prayer and he now carries it out to the supplicant."
"What language was that babbling?"
"It was the language of Kunuum."
"It is...terrifying, somehow," Hurrus said. "I must see."
Without waiting for Jhar's permission, Hurrus rushed to the opening and looked inside. There, seated on a carved wooden throne was a man dressed as the Kunuumi. He wore the formal high headdress of Kunuumi ritual. Attached to it was a white cloth that covered his face. Hurrus could see the suggestion of nose and mouth behind it. A single small torch dimly illuminated the room. Out of vents in the floor rose plumes of billowing mist. The mist swirled in the air like motes of dust.
"Kunuum speaks when the gases flow out of the rock," Jhar said. "The faceless man breathes it in and gives voice to the god with his tongue. When the gases cease, Kunuum falls silent."
Suddenly, the faceless man began speaking again. The cloth flapped with his breath. Hurrus leaned into the window, transfixed. The man uttered three urgent clipped syllables and then fell silent.
"What did he say?" Hurrus leaned closer, thinking he saw the cloth flutter. Perhaps the man was whispering now.
"Let us leave here," Jhar said. "It is rare that Kunuum speaks unbidden. I should not have brought you here." He put his arm around Hurrus' shoulders. Hurrus would have nothing of it.
The faceless man blurted out a loud syllable and in an instant rose and made a dash for the opening where Hurrus stood. The man moved impossibly fast. Hurrus had no time to react. He was petrified with terror.
The faceless man reached through the window and grasped Hurrus' forearm with a steel grip. In panic, Hurrus tried to break free, but the man held him fast. Then he began babbling incomprehensibly. The cloth fluttered before his face just inches from Hurrus' eyes. A scattershot of blood appeared on the cloth at the level of the man's mouth.
Hurrus tried to pull away, but the faceless man tightened his grip. His iron fingers dug painfully into the flesh of Hurrus' arm.
In crystal clear Tygetian, the faceless man cried, "Here is truly a Son of Kunuum!" He spat more blood onto the veil, and then began wailing. Hurrus felt as though he were in a nightmare. He imagined the stone Kunuums turning their heads to see what troubled their temple, just as the priests turned and froze at the sight of the faceless man reaching out through the window. Finally, Hurrus broke free of his grasp and fell to the floor. From inside the chamber, the wailing ceased.
Jhar hurried over and helped Hurrus to his feet. The prince allowed Jhar to support his weight. His legs felt weak. Nervously, he stole a glance through the window and saw the faceless man sitting still on his throne. The gases roiled around him. Another priest rushed up to the window, carrying a written prayer.
Hurrus broke free from Jhar and hurried away from the chamber.
"I don't want to hear it anymore," he said. "I must get back to Archentethe."
He rushed out of the temple without looking back.
"There's a hopeful sign," Xanthippus said.
They rode past a work yard where an old man stood under the shade of a rickety canopy that fronted an even ricketier house. He was running a plane over a piece of crooked lumber, squinting along the length of board. The yard was a jumble of tools and half-finished carpentry. An unpainted wagon sat wheel-less near a sagging shed, its axles supported by stacks of mud bricks.
"Signs of life," Nydeon said. "We must be approaching Jakuk."
Two dogs rushed out of the house and stood at the side of the road, hackles up, snapping at the horsemen. Xanthippus regarded them with faint interest. In Prathia, they might have amused themselves by flinging daggers at the mangy curs. The men would lay wagers. If nothing else, it prevented people from allowing their animals to menace passing horsemen. The old man yelled something in Tygetian and the dogs slunk away with their tails between their legs. A young boy climbed out of the shed and gave the strangers a long gape-mouthed stare.
Xanthippus eyed him briefly. No less than mangy curs, gape-mouthed boys were none too safe in Prathia, either.
More signs of the city lay ahead. The road gradually improved, and the structures and the people who inhabited them did as well. Xanthippus found himself contemplating the days of travel still ahead of them, from Jakuk to the capital city, Archentethe. He already felt as if they had been traveling forever. It seemed a long way to go to kill a man, even a prince. If it had been up to him, he would have just entered by the front door in the dead of night, committed the deed and left again. What could be simpler? That was how it would have been done in Prathia. Of course, he did not fully understand the intricacies of Tygetian ways. Already, they seemed to him a puzzling people.
But he knew that the Tygetians kept their front door closed. From what he had been told back in Prathia, foreign ships were not allowed into their ports, the Tygetian 'front door'. All trading vessels put in at a facility on some offshore island. There, like the Albyan caravans, the Tygetians took charge of the ships and guided them into the country themselves. Royal entry passes were required for foreigners and these were reserved for high-level diplomatic envoys. Not so in the backwater of the Albyan Road country, where the passes bore the seals of mid-level bureaucrats and not kings and princes.
In addition, the ports, if Seus could be believed, were swarming with these Mejadym.
Given the level of paranoia, Xanthippus could see why assassins had been drawn from Prathia, where the bravest and deadliest of men in all the Lands could be had for the right price. Even Menleco had blanched at the difficulty of the task. He had assuaged his doubt by offering the job to his best men. The opportunity had been too lucrative to turn down. A year's wages awaited them upon their return.
Still, as Xanthippus traveled along the desert road leading to Jakuk, he was plagued by more than just heat, dust, skinny boys and dogs. It bothered him first that Seus had been unprepared to meet them. This, however, he could write off as a mere bad omen born of incompetence. On the other hand, it had begun to trouble him deeply that he had never before heard of this Mejadym. He liked to know what he was up against.
"What do you think we're up against?" Nydeon asked. "We want the prince dead. We're up against people who want the prince alive. Call them Mejadym; call them whatever. The end is the same. The prince will die. We will go home."
Sometime during the late afternoon, they passed under the crimson obelisks that marked the entrance to the unwalled city of Jakuk. Xanthippus marveled at the massive trading post of the Albyan terminal. There he saw laborers hoisting bales of Albyan cotton into wagons with wheels as tall as a man. Administrators scurried about with their quill pens and parchments. Farther along the road, the men passed granaries and smithies, houses, shops and temples. They knew they had entered the heart of the city when the road became paved with cobblestones and was intersected by a myriad of alleys and byways. They were soon lost in a sea of human and animal traffic, wigged Tygetians in white tunics, horses, malecs and flocks of bleating sheep.
They scanned the horizon for the palace and spotted a likely edifice topping a swell of ground to the north. They turned toward it, entering a bustling square.
"You boys look lost."
A voice in the Common Tongue rose out of the swirl of the Tygetian babble that filled the square and two mounted men appeared on either side of them. They wore matching crimson headscarves and red-trimmed tunics, and short swords sheathed at their belts. Xanthippus turned his eye to them and saw a clean-shaven Tygetian face regarding him quizzically, the man's lips edging toward an ugly grin.
Xanthippus and Nydeon made no reply. They rode on.
"I say, you look lost, Gyriecian," the man said again, this time in a louder voice. "Stop your horses when I speak to you."
The men reined to a halt. Xanthippus rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle. He regarded the man beside him with a placid expression. The eyes that gazed back at him were doltish and cruel.
"I didn't realize your comment required a response. What's that you say again, now?"
"I say you're a long way from home, Gyriecian."
Xanthippus stared at him. Then he put heel to his horse and he and Nydeon continued on their way.
"Stop, you bastard Gyriecian," the man shouted. He put his horse in front of Xanthippus this time. Again, Xanthippus reined up.
"I have listened to your observations politely." Xanthippus could not keep the edge out of his voice as he took the measure of both men. Jakukian ruffians perhaps. Their short swords were clean, unmarked, and ornate, the size of overlong daggers. Show-weapons. They were not made to be unsheathed quickly. Xanthippus' own concealed dagger was just long enough to kill a man, and no more. "I find your comments fascinating, son, but now I would like to proceed to my destination, if you don't mind."
"But I do mind," the man said crossly. He shot his companion a look. "I'm telling you that we don't get many Gyriecians here."
"Especially Gyriecians dressed as Albyans," the companion added.
"What have you to say for yourselves?"
Xanthippus glanced at Nydeon and then back to the oafish, grinning man. "I say you better tell us who you are and by what authority you question us -- while you are still able to speak."
The man laughed. "He threatens us!"
His companion stiffened on his mount. "Are you in the habit of threatening the City Watch, friend?"
"Believe me," Xanthippus said, "you'll find that I do not make idle threats."
Nydeon smiled. "He truly does not," he told the Watchmen, almost laughing.
"Get off those horses."
"I prefer to sit," Xanthippus said.
"I command you to dismount." Muscles in the man's face began to twitch. "In the name of the City Watch of Jakuk."
"I shall remain mounted. Now," Xanthippus said, "tell us what we can do for you gentlemen before we move on."
The man stared red-faced at Xanthippus. He placed a hand on the haft of his short sword. The movement drew Xanthippus' eye. The watchman noticed his gaze and let his hand fall to his side.
"Passports," he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Xanthippus peered at Nydeon. Nydeon nodded almost imperceptibly and reached inside his kaftan. Xanthippus did the same. His fingers brushed the haft of his dagger and lingered there.
"You are the City Watch?" he asked, his fingers tightening on the knife. "Or Mejadym?"
The watchman twittered an ugly high-pitched chirping that passed for a laugh. He said something in Tygetian to the other.
"It is lucky we are not Mejadym," the watchman said. "Lucky for you, that is. Now, those passports. Please, before we are forced to summon them." More ugly chirping.
Xanthippus let his hand slide off the dagger and onto the leather cylinder containing the passport. Now he would see the quality of Seus' work. He quickly decided that it was better to unveil it first to these buffoons, and not the Mejadym, or even the governor, for that matter. He immediately began thinking how he and Nydeon could make their way back to the Crossing to cut Seus' throat, if necessary. Tygetia was difficult to enter, but it just now occurred to him that it might be even more difficult to leave.
The watchman broke the seal and quickly scanned the document. "You are spies," he announced, handing the curled parchment back to Xanthippus.
"These are forgeries," the other said.
Xanthippus felt his pulse quicken. Seus would die, but not before these two.
His eyes darted about the crowded square. No one paid them any attention. Half a dozen malecs with crates and full packs strapped across their backs loped by, temporarily blocking his view. When the malec-train had passed, he spied an official-looking group of mounted men coming toward them, riding with confidence and authority through a crowd that parted before them fearfully. They were dressed all in blue. For the first time since entering the country, Xanthippus felt a twinge of fear. They would never make it out of the square. It was too public.
"Of course, as you know, the punishment for the possession of a forged passport is a fine."
Xanthippus looked from the group of mounted men riding towards them back to the watchman.
"A fine?"
"A fine."
"Yes, a large fine."
"You can either pay us..." the watchman began.
"...or we can take you to the magistrate," his companion concluded. "Not a good option for you, I'm afraid."
"It is easier if you pay us," the first said.
Xanthippus relaxed. So that was it, was it? He had half a mind to dispense with these boys at once--
With a crack, the watchman's head suddenly jerked forward. The blow came swiftly, out of nowhere. The watchman yelped.
"Who are you harassing today, Watchman?" The weapon was a yellowwood fighting staff. The official in blue cracked the watchman again on the back of his head. The blow knocked his wig and crimson headscarf askew. They sat crookedly atop his shaved head, covering half his face and he scowled petulantly at the group of horsemen who now surrounded him. They were the men Xanthippus had spied riding across the square. "You have no business with these men."
There were four of them. Dressed identically, they appeared to be all of a company. Their headscarves were blue with yellow stripes. Draped behind their ears to their shoulders, the scarves framed strong, unmistakably Tygetian faces. Rings of bronze around their foreheads bore the crest of a rearing cobra. They carried fighting staffs of the brightest yellowwood and wore long curved blades sheathed at their waists. The one who spoke wore a thick black beard that hung halfway down his bare chest, unusual for the normally clean-shaven Tygetians. Xanthippus perceived in the company none of the watchmen's doltishness. Apparently, no friend of local officials, Xanthippus was nevertheless troubled by their arrival.
"But they are stinking Gyriecians," the watchman complained. He straightened his head coverings and rubbed the base of his skull, wincing.
The bearded man raised his yellowwood again as to a dog and the watchman cringed. "These men are none of your concern. Be gone with you."
The watchman ducked under the next blow and heeled his horse. When he and his companion were out of range of the yellowwood, he shouted some choice Tygetian oaths at the blue men, but rode away without daring to gauge their effect.
"Go back to pilfering offering dishes..." the bearded man shouted after them. "What a repulsive lot," he said, turning back to Xanthippus and Nydeon. He grinned at them. Dazzling white teeth flashed amid his bush of black whiskers. "I'm surprised you fellows made it as far as you did before those jackals found you."
"Mere extortionists," Xanthippus said. "Our business was nearly concluded."
"Did they tell you that your passports were forged?"
Xanthippus and Nydeon exchanged a glance.
"Sir," Xanthippus began after a pause, "we must be on our way, as we have business to attend to--"
The bearded man burst out laughing. "Of course they did," he said. "But I tell you, these watchmen wouldn't know a passport from a steaming dung heap. Doubtless, they can't even read. Don't worry; we have no interest in your passports, or much of anything else. I am Jorem. We have come to escort you to the governor."
"So you know who we are?" Xanthippus asked.
"We know you are to meet Sotheb," Jorem said with an expression of utter innocence, which Xanthippus found troubling in its insincerity.
Jorem led them at a rapid pace through the city. Two of the blue men flanked them and another brought up the rear. In their blind haste, there was no time to ponder the twists and turns through the narrow streets. Xanthippus felt as if he were being herded. The traffic parted easily for the blue men. Where it did not move fast enough, a swat of the yellowwood convinced laggards to step aside.
They dismounted at the base of the wide steps and Jorem led them past scurrying functionaries into the palace. Guards moved to intercept them. Seeing the blue men, however, they stood down. A man carrying a wax writing tablet stepped into their path, cutting them off.
"Sotheb," Jorem demanded.
"Quite impossible," the man said, scanning his tablet.
"Stand aside," Jorem said all at once. He pushed the little man out of the way and strode into the heart of the palace. The other blue men shepherded Xanthippus and Nydeon after him. "Where is he?" Jorem bellowed to the room, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged hall amid the fat columns. He stopped and turned and the palace man scurried toward him.
"You can't barge in here making demands," he said. "I will call the guard."
"I am the guard, little man," said Jorem. He snatched the tablet out of his hands and ran his eyes over it. Then he flung it away, where it clattered across the marble floor. "He is in the bath..."
"You can't--" Sotheb's man began.
"Shut up..."
The bath chamber was an immense columned hall, dimly lit and full of shadows despite the torches that burned on the walls. The air was thick as steam rose in misty fingers from the surface of the bath. At first, Xanthippus heard the play of moving water, as ethereal as wind chimes, but the clacking of the blue men's hobnailed sandals made it sound like an army was marching through.
"I found your men for you," Jorem shouted into the reverberant chamber.
There rose a surprised splashing from the bath. Expanding ripples of the suddenly roiled water caught the torchlight and seemed to surround a startled body in rings of orange fire. Unable to identify the thing that splashed in the water, Xanthippus gave a start. What form of great naked beast is this? When he saw that it was in fact the form of a great naked man, he squinted and frowned, disbelieving his eyes. It was the fattest man he had ever seen.
"Who is it?" the fat man uttered in alarm. He reached over the lip of the bath for his wig and hastily thrust it onto his smoothly shaved head. It sat perched there, limp and crooked. It was like draping a hand towel over the peak of a mountain.
"I tried to stop them, my lord Sotheb." The voice of the governor's secretary sounded from the doorway behind them. Without looking, Jorem raised a finger and one of the blue men strode to the door and pushed the secretary back into the outer hall. He closed the door after him, muffling the secretary's pointless protestations. The blue man remained at the door against any further intrusions.
"Your pathetic watchmen were having a go at them when we found them."
"But I am not expecting anyone today," the governor said. Xanthippus saw a look of fear edging toward panic in the governor's eyes.
"These are your Gyriecians, you fat fool. You would leave them wandering about aimlessly. Do with them as you will. I have little interest in your expectations. Here are your men. Take them." Jorem stepped aside and swept his yellowwood toward the two Gyriecians. "I would stay, but I'm afraid you might get out of your bath and I'd have to look on you."
With that, Jorem called his men together and they strode out of the bath chamber. When they opened the door, all inside could hear the shrill voice of the secretary until the sharp crack of the yellowwood put a perfunctory end to it.
Sotheb gazed after the blue men until the clacking of their hobnails had receded into silence. Then he exhaled loudly. He removed his wig and mopped his fleshy brow with it. He flung the wig aside, clapped his hands, and a serving girl rushed out of the back of the chamber. She was carrying a silver platter of fruit and bread.
But what she carried barely registered when Xanthippus noticed that she was, effectively, naked. A diaphanous gown covered her from shoulder to heel. Even in the dim light, he could see that it hid nothing of the woman's form. Stranger still, she had not a single hair on her entire body -- not on head, nor eyebrow, nor even--
Xanthippus wrenched his eyes away rapidly as if he had been caught peeking into the girl's private chambers.
"This land is madness," he said to Nydeon under his breath.
Nydeon had not ceased staring at the woman, even as she retreated a score of paces to stand on station at the beck of the governor. He merely shook his head in reply. When Xanthippus looked up again, he spied two more of the girls gliding like ghosts through the gloom at the back of the chamber.
"So you are my Gyriecians?" Sotheb asked as he tore a handful of bread from a loaf. They could hear his husky breathing, though it was not caused by fear and panic this time, but by the strain of even a small exertion like tearing bread. Emotionally, his manner had changed abruptly. He suddenly gave the impression that he might linger in his bath all day. "Come. Have some fruit," he said, taking a deep breath.
Xanthippus had just about had enough.
"Who were those blue men?" he asked. "Who is this Jorem? I demand--"
"Oh, no, please," Sotheb said, raising a hand in which he held a tiny silver butter knife that looked like a child's toy in his fat fingers. "There is no need for anger. It is all well that has a happy ending," he said, going back to spreading jam on his bread. His next words were spoken through a mouthful of food as he breathed noisily through his nose. "You are here now. That is the important thing. The blue men are... Well, they're my people. My personal guard, you might say."
"They don't treat you with much respect," Xanthippus said. Had Jorem been his personal guard, he would have soon found that yellowwood staff uncomfortably placed. As it stood, he was uncertain whether or not Jorem had been friend to them. He was maddeningly uncertain whether any of these people were.
"They badly misused your man in the hall," Nydeon added, but he was scarce paying attention. As he spoke, he was peering into every corner of the torch-lit chamber, fascinated by the gliding hairless ghost-girls and other wonders that might still be found there in the shadow-draped recesses. In niches along the walls stood the ubiquitous carved gods, torchlight dancing across their stony faces. Their old friend Crocodile-Face was among them.
"Jorem is by nature a violent man," Sotheb said amiably. "Seriously, now, fellows. Come and have some fruit. You have had a long journey. Perhaps you would like to bathe. There is plenty of room." He laughed, indicating the vast expanse of the steaming pool. The entire palace staff could bathe in it. "Let my girls take care of you. Soap, food, fresh clothes, whatever you want."
"I wouldn't mind getting out of this Albyan garb," Xanthippus said.
At that moment, something darted out of the shadows, a knee-high monkey. It ran swiftly on feet and knuckles, seeming to grin. The monkey did a shoulder-roll, grabbed two peaches from Sotheb's platter and waddled away on its hind feet, carrying its sweet prizes held high in its hands.
Sotheb chuckled. "I tried to tell you boys. The fruit won't last long here, so you must be quick. Last chance?" He held up the last peach before biting into it. "Okay, to business then," he said with a sigh.
"Juicy peaches! Oh, my! Peaches! Peaches! Juicy Peaches!"
The screeching, hollow voice made them jump. It came from the gloom in the back of the chamber -- from where the monkey had disappeared. The sound of it gave Xanthippus gooseflesh. If he didn't know better, he would have said--
"In the name of all the gods, what on earth was that?" Nydeon asked.
"Oh, that?" Sotheb asked as he moved through the water toward a ramp. "That was the 'cursed ape.' The little fellow you just met. He loves peaches. Keep listening. He may start in again."
The ramp was doubtless added to the bath to accommodate the governor's enormous obesity, as never would he have been able to lift himself from the pool without it. As he climbed, he gradually rose above the waterline, revealing himself. Xanthippus had never seen anything more repulsive. It would have been hard to describe the shape of the man. He was nothing but folded rolls of flab. Xanthippus averted his eyes even as the smooth ghost-girls emerged from the shadows to tend him.
"That voice was the monkey?" Nydeon asked. He peered into the distant shadows with an open-mouthed grin and began creeping fearfully in that direction, as if stalking an unseen foe. "Show him to me..." he said.
"They are called 'cursed apes'," Sotheb explained. He stood with his arms outstretched like a scarecrow. Two of the girls were drying him while a third prepared his clothes. "The Darkmen bring them to us from their kingdom in the south. Oh, here he is back..."
Without his peaches, the monkey knuckle-walked out of the shadows, perhaps looking for more fruit. The thing saw Nydeon and sat down calmly on the floor. Nydeon approached him cautiously, still grinning. He had forgotten all about the naked girls and the giant mountain of man-mush, so near he could touch them all.
He gave a shallow bow. "Good day to you, monkey," he said.
The 'cursed ape' stared at him insensibly. Then it shrieked, "Good day to you! Juicy Peaches!" It did a backward shoulder-roll and ran away into the darkness. Nydeon straightened with a start.
"Oh, I should have told you," the governor said, laughing. "The 'cursed ape' is a senseless beast, like any other." He fell silent while the naked girl pulled his tunic over his head. When his face emerged from the neck hole, he said, "They can't communicate. I don't know what the Darkmen call them, but here they're called 'cursed apes' because they are blessed with vocal cords that allow them to perfectly mimic human speech. Their blessing is our curse." One of the girls was putting jeweled rings on his outstretched fingers. "We used to be entranced by them, as you are now. Visitors still love them. But over time-- Well, along with their ivory and rare skins, the damned Darkmen continue to bring them to us, even though we beg them not to. They really are savage beasts, you see." The girl laid out his sandals and he stepped into them. She began strapping them to his calves, unwinding leagues of twine. "We eat them now, before they become too large to control."
"Eat them? How could you eat a creature that speaks?" Nydeon asked. He was still fascinated by the idea of a monkey speaking with a human voice.
"Oh, we kill them first," the governor said with a laugh. He began moving toward a door leading out of the bath chamber. He waved to the men to follow him. "Believe me, you listen to these things babble on for a while and eating them is the least you'd like to do to them. But let me know if you see any dead monkeys talking," he chortled. "That might revive interest in them."
Sotheb led them into an adjoining office. The governor had to turn and twist to squeeze his great bulk through the doorframe. Sunlight poured through the open windows and after the bizarre dreamland of the bath chamber Xanthippus felt that he was back in the rational world. He sat down with a sense of relief. Unfortunately, Sotheb was even more repulsive fully clothed in the bright light of day than he had been naked in the bath.
The slightest exertion seemed to exhaust him and he took heavy rasping breaths between words as he spoke. He handed them new passports and gave them the same speech given them by Seus.
"When you leave here, you are no longer my concern," he told them. Engulfed by the round globes of his fat cheeks, his piggish nostrils flared as they struggled for breath. It was hard to concentrate on his words. Xanthippus wondered what they would do if he keeled over dead at his desk.
"Yes, yes," Nydeon said impatiently, yielding up his old passport. The governor took both the men's papers and dropped them in a brazier that flickered behind his desk. The little pyre burned in the offering dish to a dual-headed god the Gyriecians had never seen before. Perhaps less frightening than the typical Tygetian deity, its nature was no less mysterious. Xanthippus wondered what Two-Head would make of a burnt offering of forged passports. Then he noticed Crocodile-Face hovering against the wall behind them. This fellow seemed to follow them.
Sotheb saw him notice it and sat back, locking his fingers over his mountainous belly. His fingers were almost as thick as they were long and looked incapable of gripping anything.
"Ah, Hra," he said. "God of the unwary, among others -- travelers, merchants, traders... Gruesome, isn't he?"
"The unwary!" Nydeon exclaimed. "It is just like Promenion back home, who delights in protecting drunkards and fools--"
"Oh, Hra does not protect them," Sotheb said. "He devours them." He paused to study their faces with a curious expression. "You're not in Gyriece anymore, gentlemen," he said grimly.
"That much has become painfully obvious," said Xanthippus.
After being given new clothes -- standard Tygetian tunics -- they left the palace and set out along the Royal Road for Archentethe, a five-day ride. Once they had cleared Jakuk and entered open country, Nydeon broke their silence.
"You know what?" he asked.
"What?" Xanthippus replied, giving him a cursory glance. He had already begun contemplating the task that lay ahead of them in the capital. The wine house in the Reeking Town district of Archentethe was where they were bound.
"I will admit it now," Nydeon said. A smile began to spread over his face, but he seemed hesitant to continue.
"Admit what?" Xanthippus urged vaguely.
"I really wanted to converse with that monkey," Nydeon blurted out all at once.
The remark caught Xanthippus off guard and he burst out laughing and couldn't stop. Nydeon threw his head back, too, slapping his own thigh in mirth.
"Was that a little bow I saw you give him?" Xanthippus asked between spasms.
Nydeon broke down again in fits of laughter. "Good day to you, monkey!" he gasped.
They rode on in this manner for some time, thinking of different things a monkey might want to say to them, and each was funnier than the last.
"The blood runs hot today," Prince Kerraunus observed with satisfaction.
"The chariots always get the body's blood up," Samos declared.
The thunder of racing chariots filled the arena as the twenty men of Kerraunus' companion body rode in wide circles hurling javelins at targets set up along the arena walls. Their hoots and hollers, laughter and obscene oaths echoed overloud among the empty seats of the immense arena. A single thick shaft of sunlight poured through the hole in the center of the domed roof, laying a blazing circle on the dirt floor below. Swirling motes of dust floated through the shaft. On festival days, crazy, screaming Gyriecians packed the arena. Today, there were none but shadows.
"Listen to them, Samos," Kerraunus said. He closed his eyes. By Cretis, he could feel the chariots charging through masses of a disorganized and frightened enemy... Oh, how it must have been in the days of the fathers!
"There is no finer sight, Great One," Samos agreed. The only Gyriecians in the arena today was Samos. He might have had the pale skin of the occupiers, but he had become as pure as Kerraunus demanded. Kerraunus himself had the tawny skin of the Tygetian half-breed, but in his mind, there was nothing half about it. King Myletos had repudiated his Tygetian mother. Her Gyriecian name was Diyrce, but Kerraunus would never call her that. Someday he would repudiate Myletos. Cretis willed it.
Guards at the doors kept the masses of Archentethe away. The people would be clamoring to see the Snake Man's companion body, just as they did during festival days and tournaments. Kerraunus' bodyguard understood notions of Tygetian honor. On parade, they drove their war chariots with straight-backed grandeur, no less regal than Prince Kerraunus himself, as the people showered their path with rose petals. On the battlefield, spear-armed on horseback, they were merciless killers, unrelentingly cruel. In Archentethe, they were noble charioteers. They courted the adoration of ladies and the awe of men.
Kerraunus opened his eyes. The straw men along the arena walls bristled with javelins. Kerraunus unsheathed his drilling spear, an eight-foot-long shaft of ashwood two fingers thick. The points of all spears had been removed for training, but he had half a mind to replace them. Someday, he would see how the threat of blood might enliven the exercise.
"While the men's blood is up, Samos, perhaps we should order the spear melee," Kerraunus said with a smile.
"Ah, the melee. Yes. Will you be participating, Lord?"
Kerraunus grinned in reply. The melee was in his blood. He snapped his reins and began making a wide circuit of the arena floor, holding his training spear aloft. His snow-white horses were resplendent in their tasseled saddle pads and gilded crowns sprouting splayed hands of dyed feathers as they high-stepped in unison. The chariot itself was gold-plated with ivory fittings. Today, Kerraunus wore the blue war crown of the Snake Man and a cuirass of boiled leather. Bronze cobras coiled around his biceps.
Samos' voice boomed throughout the arena, ordering the men to the melee. A hush fell over the body, followed shortly by the clattering of spear shafts as the men unsheathed their weapons amid the nickering and shuffling of their horses. All eyes followed the prince as he made his circuit of the arena. Then one of the men held his weapon aloft and began a whooping chant deep in his throat, rhythmically pumping his spear. The melee was as close to real chariot fighting as any of them would ever come. The remainder of the body picked up the chant. Soon, a full-throated war cry filled the arena. The men understood the challenge of guiding a chariot through a melee of blunt-end spears. Even in leather armor, the prospect of slamming onto the hard dirt floor from a flying chariot was terrifying and the danger of trampling was no less real than under live-blood conditions. The soldiers of the Snake Man relished the opportunity.
Kerraunus felt the war cry pounding in his chest and he regarded his men proudly. Ramsut and Imher, Ramma... Young men of nobility, bent on wreathing themselves in glory. Among them also was a smattering of the lowborn, recruited solely for their ability, such as cold-eyed Nefer, who had used the plunder from their last campaign against the Sarians to buy his family out of servitude. Kerraunus alone recruited thusly and he did not shy from the fact that his lowborn men required trials the nobility did not.
Kerraunus and his twenty men took their places around the perimeter of the arena, facing inward like the spokes of a wheel. The prince was the most skilled charioteer among them. He loved the melee and he offered no mercy. Likewise, there were twenty men who would have loved nothing more than to see the prince crawling from the field with a mouthful of dust, even though, Kerraunus suspected, few did not fear being the man to put him down.
Samos, who would officiate and score the men, sounded the horn and the contest began at once. The arena erupted in a storm of thundering hooves and rumbling bronze-rimmed wheels as all the men's chariots roared to life. With a shout, Kerraunus whipped his reins and his chariot sprang into action, racing toward the others. He felt the wind whipping his face as he turned his head one way and then the other, picking out a target. There! Ramsut, son of the Royal Tax Collector. Famous among the body as a hyper-aggressive plunderer, he was no less an accomplished thief than his old man. Kerraunus grinned as he raced toward him. He saw that the Plunderer had adopted a suicidal tunnel vision, the commonest of rookie mistakes. Kerraunus jerked on the reins. The young noble was about to get an education.
Ramsut never saw the blow coming. So fixated was he on avoiding a near collision and dodging a thrusting shaft that he veered straight into Kerraunus' spear. The thick ashwood shaft struck him square in the chest. Kerraunus shuddered from the impact as Ramsut flew through the air, arms and legs splayed. He landed with a breathless thud flat on his back. The dust of the arena floor roiled up around him, as he lay dazed amid a swirl of crushing wheels. Kerraunus raced away and turned to see him dragging himself out of the path of the trampling horses.
Thus, Ramsut, the Plunderer, was the first to fall.
Keeping his head on a swivel, Kerraunus searched out his next target. He saw other men fall amid thrusting, stabbing spears. He saw Imher, the strongest of the body, flailing his ashwood like a club. It struck Ramma on the back of the head, sending his gold-trimmed headscarf flying. The blow failed to dismount him. He teetered over the edge of the chariot side rail, but then regained his balance, tugging the reins with one hand as his horses continued to gallop into the swirling chaos of the melee.
The rumbling wheels and hoof beats, the shouts, screams and catcalls of the men combined into a single all-pervasive roar. Inside the churning cloud of noise, Kerraunus felt the isolation of battle descend on him. He found his target and veered hard into the maelstrom. Straining against the reins with one hand, he held his spear aloft in the other, preparing to deliver an overhand blow...
He just glimpsed Nefer out of the corner of his eye, too late to stop the lowborn's shaft driving hard into his ribs. His breath left him and, for an instant, the world went black.
He lay on his back and his first gasp upon waking sent a jolt of pain coursing up his side. He winced. When he opened his eyes, he saw Samos staring down at him.
"Are you injured, Lord?"
Utter silence had fallen upon the arena. Not a wheel turned.
Kerraunus reached out his hand and Samos helped him to his feet. The chariots stood almost where he had last seen them, as if suddenly frozen in place. He saw his white, gold-trimmed headscarf lying at his feet. Samos stooped for it, but Kerraunus stopped him, bent over and retrieved it himself. He dusted it off thoroughly and replaced it on his shaved head, carefully fitting the bronze ring of the rearing cobra over his forehead. He turned his eyes to Nefer and saw the lad staring at him with knitted brow. The boy was the most cold-blooded killer Kerraunus had ever encountered, as adept at murder as Ramsut was at thievery, but he did not look like much of a killer now. Kerraunus smiled at him. Then he laughed.
"Well done, lowborn!" he exclaimed.
Nefer's expression softened in relief. The other men began chattering to one another, some laughing. "Thank you, Excellency," Nefer said with a smile. "I hope I did not harm you."
"Not to worry," Kerraunus said. He took a step towards Nefer and twitched in pain. Samos rushed to his side and grasped his arm, but Kerraunus brushed him off. "It only hurts when I breathe." He picked up his spear from where he had dropped it. "I believe this body is ready for live-blood, Samos," he said straightening. Lowborn men require trials...
"Spear points, Lord? Surely not--"
"No, I have something better in mind. Nefer, give me your cuirass."
Nefer's calm vanished. "My--"
"Your armor. Take it off."
"But Lord--"
"Now!" Kerraunus roared.
Nefer quickly untied the shoulder straps and removed his leather corselet. Kerraunus nodded and Samos took it from him.
"Get down from your chariot," Kerraunus said. "You won't be needing it for this exercise." Nefer did as he was told. "Since you have defeated the greatest of our charioteers -- me -- we will see how you fare against the rest of the companion body. How many are left, Samos?"
Five men lay or sat along the arena walls. They were being treated by their attendants. One of them, Hathor, was bleeding profusely from nose and mouth. His man held a sopping rag to his face. Hathor kept slapping it away.
"Five are down, Lord. Fifteen remain."
"Nefer versus fourteen men of the body, then. That sounds fair to me. What say you, Nefer?"
Nefer looked around him in confusion. "One against so many? But I am on foot, Lord. Surely--"
"What is the meaning of this?" Samos asked.
Kerraunus turned to face the mass of mounted men. "Soldiers of the Snake Man, uncoil your whips!" he cried. The men sheathed their spears and took up the whips they kept coiled inside their chariots. Ramsut snapped his and the crack echoed throughout the arena. Ramsut loved the whips. "Not you, Nefer," Kerraunus said. "You keep your training spear, since you are so adept in its use."
Nefer gazed at him in disbelief.
Kerraunus turned and began speaking in a loud voice to the entire body. "Armed with his spear, Nefer fights on foot. You others have whips and chariots. Samos counts to one hundred...slowly. If Nefer still stands, the fourteen are flogged. If Nefer falls... Well, we will see what happens to you, lowborn. I suggest you stay on your feet." Kerraunus took two steps back and indicated the arena with an expansive sweep of his arm. "You have the run of the arena," he said.
Ramsut cracked his whip again. The rest of the men began muttering. Kerraunus saw fear and confusion in their faces. He saw eagerness and excitement too. And was that hatred he noticed there? Why, yes... Fear, hatred, bloodlust... It was the very stuff of the Snake Man's soldiers. He should have thought of this a long time ago.
"Samos, will you do the honors?"
Samos blew his horn and he and Kerraunus watched the exercise from a safe distance at the edge of the arena. Nefer began running at once as the chariots flew after him. The first whip lash turned him around and the second tore a bloody stripe across the front of his tunic. He kept himself from falling by leaning on the shaft of his spear. He looked small and naked without armor and armed with only a pointless spear. He dodged several blows, too, and even tried to unseat one of his antagonists, but he swung wildly, spinning and nearly losing his balance. Another lash striped his back and he cried out. He cried out again with the next, even though it did not strike him, but merely sent up a plume of dust at his feet.
"Are you counting?" Kerraunus asked. Samos nodded silently, not taking his eyes from the contest. Nefer could not last much longer. The charioteers were starting to aim for his legs. He ran in a zig-zag pattern, but the men would bring him down quickly now. Kerraunus laughed. The lad was dashing about like a drunkard, dancing to the tune of the intoxicating lash. How could you not laugh?
Nefer was up against the wall, trapped between converging chariots.
"The count, Samos..."
"76 ... 77 ... By the gods! What is this?"
When Kerraunus turned his eyes back to Nefer, he saw that there was a man standing on the floor with him. He had leapt out of the stands where he had apparently been lurking unseen. He wore the blue and yellow stripes of the Mejadym and carried a great yellowwood staff. The hulking bearded man stood before the now-cowering Nefer, grimacing in rage. Kerraunus saw with a start that is was Jorem.
The Mejadym captain took a lunging fencer's step and sent the first charioteer flying with a powerful jab to the chest. He immediately whirled, swinging his staff in a wide arc and unseated the second with a bone-crunching blow to the ribs. Then he crouched on the balls of his feet, holding his bright yellowwood before him. The two chariots he had emptied parted and made for opposite sides of the arena.
"Whip me, you cowards!" he shouted. The chariots began to slow. "I will stand before your cruelty!"
"Put an end to this," Kerraunus told Samos.
Samos blew his horn, signaling the end of the exercise. Nefer immediately made a dash toward the nearest charioteer and flung him to the ground. He came at him so fast, the man had no time to react. In the next instant, Nefer began beating his face savagely with the end of his blunt spear. With a sickening crack of breaking bones, the man's face exploded in a fountain of blood. Nefer kept pounding and pounding until Jorem grabbed him under the arms and brought him under control.
"Cruelty begets cruelty, my friend," he said to the bloody man as he writhed on the ground screaming, his hands covering his mashed face.
Kerraunus strode toward Jorem. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked. He wasn't exactly surprised to see him here, although the circumstance of his appearance was not what he would have expected. He saw three more Mejadym sitting in the stands, obscured by shadow.
"What is the meaning of this?" Jorem asked in astonishment. "What is the meaning of this atrocity I have just witnessed? It is nothing but wanton cruelty. What possible purpose could this serve?" Jorem swept his gaze over the entire body. The men were climbing out of their chariots, and attendants knelt over the bleeding man. Nefer had scampered off somewhere. Probably to sharpen a knife.
"You do not judge my purposes, Jorem," Kerraunus said.
"And lucky for you I do not," said Jorem. "For I find you a disgrace to Tygetia, Prince Kerraunus. You and your band of butchers..."
"Spare me your lectures, old man." The self-righteousness of the Mejadym was boundless. Yes, Kerraunus knew they had for two hundred years offered an underground resistance to the Sarian occupation. Yes, he knew that they had single-handedly prevented the extinction of Tygetian ways and now ruthlessly protected Tygetian institutions. Yes, yes...Who did not already know this? What they were was the strong arm of the over-powerful priesthood. As much as they were controllable, Kerraunus controlled them, but only as long as they had common cause. Someday, Kerraunus would not need them. And then this overstuffed windbag--
"You will doubtless find a shiv piercing your kidney one of these fine days, Prince," Jorem said. "What man here would not love to see that?"
"I can think of only one who would," Kerraunus said. "And it is you." He turned to Samos and told him to send the men away. "They have had enough blood for one day." Then he called for his own attendants. A girl brought him a towel, which he used to wipe his brow. Then he draped it over the back of his neck, stretching the muscles there. "Now, Jorem," he began, leading the captain across the arena floor toward the exit. The men's attendants were gathering up the chariots. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Surely, you did not travel all this way just to annoy me?"
"I have ridden hard from Jakuk to tell you that your Prathians are arriving in Archentethe tonight."
Kerraunus raised his eyebrows. So the Irrylians really went through with it. He had to give the Gyriecians credit: they were a bloodthirsty lot. If their murderous appetites made his life easier, so be it.
"Reeking Town?"
"Yes, Reeking Town," Jorem said. "But it is due to no help from your giant mound of man-flab in Jakuk, let me tell you. Your people in the south are a loathsome gaggle of cowards. Just so you know."
"Ah, but you misjudge our Governor Sotheb, Jorem. He is not merely loathsome but also fearful and greedy. That is what makes him so useful to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and prepare for our Prathians. I would appreciate it if you didn't whack me in the back with that cursed staff of yours on my way out."
"I would only pummel you for a hundred-count, Prince," Jorem called after him. His beard parted and he flashed Kerraunus a broad white-toothed grin -- no doubt an attempt to cast his threat in the guise of a jest. Kerraunus showed no reaction. Jorem would certainly one day have his hundred-count opportunity -- and there would be no grinning on that day.
Samos followed Kerraunus into the bright sunshine outside the arena. A rider from Kerraunus' household had just arrived and handed Samos a roll of parchment. Samos read it over quickly.
"Asander has arrived and awaits you at your home, Great One," he announced.
Kerraunus had to remind himself that Asander was an Irrylian diplomat now, on a begging mission from his master Demetrius. He wished he had saved the melee for Asander's visit. Gyriecians were great fans of bloodsport. "It is war, then?" Kerraunus asked, pulling on his riding gloves.
"What else?" Samos laughed.
Kerraunus sighed. "So it begins," he said. When Gyriecians were at one another's throats, Tygetians heard no end of it. Myletos might enjoy their solicitations, but Kerraunus found it tiresome.
They mounted their horses and, along with the prince's entourage of attendants and armed guards, made their way through the city toward Kerraunus' residence. A runner cleared the path ahead of them, announcing the royal party. People in the streets stood aside and watched in awe as the prince passed.
As expected, Asander was waiting for him when he arrived at his home. Kerraunus found him in the interior courtyard inspecting a mahogany chair whose legs were fashioned to resemble rearing cobras. Bent at the waist, he was running a hand over them admiringly.
Kerraunus unclasped his riding cloak and flung it aside. "Asander, I see you have found Cretis' throne room!" he said, striding towards the Irrylian.
Asander jerked upright with a start. "Ah, Prince Kerraunus!" he exclaimed. "But this is a magnificent piece. The entire courtyard, in fact." He upraised his arms. "Simply splendid! Although, I must confess, I rather fear where I step, lest I find fangs buried in me."
A very sensible caution, Kerraunus thought. "I am the Snake Man, you know. The hand of Cretis on earth, and all that," he said with a smile.
They were surrounded by snakes -- carved into the furniture, standing in stone on either side of the altar, in the colorful tiles of the mosaic floor, open to the sky above. Kerraunus took off his headscarf and leather corselet. An attendant took them immediately. "Wine for our guest," he commanded, with a sharp clap of his hands. Then, "Come with me, Asander. We shall repair to some place ... less menacing."
Smiling, Asander bowed and Kerraunus led him into a small room lined with overstuffed couches of gold-trimmed snow-white fabric, matching Kerraunus' tunic and kilt. They drank their wine out of large shallow drinking bowls. On them were etched scenes of men killing lions.
"A gift from our friend Lymadus of Sethaly," Kerraunus explained. "I have saved them especially for your visit, since he is the man you are currently trying to kill." One of them, anyway.
Asander laughed uncomfortably. The last time Kerraunus had seen him had been years ago in Epiria, one of Demetrius' conquests. Ten years, perhaps? Asander had not been afraid to get his hands bloody then. He had been a dark, strong man, a captain of Demetrius' bodyguard, a bull-headed killer. Now, he was no less strong and dark, but he wore a thin pointed beard that gave him a cunning look as well. In place of the leather cuirass, he wore the flowing blue robe of the Gyriecian diplomat. Kerraunus at once decided that he liked him better when he had done his killing in the open.
Asander set his drinking bowl down on a low-standing table. A cloud had passed over his face. "I have seen Lymadus' lapdog Redic. He is already at the palace, no doubt seeking help from the king."
"And no doubt he will receive it," Kerraunus said.
"Myletos will send troops to aid Lymadus against Demetrius?"
Kerraunus shook his head. "Myletos will never send troops. He plays with his fleet now, like a boy in the bath. The fleet is the coin of the realm, Asander. Tygetian soldiers stay in Tygetia."
"But what of you, Kerraunus? What of the Snake Man and his troops?" Kerraunus laughed, and Asander added quickly in a sober tone, "We need men, Prince. You must know that Cretis, called Sarlon in Gyriece, is worshipped widely in both Irrylia and Epiria. Demetrius' witch, Pylia--"
"The cult of Cretis spreads with Demetrius' conquests? I had no idea the man was so devout."
"Well, yes...he is..." Asander stammered for a moment. "Pylia, of course, is the real practitioner..."
"Yes, a charming pair they are, too. You know, you should speak to Hurrus on this matter. He is forever wanting to assemble an army and return to Epiria. Demetrius wouldn't mind the troops of the Eagle Man on his soil, would he?" Kerraunus wondered how much Asander knew of the men coming for Hurrus. It was the Prathian General Menleco who sent them, but Kerraunus suspected that Demetrius was behind it. Either he or his witch Pylia...
Asander cleared his throat. "Hurrus lacks the seasoning of the Snake Man..."
"My men go nowhere without the blessing of Myletos, and Myletos will never agree," Kerraunus went on. "We have constant troubles with the Sarians on our eastern border." In fact, Kerraunus knew that the Gyriecians would slaughter his soldiers. His was an army made to defeat Sarians, though he would not soon admit it. Tygetia had little to fear from land armies and Myletos' fleet was the most powerful to ply the Middle Sea. "His lovely daughter is one of Lymadus' wives, though perhaps not yet his favorite. Perhaps she never will be. It is a sore point with her, I know--"
"You speak of Sarina, of course, your half-sister--"
"My half-sister takes good care of herself, Asander. It is what she does best. In fact, it would not surprise me if her hand wasn't in this somehow..."
"Sarina has nothing to do with it. It is Theon of Lacecia. He has broken away from Sethaly. He declares his independence and appeals to Demetrius for help. Nothing more--"
"Demetrius, the freedom fighter," Kerraunus said with a sardonic laugh. "And he would make me Lord of Lacecia, I suppose?"
"All prosper who fight for Demetrius--"
"And I could rule a province in the middle of your Gyriecian maelstrom, ensnared between murderous foes? I can think of better places to be than under Demetrius' thumb, my friend." Kerraunus saw the blood rising to Asander's face. "As appealing as all this sounds, I must tell you, Asander, that if you have come here solely to find help for Demetrius' reckless adventures, you've wasted your time." Kerraunus stood. "I hope you had a pleasant sail, because that's all you will get out of this trip. Besides a wedding feast, that is," Kerraunus added. "As you will certainly be attending?"
"Of course," Asander said, rising. "Demetrius would not dream of failing to have an emissary at Prince Hurrus' great day."
He sends more emissaries than perhaps you know, Kerraunus thought. But, then again, perhaps not... He couldn't help but wonder.
A servant girl glided into the room to refill their cups. Kerraunus waved her off and she left on cat's feet. Another in a translucent gown appeared in the doorway and lurked there just out of Kerraunus' sight. He saw Asander gaze at her in astonishment.
"You will at least speak to the king on our behalf?" he asked when he had finally pried his stunned eyes away from the hairless beauty. "Convince him that it is an entirely internal affair--"
"I couldn't agree more, ambassador," Kerraunus said, cutting him off. "I care little what sort of bloodletting you Gyriecians engage in among yourselves. But I will speak to my father. However grudgingly given, I have enjoyed Irrylian friendship, even if he has not." Kerraunus turned his eyes to where he knew the girl hovered just beyond the doorway. Asander began to speak, but Kerraunus held up a hand. "This is where we shall leave it for now," he said. "You can show yourself out."
Asander forced a smile and then bowed in a pantomime of obsequiousness that ill-suited him. He walked from the room.
"Oh, and captain," Kerraunus called after him. Asander stopped and turned. He was standing on the cobra mosaic. "I suggest you watch where you step." When the former captain gave him a puzzled look, Kerraunus added, "Snakes..."
Asander's cunning face cracked a little smile. Then he turned and left.
The servant girl came out from behind one of the pillars that supported the walkway above, moving like a ghost. Her nimble fingers removed one of the bronze snakes coiled around Kerraunus' bicep, and she began massaging the muscle there. Then she removed the other.
"The stinking Gyriecians offers me some little slave kingdom in exchange for Tygetian blood..." Kerraunus murmured with his eyes closed. He was feeling the fingers teasing out the tension in his taut muscles. "There is no prize worth taking in all of Gyriece... Asander's plea is folly... The prize worth taking is Tygetia..."
The girl dug her thumbs into his bicep. Then he felt her hands slide upward and her fingers began kneading the muscles of his shoulder. Kerraunus thought of sending a man to meet the Prathians in Reeking Town. He felt a tug on his arm. Soundlessly, the girl led him deeper into the house, her plump buttocks swaying.
Reeking Town could wait.
"We don't serve Gyriecians here," the barkeep said.
The remark did not surprise Xanthippus. He reflected that while Archentethe was full of Gyriecians, the wine house of Reeking Town was not. It was, apparently, a strictly Tygetian establishment. Workers from the neighborhood lye factories filled the tables and the stench of them filled the air. Nydeon was easy to spot, sitting alone at his table, his thick hair amid a sea of shaved and wigless Tygetian heads. It was not the sort of place Xanthippus himself would have chosen. Outside on the streets of Archentethe they blended comfortably with the population. Inside the wine house of Reeking Town, their pale faces and full heads of hair shouted their foreignness. Torches guttered on the walls and on the thick square column that supported the roof, but even the dancing shadows failed to conceal their Gyriecian presence. He noticed some of the patrons glancing warily in Nydeon's direction.
Xanthippus slapped a couple of coppers down on the bar. "I want only water," he said in the Common Tongue.
The barkeep, with a sly look, replied with a flurry of colloquial Tygetian. Xanthippus felt the blood rise to his face.
"I suppose you think you're clever--"
"Don't you understand plain Tygetian?"
Xanthippus turned his head and found himself gazing into the chin of the man next to him. He raised his eyes to see a giant staring down at him with a condescending, amused expression. His dull, cruel pig-eyes immediately reminded Xanthippus of the jackals of Jakuk, only this fellow's forearms were as thick as a normal man's calves and he had clearly drunk too much wine.
"I don't understand any Tygetian," Xanthippus admitted, knowing that his ignorance applied to more than just the language. He was beginning to lose his patience. No one had been at the wine house to meet them. He and Nydeon were sitting alone at their table--
"Well, let me translate for you," the giant said. "The man doesn't serve Gyriecians here. Is that plain enough for you?"
The barkeep began chortling, an obnoxious sound in any language.
"Oh, it's plain..." Xanthippus said.
"Look around," the giant went on. "Other than your little friend there, do you see any other miserable Gyriecians here?"
He reached across the bar for the flagon the barkeep had put there for him, pointedly elbowing Xanthippus out of the way as he did so. He was wearing the same infuriatingly sly smile the barkeep had adopted. Repulsive. Xanthippus grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed his face down hard on the bar. There was a cracking sound as the giant's nose broke and patrons' cups clattered all along the bar. A smear of blood marred the oaken timber where the giant's face had landed. He collapsed at Xanthippus' feet. Xanthippus bent down and propped him up against the base of the bar. It had happened so quickly that most of the reeking Tygetian workmen had not noticed a thing.
"Looks like our friend has fallen asleep," Xanthippus said. "I'm afraid you have overindulged him. Now, you were saying about not serving Gyriecians?"
"Here," the barkeep said clearly in the Common Tongue. He slid the giant's flagon across the bar. "Take it."
"I wanted only water," Xanthippus said. He was not a strong drinker. The last thing he needed was a drink-induced sluggishness, and he had a feeling that the wine here in Reeking Town was not prized over all for its bouquet.
"There is a well outside for water. In here, there is only wine. Wait! I will send my boy and he will bring water to you." The barkeep began clapping his hands and looking about for his boy, but Xanthippus stopped him. He had had enough eyes on him already.
He sighed. "This will do," he said, taking the flagon.
Turning, he almost collided with a Tygetian man in a white, gold-trimmed tunic. The man was frowning at him. Xanthippus moved to walk around him.
"What do you think you're doing?" the man asked. His eyes flashed angrily.
By the gods! Not another one...Xanthippus assessed the man quickly. He had the face of a brute, square and strong, but the fine thread of his clothes and the gracious braids of his wig gave him an incongruously aristocratic air. At least this one wasn't a giant.
"I was trying to have a drink of water," Xanthippus said.
"You're attracting attention. Come back and sit down." He put two silver coins on the bar and nodded toward the sleeping giant. The barkeep scurried around the corner and began dragging him into a back room. The brutish man grabbed Xanthippus by the elbow and led him to the table where Nydeon waited.
"Our man showed up," Nydeon said.
"Oh, happy day," said Xanthippus crossly. "What kind of place have you brought us to?" he asked the brutish man.
"Shut up," the man said.
"No, you shut up," said Xanthippus. "You say I am drawing attention to myself, but you have brought us to a place where we cannot be missed."
The man winced and peered nervously out of the corners of his eyes. "Keep your voices down," he said. "We are perfectly safe in this stinking hole. It is the most anonymous place in all of Archentethe."
"And we were to meet you here at sundown," Xanthippus went on unabated. "Well, the sun has been down for some time now, and here we sit, preyed upon by the local thuggery--"
"You mean that limp mass the barkeep is dragging away? He was preying upon you, was he?"
"Not for long..." Xanthippus said.
"Lucky for the local thuggery that I arrived when I did," the man said, with a thin smile. Xanthippus noticed for the first time that a bright welt of scar tissue marred his dark face from temple to jaw. The lids of his right eye pinched at the corner. This man is not long from Reeking Town himself, Xanthippus thought. The Tygetians send us hoodlums dressed in fine thread... He clenched his teeth.
"What do we call you?" Nydeon asked.
The man's face darkened. "You don't," he said. "What you are about is very serious business--"
"And yet we are watched all the time," Xanthippus observed. "Do you see him, Nydeon?"
Nydeon nodded. "There are two of them. Blue men."
"Blue men?" The brutish man ducked his head. His eyes darted back and forth between Nydeon and Xanthippus. He would not follow the men's gaze.
"Blue headscarves and kilts. Yellow stripes, yellowwood staffs, long curving swords..."
The man smiled. "Local peacekeepers," he said. "Nothing more. They watch you no more than they watch everyone."
"Is that why we encountered them in Jakuk?" Xanthippus asked. "Apparently, Archentethe peacekeepers have a long reach."
"In Jakuk, they were called Sotheb's men," Nydeon noted.
"Why would Sotheb's men follow us here?" Xanthippus asked.
"Sotheb's men? What in the seven layers of hell are you talking about? Don't worry about them. Listen, the prince marries in two days. We must--"
"Oh, but I am worried about them," Xanthippus said. There were two of them, standing one on either side of the front door. Blue headscarves covering smooth Tygetian skulls. Large, well-built men, a cut above the common rabble of the wine house. Each carried a bright yellowwood staff. No one paid them any attention. One of them gazed across the crowd and caught Xanthippus' eye. "I'm worried about that one, in particular."
"The one who keeps staring at you?" Nydeon asked.
"Yes, I think he has fallen in love with me..."
"When you got up for the bar, that one left out the door," Nydeon said. "He thought you were leaving by the side door, and he moved to follow you."
"Did he now?" Xanthippus rose to his feet.
The man grabbed him by the wrist and tried to urge him back into his chair. "Sit down," he said. "Those men are nothing--"
Xanthippus looked down at his wrist and then up into the man's eyes. "Release me now, or I'll give you a scar on your left to balance the one on your right." The man's hand opened. Xanthippus looked at Nydeon. "I will see about these blue men," he said. "And you," he said to the brutish man. "When I get back, you better not be here."
"My master will not like this," the man warned.
"You seem to sow displeasure."
Xanthippus could hear Nydeon laughing behind him as he strode towards the side door. He walked with loud, heavy, purposeful steps, impossible for the blue men to miss. Outside, the narrow alley was plunged deep in inky blackness. The barman had said that there was a well in back. Knowing that the blue man would be coming around the front, Xanthippus decided to make for the well. It was possible that both blue men would have followed him, so he hurried, taking rapid, soft steps.
The back yard of the wine house was bathed in the pale light of a full moon. The moon was huge and yellow on the horizon. He caught glimpses of it in the alley spaces between neighboring buildings. Its light imparted to the walls a smooth, creamy texture, casting deep black shadows on the blue-tinged ground. A line of tethered horses stood along the back wall, Xanthippus' own among them. Laughter and muted conversation drifted out to him through a window and a couple of the horses lifted their heads and nickered at him as he approached. He spied a man sprawled out among the horses, dead to the world drunk. His wig had displaced a few inches from his head. Then Xanthippus saw that it was not a wig, but a pile of dung. An absurd thought flashed through his mind. He imagined the wagers his former chums in Prathia would have placed on this fellow. Would he wake before one of the horses shit on him? The smart money was on the shit...
The well stood twenty paces across open ground. Crouching, he crossed the space stealthily, but fast. No sooner had he hidden himself behind the well than the first blue man appeared at the corner of the building he had just vacated. Within moments, the second appeared at the other. They exchanged looks and shrugged. Then one of them noticed the drunk and he stiffened with a start. He approached the prone form carefully and jabbed at the man with his staff. The drunk muttered in gibberish and rolled over, snoring. All bets are off now, Xanthippus thought. The boys would have been disappointed. Without question, the blue men would have suffered for ruining the wager. They conferred with an air of urgency. Had Xanthippus wanted to kill them, he would have secreted himself among the horses near the drunk. It would have been easy. Look at them! Babes for the taking...
The blue men argued for a moment, afraid they had lost their quarry. They were going to split up. Xanthippus could hear the panic in their voices. There were two exits out of the yard. One of the men bolted toward the first, a distant black alley. The other rushed blindly in the opposite direction, toward a second alley that lay beyond the well. He was coming straight for Xanthippus' hiding place. The Prathian reached inside his tunic and gripped the haft of his dagger.
Just as the man reached the well, Xanthippus leapt out, thrust his arm around his neck and flung him to the ground. In an instant, he had his knee on his chest and his dagger at his throat.
"Make a sound and you die," Xanthippus rasped at him.
The blue man stared up with round eyes that strained to glimpse the blade at his throat. His lips moved.
"Not a sound," Xanthippus warned. He lifted the man to his feet and guided him into the dark alley where he thrust him up against the wall of a building. Xanthippus scrutinized the man's face carefully. He was not one of those from Jakuk. He would have preferred that he was. How many blue men were there? "Why do you follow me?"
The man shook his head uncomprehendingly.
"Don't pretend you don't understand," Xanthippus said. "I heard you speaking in the yard. I will ask you again: Why do you follow me?"
"I will be missed," the blue man croaked.
"I daresay your sweet mother will miss you, if you don't answer me," Xanthippus said. He thrust his dagger into the flesh of the man's throat, stopping just short of drawing blood. "Who are you and why do you follow me? What is the meaning of this...this blue and yellow?"
"You will certainly be killed, Gyriecian pig," the man hissed.
Xanthippus clenched his teeth. Every muscle in his body tensed. His hand trembled in rage. He sheathed his dagger and pulled the man's sword from its scabbard, the metal hissing as he withdrew the broad, curved blade. Behind him he found exactly what he needed, a low stone wall. He yanked the man to the opposite side of the alley and forced him to his knees. He placed the man's hand atop the stone wall so that only his index finger lay extended upon it. He held the hand there and lifted the sword menacingly. The man tried to rip his hand away, but Xanthippus held him in an iron grip. There had been a day when he would not have had the control for this; the man would have been a bloody ruin by now.
"One more time. Why do you follow me?"
The man struggled, but he could not break Xanthippus' grip.
"We know who you are," the man said defiantly. "If anything happens to me--"
Xanthippus brought the sword down hard, severing the tip of the blue man's finger. It flew off somewhere into the shadows. The man let out a sharp cry.
"The whole hand is next," Xanthippus said. He grasped the man's forearm, pinning his wrist to the stone. A little black pool spread under the stubby end of the missing fingertip.
"No!" the man cried. "I'll tell you. Do not cut my hand!"
"The next word better be--"
"I am Mejadym," the man blurted out. "I was ordered...We were ordered to watch you."
"By who? Who ordered you to follow me?"
"We know why you are here--"
"Damn you!" Xanthippus raised the sword.
"No!" the man cried. "Kerraunus orders us. It was Kerraunus."
"Prince Kerraunus?"
The man nodded, wide-eyed.
"It is Kerraunus who wants Hurrus dead?"
The man nodded again. "We are ordered to watch you."
"To help me? Or to stop me?" He already knew the answer. He remembered the man in Jakuk, Jorem. His group could have killed them on the spot.
"To observe..."
"Where can I find Kerraunus?"
The man began telling him, but hesitated. His shock had worn off. He looked dangerously pale, his eyes unfocused. Xanthippus was afraid he would faint before he was through with him.
"If you lie to me, I will have your head and your hand."
The man finished telling him and Xanthippus clouted him on the side of his head with the pommel of the sword. The Mejadym fell in a heap. Xanthippus threw the sword over the stone wall and dashed back to the well. He waited there for a moment, heard nothing and saw no one and then made for the wine house door. Nydeon was sitting by himself. He signaled him and his companion met him outside.
"They are Mejadym," Xanthippus told him on the way to their tethered horses.
"The blue men are Mejadym?" Nydeon started. "Then that crazy bastard in Jakuk--"
"All the blue men are Mejadym."
Nydeon whistled. "Seus warned us about them. Are they trying to kill us?"
Xanthippus threw a leg over his horse's back. "They probably are now," he said.
Nydeon untied his horse and mounted. He looked down to his left and saw the drunk laying there behind the animals. "How long before one of these horses drops a load of shit on that guy's head, do you think?"
"That'll have to be wager for another time, my friend. Tonight, we have a rendezvous with royalty. I've got a load of my own to drop..."
The moon had risen above the rooftops as they set off through the city to find Kerraunus. They rode as rapidly as they dared, not wanting to raise suspicions. The empty streets grew wider and the plazas broader and their noses told them when they had firmly left Reeking Town far behind them. The center of the city was occupied by massive festival squares and public buildings, as fabulous as the stories held. It was a city of giants, of crouching lions and looming man-beasts of every sort. The men skirted lighted areas where torches burned and people gathered, remaining as best they could in the shadows, out of sight of both men and gods alike. Their horses' hooves rang out on the hard pavement and filled every hollow square with the sound of their passage. Still, they traveled unseen and unmolested.
Kerraunus' house was perched on a hill and had a view of the river lands far below. Black date palms swayed against the night sky and from the trees surrounding the prince's estate they could hear the fronds rustling in the freshening night breeze. There were no people to be seen anywhere.
"We don't have much time," Xanthippus said. "My Mejadym friend will be found soon and this place will no doubt be swarming."
They sat mounted under the shadows of a tree line at the edge of the property. They had already circled the house and found what they were looking for -- a wide balcony that faced the river, likely fronting the master's chamber. They left their horses tied in the wood and crept rapidly across the grounds to the base of the balcony. Xanthippus brought with him a length of rope tied to a small iron grappling hook.
He flung it up and over the balustrade above and then tugged on the rope until he felt the hook catch.
"Wait here for me," he told Nydeon. "I'll be back in half-a-hand-span."
Without a word, he climbed the rope hand over hand and clambered over the marble rail, alighting soundlessly on the balcony. The wide doors into the house stood open. Gauzy white drapes spilled out in the breeze. The room inside was dark. It was indeed a bedchamber, and, judging from the lavishness of it, undoubtedly the prince's. Xanthippus had seen entire houses smaller than the canopied bed alone. A great rearing cobra stood on one wall. A dim flickering flame burnt on the altar before it.
Tygetians were mysterious and dark, Xanthippus had decided. Fearful and cruel. Weak, decadent, corrupt and incompetent as well.
He was amazed at how easily he could enter the private quarters of a prince of the realm. He wondered if this one would be happy to see him; he knew the next would not. He drew his dagger and crept quietly across the floor toward a closed door. Despite the fact that he had formulated no plan, he was anxious to meet this Kerraunus, a man who sent his thug lackeys and broken men to meet with Prathians as though they were equals. If nothing else, he would let this Kerraunus know that these Prathians would not be buffeted by his random winds, like stowed-away boys on a Rycassan merchantman. Those days were gone. If the Prathians were to risk their lives for the sake of Tygetian murder, it would be with the full knowledge of what they were up against.
Someone was coming.
Xanthippus heard a man whistling, a merry tune that preceded the sound of footsteps. He pressed himself against the wall behind the door. The whistling and the footfalls grew louder and then stopped. The door handle turned. Xanthippus hoped this was the man he sought and not some poor servant come to warm his Highness' privy for the royal ass...
But when the door opened and the man entered, he saw that it was no mere servant. Without question, here was the royal ass himself. Xanthippus clapped a hand over the prince's mouth and aimed his dagger at his kidney. His upper body bare, Kerraunus was sure to feel the cold steel of the dagger pressed against his flesh.
"Cry out and you die," Xanthippus warned. When he felt the prince make no move, he asked, "Now, why do your blue men follow me?"
Kerraunus did not even try to turn. Xanthippus removed his hand from his mouth. His arm slipped down over his chest. "Who are you?" Kerraunus asked.
"Oh, you know who I am, Prince."
"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Most of my guests arrive announced at the front door."
"I am the one charged to kill Hurrus."
"Then I must quickly inform you that you have the wrong house," Kerraunus said. His voice was calm, his tone tinged with humor.
"But surely you realize by now that if you were Hurrus, my job would be done, wouldn't it?"
"And you must know, Prathian, that if you were my assassin, you would be dead already."
"And yet it is my dagger at your throat, is it not?"
"At my back, actually," Kerraunus said, giving his head a half-turn. "And, I must admit, you have a point."
The prince's self-possession troubled him. He was suddenly consumed with the idea that someone stood behind him. He jerked his head around and saw only the closed door. The flickering firelight of the altar flame made the shadows dance. He felt the prince stiffen in his grasp. He imagined he could actually feel the man's skin prickle under his enclosing arm. When he looked back, he saw that Kerraunus' skin had gone pale and seemed to glisten wetly. Xanthippus gave a little start, but the sensation was as fleeting as the memory of dream. He felt embarrassed when he realized Kerraunus had noticed him jump.
Perhaps he would have to show this prince that he meant business, just as he had the Mejadym. He hoped it would not come to that.
He leaned into the prince's ear, "Why am I being followed by the blue men? Your Mejadym?"
"Who told you they were mine? The Mejadym are no one's. And if they watch you and you still live, then they are helping you."
"Helping me? They have been watching us since we entered the country, as you no doubt know. But, I must tell you, I shed them easily, and I find it of little concern whether they wish me to live or not as I will live despite their wishes, one way or another. What I am concerned about, Prince, is fulfilling my mission and exiting your country safely. The people you have sent to assist us so far... Well, I find them distressingly unimpressive." He might have had a different opinion if they were all like Kerraunus. He found his calm demeanor troubling, and he found himself disbelieving every word the prince spoke, however inconsequential. Kerraunus was a large, well-built man. If he chose to put up a struggle, Xanthippus knew he would have a tussle on his hands. Yet he chose not to and instead stood there with a blade at his back as calm as a sculpted cobra, spitting poison as easily as he drew breaths.
"You have passports, do you not?" Kerraunus asked. "The one Sotheb gave you will take you to Alaun. There you board a ship for Gyriece. Was this not made clear?"
"The cursed ape may have said something about that. The cursed man did not."
Kerraunus gave a little chuckle. "And my man in Reeking Town?"
"A highwayman. I chose to treat with the Mejadym instead."
Kerraunus laughed full out now. Unafraid, he turned and faced Xanthippus. His black eyes flashed with good humor. He was the picture of amiability. "That was Ramsut, the best highwayman I've got!" He laughed again. Xanthippus felt only confusion. He let his dagger hand fall to his side. "Look here, Prathian. We are all on the same side. The Mejadym want Hurrus dead as much as anyone. And it's not just them and it's not just me. No one man kills a prince of Tygetia, my friend. Not you or me or anyone. We serve at the pleasure of those who dare such a deed."
"I serve at no man's pleasure..."
Kerraunus regarded his face closely. "No, I believe you do not," he said. "You know, I could use a man like you--"
"I have no doubt you would, too," Xanthippus cut him off. "For what man is not forever looking to use some other? Oh, no, I will fulfill my mission, Prince, and go back where I came from. I've had enough of ill-use..."
"Of course you have." Kerraunus slapped him on the back. "I have plenty of men giving me troubles already. Come along over here. I will show you where you need to go." He led Xanthippus to a small writing desk. He lit a lamp and took up a quill pen and began drawing a map on a parchment. It was the way to Hurrus' house. "Can I get you anything. Food, drink? I have girls, too, if you wish. Whatever you want."
Xanthippus took the parchment, folded it and put it in a pocket sewn inside his tunic. "My man waits for me outside," he said. "I have a feeling the Mejadym will show up soon. I'd rather not be here when they arrive."
Kerraunus cocked an eyebrow.
"I abused one of their members," Xanthippus explained.
"It's about time someone did," Kerraunus said with a smile.
Outside, Xanthippus detached the hook and tossed the rope over the side of the balcony. He climbed over the balustrade, hung for a moment, and then dropped to the ground. He packed the rope into a saddle bag and mounted his horse.
"What did you find out?" Nydeon asked as they began to ride away.
"I found out that we have stepped into a nest of vipers," Xanthippus said.
Nadia was light as a feather, so frail Hurrus could scarcely feel her. Draped over his arm, her stick-thin legs pitched uselessly as he carried her across the balcony, feeling as though he should tiptoe. A too heavy footfall might crack her like an egg. When he sat her in a chair, it was with a feeling of relief. He had delivered her whole.
"Push me closer," Nadia said. She craned her neck to see over the marble balustrade. The sounds of combat rose from the grounds below, the clacking of wood on wood, angry oaths and laughter. Hurrus pushed her closer so she could see into the yard. "Ah, they are Xarhux's men!" she cooed with pleasure.
"No, Mama," Hurrus said, coaxing her back to reality. With Demetrius' hired blades hunting them, Nadia had spirited the infant Hurrus out of Epiria. She was the only mother he had ever known. Now she had fallen ill and when the air was fresh and warm Hurrus brought her out on the balcony so she could watch the men train. "These are the sons of Xarhux's men. That is Xandros, son of Kelios. You remember Kelios." He pointed down at a grinning bear of a man. He wielded a wooden training sword and carried a big round bronze-faced leather shield. The blade was an exact copy of the sopiks in wood. It bore the same weight and shape as the actual curved cavalry sword. The men were horsemen, but they trained on foot today.
"Ah, it is Kelios," she said.
"And that man facing off against him is--" Hurrus winced, and a bark of laughter and a chorus of swearing rose from the men below. "And that man with the great throbbing knob on his forehead is Deon, son of -- Oh, damn it all! I don't remember who he is the son of. And I'll lay he might not remember who he is either, just now. Or where he is, for that matter." Hurrus stood and leaned on the rail. His golden locks fell about his shoulders, framing his face and shading his eyes from the morning sun. "Do not destroy my companion body, Xandros! Save some for the real thing!"
The big man stopped his fighting and looked up. Recognizing his friend the prince, he flashed a grin, his close-cropped tawny beard spreading over his face.
"Prince Hurrus is in attendance!" he shouted to the twenty assembled in the yard. "Off your ass, Heron! All hail the Eagle Man!"
"All hail!" the men responded happily, striking their bronze breastplates with their fists. Some responded perhaps less happily than others, Hurrus noted. There were yet skulkers. He had not finished forming his companion body. He could tell at a glance where the deficiencies lay. Xandros, Deon, even lazy-ass Heron, and all the Gyriecian sons of Xarhux's men were a good start. Even some of the half-breeds. But the body was far from complete. He had not even started on the Eagle Corps. There were long days ahead.
"Not so fast, Xandros," Hurrus called down. "I do not yet wear the crown."
"Soon enough for us," Xandros shot back.
Indeed, by the time they rested their heads that night, they would all be Eagle Men. The ceremony would take place later that day, when the current Eagle Man would relinquish his crown to the new. Hurrus only awaited his escort to the parade grounds.
Xandros' shield bore the painted image of an eight-tentacled, spiral-horned octolusk with a grinning face. Hurrus thought it looked comical, but he supposed, at a time of savage bloodletting the very incongruity of the creature's toothy grin would be fearsome to behold, a beaming eater of men. He reflected fondly that the design was a remnant of Gyriece. No Tygetian had ever seen one alive.
Hurrus acknowledged him with a wave. "You can go back to killing one another now," he called. "Deon! You might want to wear your helmet from now on!"
The men burst out laughing. All but Deon, that is, who rubbed his head and scowled. Hurrus sat down next to Nadia as the clacking of the training swords resumed.
"They are your men now," Nadia said reflectively, still watching them. "Oh, I don't like the looks of that one," she added. "No, no, he will not do at all..."
"I am to be crowned today," Hurrus interrupted her ruminations. "The blue war crown of the Eagle Man, the hand of Zarcen--"
"Tygetian mumbo-jumbo!" the old woman snapped. "What you need are fine, strong men who fight as the Gyriecians fight, and not a barnyard full of fanciful beasts suitable only for frightening children in their dreams."
She turned from the men in the yard. Her piercing gray eyes saw clearly now and he knew what she gazed upon. Not so when they clouded over and fixed upon some distant dimension where stood Kelios in place of his son. At those times, he felt she was already half-a-foot into the realm of the dead. He feared the moment, knowing it would come soon.
"These you see in the yard, Mama, are sons of the men of Xarhux. The ones who remained in Tygetia, that is. Xarhux made them lords and now their sons wear sculpted breastplates and the finest helms and arms money can buy. Their animals and horsemanship would be the envy of any cavalry ever fielded by the Conqueror himself."
Hurrus glanced over the balustrade again and saw that Deon had indeed donned his helmet. Bronze cheek plates and nosepiece shielded his face and his eyes could scarcely be glimpsed burning inside the black spaces left for them. Alternating bands of black and white horsehair crested the helmet, making him seem tall and slightly inhuman.
"They are but twenty, young lord," Nadia reminded him. "And even some of these are cowardly, deceitful men. I can spot them from here."
Every time Hurrus thought she had descended irrevocably into feebleness, she came roaring back with a vengeance. Sometimes she was exactly as she always had been. Sometimes not.
"This I know well, Mama. I inherited the men you speak of, chosen for the body by Myletos as a favor to their fathers, his noblemen cronies whose support he is forever trying to win. I will rid myself of them, but I must be diplomatic."
"They will plunge knives in your back. Remember that," Nadia said. "But the others... By the gods! You would think they really had marched in Xarhux's columns. They are the sons of men who have never known what it is to follow a madman, as the others did. These men's fathers knew only greatness, and it shows in the sons."
Hurrus felt a familiar burning coal in his belly. Nadia was wrong about one thing. Xarhux had not been mad. Not before he entered Tygetia, and not when he left. Hurrus would not allow the coal to blaze upon his face. He would never show it -- not the rage, not to Nadia.
His ambition commanded his voice, however.
"Xarhux gave the fathers estates in Tygetia," he said in a firm voice. "I will give the sons the wealth of Epiria."
"Indeed you shall, Hurrus," Nadia said. "I am not long for the world, but I vow that I will not pass until I see you home."
Hurrus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You are not dying anytime soon."
Nadia ignored him. "These men are attracted to you, Hurrus, because you are the kin of Xarhux. They sense greatness in you." She bobbed her head toward the balustrade and the wispy gray strands of her hair floated for an instant in the breeze. "Men such as these do not follow the common lout of a general. Look at Garon's men."
Hurrus felt his face grow tight. "Or Kerraunus'," he said.
"Or Bellog's, for that matter, and that dreadful boy of his..."
"Tepes, Mama."
Nadia waved a bony claw dismissively. "Their men are nothing like these. Nothing like this...Xandros, you call him?"
Hurrus nodded at the same time that a servant laid a great bowl of fruit on the table between them. Nadia plucked a green grape from the bowl and bit it in half. As far as grapes go, it was a giant, but in her hand, it looked as big as an apple.
"These men will follow you to Epiria as they would follow no one else. I have seen men like these before." She reached across the table and gripped Hurrus' arm. "And I have seen a man like you before leading them."
"Mama, please..."
Nadia gazed at him with an intensity that was almost frightening. He could feel the talons of her fingers digging deep into his arm. He thought for an instant of the faceless man. He instinctively lurched back lest she start spitting blood. "When I look at you, Hurrus, I see Xarhux."
This did not fill him with any great confidence. When she looked at Xandros, she saw Kelios. He sighed and laid a hand atop hers, leaning close this time. "But I must build an army, Mama. Even my companion body is incomplete."
"It is my dream to see you on Arrhus' throne, where you belong. Ever since the day Clautias brought us here to Myletos, it has been my dream to return. My dream -- and your destiny."
He felt the burning coal again at the mention of his father's name. Demetrius had stolen the throne through cunning and murder, though Demetrius called it war. Who knew what he called his witch's tender mercies? But it was more than murder. Only Hurrus and Nadia escaped, smuggled out of Gyriece by the man who would have been Hurrus' tutor, Clautias.
"Demetrius learned of Clautias' treachery and Clautias is hunted still, if he yet lives."
Every year on his birthday, Hurrus vowed before the gods and Nadia that he would one day reclaim his throne. At the same time, he and Nadia prayed together for Clautias. Whether dead or living still, the man would never be forgotten.
But they were not alone in marking the anniversary of Hurrus' birth.
"Every year, Demetrius offered to buy you from Myletos," Nadia told him. "Every year his offer increased. One year, Myletos sent him the Mejadym in reply. Your mother, the Queen Eunice, was his half-sister, you see."
"The Mejadym? In Gyriece?" Hurrus had been amazed to learn this.
"Demetrius' firstborn could not escape them. Murder is repaid with murder, my son," Nadia had told him, and he held it as an axiom ever since.
Hurrus leaned back in his chair, thoughtlessly fingering a pear he had taken from the bowl. "But I am not ready..." he said and instantly regretted it. A simple truth, but in his ears, it sounded hopelessly weak. He was grateful when he heard Nadia cackle softly. He knew she understood.
"Your time is coming sooner than you think," she said. "This is the day we have been waiting for. Today you will wear the...big crown...of the...bird...feather man, or some such."
Hurrus started to correct her, but then stopped. "Yes, Mama," he said instead. "The bird feather man." He could not help laughing behind his hand.
Nadia's eyes sparkled at that moment. Hurrus had never known her at any age but generally old, but her eyes for an instant were those of a young girl. "Oh, look at you," she said. "Cruelly mocking an old woman's feebleness..."
"I am sorry," he said with a final chuckle. Then he grew serious. He reached across the table and took both of Nadia's hands. "Look at me," he said. "I swear to you, Nadia. You will see me again in Epiria."
"Then I will pass happily into the land of the dead."
Hurrus shook his head. "Oh, no. You are coming with me. Someone will need to look after my heir, as you always looked after me."
Nadia squeezed his hands. He knew she loved the king's daughter Antona as well as Hurrus did. He only hoped she lived to see them married.
"Your companions fight well, Prince," said a deep voice.
Hurrus looked up at the sound of the familiar bluster: Bellog. He had already stridden halfway across the balcony by the time an out-of-breath servant appeared in the doorway behind him. Hurrus supposed the poor fellow had had to chase the heavy-footed commander all the way up the stairs. The man moved like a storm front. He carried his helmet in the crook of his elbow and the servant's call was all but lost in the creaking and clanking of his blue-black leather armor with bronze fittings and the clacking of his hobnailed sandals across the balcony floor. His dark cloak billowed behind him.
Hurrus sat with his legs crossed and watched him as he approached. He wore neither wig nor helm. The Master of Arms' smallish cranium left little room for brains, though it did accentuate the squareness and strength of his jaw. Hurrus would grant him that.
Bellog smiled broadly. "I took a moment to admire your men training in the field below," he said. "Magnificent! I made my own men observe them. 'Now this is what fighting men look like,' I told them." He turned his beaming face to Nadia. "It pleases me to see you looking so fit this fine morning, my lady." He bowed extravagantly.
"Oh, please, General," Nadia said in a scolding tone. "I am as fit as a cadaver, and you know it."
Hurrus took a pear from the bowl and tossed it to him with a flick of his wrist. Bellog came out of his bow just in time to catch it. He looked likely to crush the thing in his big, beefy hand.
"They're really quite good," Hurrus said. "Help yourself."
"Would that I could," Bellog replied, amiably. "But there is no time for your lovely fruit, I'm afraid." The general stepped stiffly forward and placed the pear on the table as if it was made of glass. "I have come to fetch you to the parade grounds, Prince, for the presentation of the war crown. It is time. King's orders. Myletos and Garon have gone on ahead."
"Ah, yes," Hurrus stood and made a show of craning his neck to see behind Bellog's back. "And where is the current Eagle Man? Surely, he has accompanied you."
Bellog frowned. "Tepes went along ahead with the king's party," he said. The general's own son wore the crown and would be relinquishing it to Hurrus in the official ceremony. Bellog brightened. "Remember when the king would send me to fetch you when you were but a child..."
"And here I am, a grown man, and you are still fetching me," Hurrus said. "Some things apparently will never change, eh, Bellog?"
Bellog's mouth tightened. Hurrus leaned down and kissed Nadia on her sunken cheek.
"When you see me next, Mama, I will be the Eagle Man," he said. Nadia nodded happily.
By the time he had assembled his men and mounted up with Bellog and his escort, Hurrus wore his full panoply of armor. His sculpted bronze breastplate glittered like gold and a pair of shining greaves covered his shins. Likewise attired, his companions had donned their crimson cloaks and made a striking contrast to Bellog's darkly leathered horsemen. The darkness seemed to match their mood. Xandros kept up a stream of ribald commentary as they rode. His jests earned a share of sneers from Bellog's riders but had Hurrus' companions convulsing with laughter.
Led by the burly strong man in dark leather and the golden prince on his high-stepping white stallion, the hundred-rider column quickly attracted crowds of city folk. Outriders cleared the roads, and people scrambled to line the column's path, bowing in reverence or waving or simply gaping in awe. Bellog rode with square-jawed solemnity, Hurrus smiled and waved, and Xandros blew kisses to the pretty girls. The procession had the feeling of a lark. It wasn't until the crowds thinned and they crested the ridge above the parade grounds and saw the ten-thousand-strong corps of the Eagle Man arrayed on the plain below that Hurrus was struck by the enormity of the day.
King Myletos was the first to greet him.
"Hurrus, my boy!" he shouted. He approached on foot and Hurrus dismounted. The king embraced him. "Look at you! You look splendid!" He held him at arm's length. The king's lined face was beaming. "It is Xarhux reborn, I tell you!"
Hurrus smiled. He would take Myletos' word for his resemblance to the great Gyriecian conqueror. No one had been closer to Xarhux than Myletos. He had campaigned by his side from Gyriece to Tygetia to the unnamed lands in the east. When the fighting ended, Myletos, the greatest of Xarhux's lieutenants, was granted the juiciest of Xarhux's plums: Tygetia. His other generals, including his twin brother Arrhus, took all the other lands of the conquest -- and they had been at one another's throats ever since. Only Tygetia enjoyed relative peace. Xarhux himself, after conquering the world, had succumbed to poison.
"Perhaps the resemblance is but skin-deep," Hurrus said. "When Xarhux was my age, he had already conquered half the world. I have not yet conquered this parade ground."
"Ah, but in moments, all will be yours," Myletos assured him.
He was wearing the formal attire of his office, a flowing purple robe trimmed in gold. His head was bare. A servant carrying the royal headdress followed him solicitously around the field. The crown was made of snow-white jewel-encrusted leather over a foot tall and the servant anxiously scurried after the king as if it was attached to him by an invisible cord.
The hundred riders of Bellog's troops and Hurrus' companions along with their servants and attendants swelled the throng that had already assembled on the rise above the parade grounds. Amid the bobbing horsehair crests adorning the helms of milling guardsmen and the checkered headscarves of soldiers, Hurrus picked out of the crowd a bevy of familiar faces. Among them was Jhar. He was speaking to the high priest of the Zarceni, a man named Kemhet. He would bless the crown as it passed from Tepes to Hurrus, Nadia's 'mumbo-jumbo'. Hurrus' stepbrother Garon approached on Myletos' heels and embraced Hurrus in turn. Garon was a soft and affable young man, Myletos' natural son, four years' Hurrus' senior.
"Whatever will I do without your wise counsel, brother?" he asked as Hurrus broke away from his embrace. Even in his military regalia, Garon did not achieve much of a martial bearing. Smiling out from beneath the grinning crocodile of the blue war crown was the double-chinned face of a child. Guileless, lazy and effete, Garon could also be charismatic and engaging in small doses. He was most well-known for his love of food, the spicier the better, and one could usually detect a hint of garlic on his breath. Hurrus felt a genuine, if sometimes detached, affection for his stepbrother. He was at least sincere, if nothing else.
"Wise counsel," Hurrus scoffed. "Parade planner, you mean."
"Oh, but what parades!" Garon exclaimed.
For the past two years, Hurrus had worked on Garon's staff. The corps of the Crocodile Man considered itself an elite body but only because tradition called it that. The men were recruited on the strength of their good looks alone. Under Garon, the unit had never lifted a spear in anger, and excelled only at preening their pretty uniforms, marching in cadence and catching flowers as they paraded past throngs of admiring girls in Archentethe. Hurrus would not miss it.
"And where is my brother Kerraunus?" Hurrus asked. He didn't even see any of his white-cloaked troops among the crowd. Not that it surprised him.
"The Sarians raided Cunama last night," Bellog blustered from somewhere outside the royal enclave. He strode self-importantly into the center of the group.
Hurrus made a quick calculation. Cunama. A tiny village on the northeastern frontier. This was not the first time the Sarians had attacked it. An unimportant place, populated mostly by Sarian half-breeds, anyway.
"What do you think, Bellog?" the king put in jovially, ignoring the plight of Cunama. "Does Xarhux walk amongst us again?" He spread his arms to indicate Hurrus.
Bellog bared his teeth in what passed for a smile. "And the men he has assembled could be the conqueror's famous companions themselves." There was no smile in Bellog's eyes as he took in Xandros and his twenty in crimson and bronze. All the men on the ridge had begun shaking themselves out and now stood in separate ranks.
"Kerraunus is off to Cunama, then?" Hurrus asked.
"He has taken a fang to deal with the Sarians."
Five hundred men. In the corps of the Snake Man, such a unit was called a 'fang'. In Eagle Man's corps, it was a 'talon'. Hurrus could see his men below arrayed in twenty talons of five hundred men each, a mighty host of rotten troops.
"But surely it is useless now," Hurrus said. "The Sarians will be long gone by the time Kerraunus gets there."
"They are forever hiding behind their desert," Myletos said. "They come out on plundering raids and we chase them back again. No army can cross that wasteland."
"Apparently, the Sarians can," Hurrus observed.
"Kerraunus will be too late to stop them, it is true. He will not be too late to deliver retribution, however," Bellog said. Hurrus caught a whiff of condescension in his tone. He was always catching a whiff of something emanating from the oaf. "Kerraunus is just the man to hand out some much-needed pain to that scum."
"Trading plunder for plunder," Hurrus said. "No doubt a mode of warfare that suits my dear brother and his noble corps well."
"Oh? And what would do you in his place?"
Hurrus cocked an eyebrow. "I would destroy the Sarians," he said simply.
Bellog unleashed a belly laugh at that notion. Even Myletos chuckled. Garon, sensing that something humorous had been said, laughed along. Clearly, Hurrus did not understand the first thing about the Sarian question.
"Hurrus the Conqueror!" Bellog bellowed in great mirth. "A conqueror without an army! Oh, wait...I forgot about your vaunted twenty. My apologies, Xarhu--I mean, Prince Hurrus."
Bellog gave a great bow. Nodding, Hurrus had smiled throughout the Master of Arms' amusing little tirade, all the while wondering where the nearest staff was sheathed so he could crack the man's smallish skull again. Perhaps he would not let him up this time.
Tepes came trudging up the slope, followed by his companion body.
"The corps is ready," he announced. He was wearing the blue war crown of Zarcen, the bronze eagle wings spreading over his forehead. He looked put out, as always. Bushy black eyebrows pinched in toward his nose, giving him a permanent scowl so that his eyes appeared to frown even when the rest of his face smiled. What would have been a spirited, mischievous look in a lad was a wicked, devious face on a man. Hurrus had long ago decided that Tepes must take after his mother -- surely some Sarian whore -- for he little resembled Bellog except for his strongly muscled physique.
Tepes' men followed him three-abreast up the slope. Like his father's troops, they were dour, unhappy men. They were garbed in the same dark leather, but in place of the blue-black cloaks, they wore leopard skins draped over their shoulders. Tepes led them past Xandros' twenty as they stood at attention in a two-deep line. To a man, they eyed Hurrus' companions contemptuously.
"Whatcha all dressed up for?" one of them asked in a mocking tone. His fellows laughed as they passed. Scarves of checkered cloth that descended over their shoulders and draped across their throats covered their shaved heads. Xandros' men had all donned their horsehair-crested helmets. Their eyes glinted dimly inside the iron masks.
"Don't look now," Xandros said to the laughing men, "but I think there's a leopard on your back. You should be careful, for its claws are as sharp as the points of our spears."
"You make idle threats well enough," the man said. "But do you also juggle and dance?"
Tepes' column marched so close to the Gyriecian line that they brushed the men as they passed. One of Tepes' men extended an elbow into Deon's breastplate, causing him to stumble backward. Xandros reached out a single strong hand and grabbed that man by the scruff of his neck, leopard skin and all. He cried out and fell to his knees in pain. Deon let his spear fall to the ground and stepped forward.
Xandros towered over the cringing man. "Who's dancing now?"
Deon kicked him hard in the stomach, bronze greave striking ribs. The man groaned and toppled to his side. Both groups broke their formations and rushed together, fists flying.
"Enough!" Hurrus cried. He held his arms out and the men of both sides parted before either had landed any blows. Hurrus' men picked up their spears and reluctantly resumed their formation. "Control your band of brigands, Tepes. I promise you, I will not stop my men next time." He hadn't really wanted to stop them this time.
Tepes leaned down and yanked his fallen man to his feet. Yanked him up and off his feet, in fact. The soldier whirled and fell down again drunkenly. Tepes barely glanced at him.
"It is your men who are out of control, Prince," Tepes spat. "I don't know about their spears, but their tongues are sharp enough to land them in a world of trouble."
Tepes' men gathered round him and they stalked off to the far side of the ridge. The next time Hurrus saw him, the ceremony was in full flower. Kemhet had taken the crown from Tepes' head and held it high, presenting it to the army arrayed below. He shouted out the incantations in a strange tongue. His words imbued the crown with the power of Zarcen and bound the men to it. The strange intonations, by turns shrill and guttural, sounded unnatural and inhuman and caused a shiver to race down Hurrus' spine. He supposed it was the pronunciation of the ancient picture writing. He thought of Kunuum.
When Kemhet had finished, he turned and with great majesty lowered the crown onto Hurrus' head. Finally, Tepes handed over the scepter of command, a silver, jewel-encrusted rod. Hurrus reached for it and started when a first pull failed to take it. A second tug was required to wrest it from Tepes' grasp. A faint smile played upon his lips. He may have looked like his whore mother, but he was truly his father's son, lacking only the old man's charm.
Kemhet's voice boomed across the parade field in plain Tygetian. "Behold the Eagle Man!"
Hurrus stepped forward and raised his arms in triumph, gazing not at the men below but at the horizon beyond as befitted the hand of Zarcen on earth and a descendant of Gyriecian gods. His companion body erupted in adulation. Out of the chorus of servants and soldiers on the ridge, he could pick out individual voices: Xandros' booming cries, Garon's happy wailings. Even Myletos threw off his royal reserve to cheer his adopted son. But from the army...scarcely a sound. Polite, dutiful, tepid, a smattering of cheers. Hurrus took his eyes from the horizon where the star cluster of Zarcen would rise that night and looked down on his men, the men of the eagle corps, standing in mute disinterest.
Hurrus' eyes darted from side to side. This was Tepes' doing. Unsure what action he meant to take, he began to lower his arms and turn away when Bellog stepped forward and raised his hands to the sky. Instantly, the army erupted and 10,000 voices filled the valley. Tepes smiled when Bellog shot him a secret look. Hurrus turned back to the multitude and raised his scepter high, accepting the adulation only because he must, even though it was not intended for him.
He was the Eagle Man. Somewhere down there among the 10,000 he would find a solid core of men and he would begin to build his army. As hopeless as it now appeared, this is what he would do...
...and someone was going to pay. By the gods, someone would pay!
With a long, slender sun-browned hand and graceful fingers, Antona consigned Stefanaya to the flame. Her poor flaxen braids, which Antona had styled especially for the occasion, blackened and curled before catching fire. Her little saffron dress went up in a puff. Even now, Hurrus could imagine all sorts of emotions emanating from those sightless eyes. Her gaily painted lips dulled as the flames began licking her face and finally consumed her whole with a sudden burst of energy that blazed out in an instant. Then Stefanaya simply burned away to charcoal.
Hurrus found the proceedings oddly moving. He had known Stefanaya all his life. Named after the Gyriecian Mother of Wisdom, Stefanaya, in Antona's hands, had been anything but wise. She had gotten herself into one difficulty after another. If it had not been for Hurrus and Antona, she would have flamed out years ago.
"In the sight of Zarcen, I cast away childish things to become one with my husband."
Hurrus did not look at Antona as she spoke, but he could hear the emotion in her voice. Out of all of her childhood toys, that she had chosen to sacrifice Stefanaya showed just how seriously she took the ceremony. Hurrus would not have chosen the rag doll for Zarcen's flames, not Stefanaya. If she had asked him beforehand, he would have protested. He himself had chosen a little wooden sword, the haft of which he could barely fit three fingers around now. He laid it atop Stefanaya's ashes. Absurdly, it occurred to him that Stefanaya had been married more times than he could count. It made him sad to think that she was gone.
"In the sight of Zarcen, I cast away..."
Of course, Antona had been even less prudent than Stefanaya. Like the doll, her guises had undergone constant change. Sometimes she was a witch and Hurrus would have to seek her out and slay her. Other times, she was a maiden in distress and Hurrus would put his little sword to brave and bloody use exterminating all sorts of villainous maiden-snatchers.
They had been boon companions for as long as either could remember, and wedding her now seemed the most natural thing in the world. Hurrus recalled that Antona had always been captivated by his long golden hair, styled by Nadia after the fashion of Xarhux. This naturally made him her protector, hero, avenger and rescuer. For his part, he was fascinated by the cruel beauty of her hands as she had consigned Stefanaya to the flames.
King Myletos and Queen Berenice, as comely at forty as her daughter was at sixteen, stood beside the princess. At their backs, Jhar waited for them to turn away from Zarcen's penetrating eagle eye. The offering dish blazed atop the sharp points of the god's talons. The sight of them made Hurrus feel uneasy, for walking hand-in-hand with the eagle-headed man would surely tear Antona's beautiful hands to shreds, and Hurrus himself was now the eagle. He wondered if she knew that Hurrus the Gallant Protector would sweep her off into a sea of endless tumult. He wondered if any of them did.
The fires of Zarcen swallowed the little sword and the couple turned to see Jhar reciting the marriage incantations. Speaking the unsettling tongue of the gods, his face was as inscrutable as any other Tygetian horror of bull or eagle. When he asked for objections, the brightly lit hall fell silent as a tomb. Hurrus stared intently into Jhar's eyes as they waited for the obvious no-response. Oh, there were objections, dozens of them -- and Hurrus knew from which mouths they were itching to spring. The dormant tongues made the silence all the sweeter. He savored it.
"In the sight of gods and men, by the authority of Zarcen the All-Seeing and the Crown of Tygetia, I hereby pronounce Antona, daughter of Myletos and Berenice, and Hurrus, son of Arrhus and Eunice, one heart and one soul, forever bound."
Hurrus looked upon his bride for the first time. She gazed up at him with eyes as deeply brown as the thick waves of hair cascading over her shoulders. Thin tracings of black mascara gave her a feline appearance. Even through the translucent white veil, Hurrus could see the rich luster of her eyes. When he lifted it, her face came into sharp focus. He leaned forward, kissed her painted lips and then emerged grinning as the hall erupted in a raucous uproar of cheering and sudden music. Hurrus raised his hand and the cheering grew louder and the drumming intensified. He felt Antona give a start as a flock of doves suddenly took flight from somewhere in the hall and vanished across the open veranda. Guests ducked under them, laughing.
"I always knew we'd be married," Antona said.
"We did it often enough as children," Hurrus replied. "If I wasn't rescuing you from some monster, I was marrying you."
Antona laughed. At once, Hurrus saw Queen Berenice in her resplendent smile.
"And now, we are truly wed," she said. "Life is going to be so different!"
Antona was always the smartest girl.
Myletos and Berenice stood with them in the greeting line. One after another, the nobility of Tygetia paraded past them. Some embraced the couple with heartfelt congratulations; others nodded curtly, their stone faces cracking forced smiles. It seemed that the entire world had turned out. Antona was most impressed with the exotic collection of dignitaries from throughout the lands of the Middle Sea.
There were the royals of Rycassa, principle city of the great isle of Illycis, Prince Gelo and his sister Princess Damarata. They were as congenial and beautiful as their royal parents were reputed to be. Tales of their grand city fired everyone's imagination. Easterners peppered them with questions about the cleverness of their people and the enlightened rule of their brilliant king. Antona found them charming, but their Gyriecian roots and manners made them less exotic than they had appeared and were ultimately a disappointment.
Causing the greatest stir was the first-ever visit to the Tygetian court of an emissary of Emorlium, a little known backwater republic. Nageus Cattius was a curiosity, but hardly the barbarian everyone had expected. Wearing a flowing white robe edged with a fat purple stripe, the dangling folds draped elegantly over his arm, his short grey hair laying flat over his forehead, he was every bit as sophisticated and charming as the Rycassans. His wife, Daria, apart from the datedness of her intricately woven hairstyle, which made her look as if she wore a beehive atop her head, carried herself with grace and style. There was a constant crowd around them and laughter followed the group like a cloud. This one, Cattius, had quickly become the most popular -- and talked about -- man in the hall.
His entourage of soldiers was a different story. The Emorlians had caused a minor incident by insisting on bringing several score of them into the country. Armed with short swords and long rectangular shields, they were brutish, solidly built men. Lacking the effete, grandiose manner of most royal guardsmen, they carried themselves with an air of detached brutality. Formidable men, Hurrus thought. Exactly the sort he was looking for in his own soldiers. When he located Xandros, he sent him outside to quiz the barbarians on their weapons, tactics and organization. They could be seen from the veranda attracting as much attention outside as their master was within. Lacking Cattius' wit, they were tight-lipped, arrogant killers, and Hurrus coveted them.
After the Emorlians came Prince Ttymones and his wife Zalara of Cerrhaga. They seemed far more Tygetian than any of the others. They were also well known, being from a land of seafaring merchants. The empire of Cerrhaga touched the coast of nearly every landfall in the Middle Sea. Ttymones' long black beard glistened with scented oils. Strings of tightly woven beads beneath a translucent gown covered Zalara's shapely legs. The beads parted whenever she bent her knee. All eyes followed her throughout the hall.
"We will war with them all one day," Hurrus told Antona.
"Father will not--" Antona started to protest, but Hurrus cut her off.
"I am not speaking of Myletos," he said with the hint of a smile.
Antona grasped his arm and hugged it to her face.
Not as exotic were the emissaries from Gyriece. Redic was the Master of State of Sethaly, Lymadus' man. He embraced both Hurrus and Antona and clasped Myletos' hand warmly in both of his. Berenice could scarcely pry herself away from him once he had latched onto her.
"He is happy because he gets what he came for: Myletos' fleet," Hurrus said.
"He is an ugly man," Antona observed.
"Only when he smiles."
"He no doubt wanted more than just the fleet," Antona said.
"No doubt," said Hurrus.
"Father never offers anything more than the fleet."
Hurrus smiled. "He offered you. And Lymadus already got your sister, Sarina -- even if he is likely to want to give her back. He would have been wiser to offer you to Ttymones."
"Ttymones!" Antona exclaimed, and then lowered her voice when several nearby heads turned. She was grinning wickedly. "You would offer me to that oily...merchant prince?"
"Someday that merchant prince will arrive in Alaun at the head of a Cerrhaganian war fleet."
"I would not have such a tax collector for a husband. I am the wife of a warrior prince, not a fish-scented trader."
The pipers, lutanists and drummers played all through the feast, falling silent only when someone rose to offer a toast. Hurrus raised his cup in response, nodding and bowing with regal elegance. As the cupbearers made the rounds, the toasts became more and more frequent and more ribald and suggestive. Laughter began to fill every lull in the music.
A party of Ashurians, who most people simply called Darkmen, sat at a table near the king. At the height of the toasting, one of them rose. He was the tallest man Hurrus had ever seen. The act of his standing seemed to go on forever. He just kept going up and up until finally he reached his full height. He held his cup aloft and with glazed eyes proceeded to babble out half-a-dozen lines in his own language, which no one in the hall understood. His toasting went on as long as his standing. When he finished, he grinned at Hurrus expectantly. A silence had descended over the hall. Hurrus stood and raised his own cup. "Hear! Hear!" he cried with a wide grin, and the hall burst out in laughter once again. The tall man sat down with a look of great satisfaction.
"I hope I have not just agreed to marry the Darkman's daughter," Hurrus said behind his hand to Antona.
Sometime between the steaming portions of honey-glazed quail and stone-baked papplefruit pie, Hurrus saw Kerraunus and a party enter the hall.
"I can't believe my eyes," Hurrus said to Antona.
Antona frowned when she saw her sister Sarina among them.
"I thought we would escape the day without them," she said.
"He must have just gotten back from campaign." Hurrus noted that Kerraunus was still dressed in military garb, leather corselet and greaves. Over the shoulder-length braids of his wig stood the blue war crown of Cretis. Accompanied by a troop of Sethalian guardsmen and a handful of his own white-cloaked companions, it looked for an instant as if an occupying army was storming the hall. Several of the guests near the doors stirred uneasily when they saw them. Fresh from their plundering raid against the Sarians, Hurrus sensed the sneering companions bloated with booty. He could smell the blood on them even from across the room. In the midst of the armed men were Sarina and her two pups. Then Hurrus noticed Demetrius' man, the one called Asander. And, finally, Diyrce, Kerraunus' mother.
"It is a dangerous game Kerraunus plays," Hurrus said. "Bringing Asander and Diyrce here..." He shook his head. "He provokes Myletos."
He saw that the king had not yet noticed them enter, but certainly not for any attempt at stealth. As the group made straight for the marriage table, Hurrus also saw that Kerraunus had brought one of his concubines, the girl Saitha. She was one of the order of the 'Asheiga', women of refinement and beauty, trained in the arts of entertainment and service to their masters. Over a split underdress that exposed her legs as she moved, she wore the same translucent gown then popular in Tygetia. The bodice, however, stopped short of her breasts, leaving them bare in the manner of the women of the Isle of Isala, where she was supposedly from. A magnificent plaited wig, speckled with jewels, spilled over her shoulders, covering her smooth hairless head. Even Zalara would have looked plain beside her.
"He mocks us all," Antona said.
"He is brazen, I will give him that," said Hurrus.
"Congratulations, brother," Kerraunus said as he strode within earshot. "Welcome to the family." He bowed his head to Antona. "Sister, you have never looked so beautiful."
Hurrus stood and acknowledged the members of the party. He couldn't help but notice that poor Asander looked more like a prisoner than a guest. Unlike Redic, he was no doubt going home empty-handed.
"Dame Diyrce," Hurrus said with a deep bow. The lady was almost completely gray. He saw Kerraunus narrow his eyes and steel his jaw. He then remembered that Kerraunus always insisted on calling his mother by her Tygetian name, but Hurrus couldn't remember what it was. "So nice to see you again." He turned to Saitha. "And who is this? Saitha, is it not?" He took her hand in both of his.
"So nice of you to remember, Prince," she said with a little bow. The light sparkled in the jewels embedded in her wig.
"How could I forget such a beautiful girl?" Hurrus wanted to laugh when he thought he detected a blush.
Sarina reached down and grasped Antona's hand. Her two children peered over the tabletop at her. "So you have finally married your orphan prince," she said, giving Antona's hand a little shake.
Antona forced a joyless smile. "Charming as ever, sister. Have you greeted Mother yet?"
"We have just now arrived," Sarina said.
"She will be so pleased to see you."
"Oh, spare me, Antona. Mother and Father are quite happy to have me in Sethaly."
"As is all of Sethaly, I'm sure," Hurrus added with a smile.
"Well, surely not all of Sethaly," Kerraunus said, winking at Sarina. He took an apple from a dish and bit into it. "I suppose Myletos gets what he has always wanted now."
"And what is that?" Hurrus asked.
"To make you his heir, of course."
"Garon, son of Berenice, is his heir."
"Is he now?" Kerraunus took another bite of his apple and looked toward the royal table. They were gazing back now. Myletos' eyes burned, but Berenice looked away. Garon was clapping in time to the music with a daub of papplefruit on his chin. "I meant, in case anything should happen to the poor boy, of course," Kerraunus went on. "He might choke on that papplefruit pie, for example. He really must learn to chew..."
"But wouldn't you then be the heir?" Antona asked brightly. "Gods forbid anything should happen, but--"
"The son of a repudiated mother?" Kerraunus shook his head in mock sorrow. "This reminds me, though. Sarina has brought us cheerful news. Lymadus' heir has died, and this fellow here," he mussed up Phinip's hair, "is now heir to the throne of Sethaly. Sarina's very own."
Phinip, a boy of seven, grinned and squirmed under his uncle's mussing hand. His younger brother, Ademius, stared across the plane of the table. Hurrus thought back. Asatho, a strong and cultured man in his twenties, the only son of Lymadus' favored wife, Phillipa. She had gone barren after Asatho was born, as Hurrus remembered. "Asatho is dead?" It was stunning news. Lymadus was a faithful ally. He wondered if Myletos had heard.
"Poisoned, it appears."
"It is the work of Demetrius." Hurrus looked up to see Redic charging into the group. He strode right up to Asander. "What is Demetrius' snake doing here?"
"The same thing you are doing here," Kerraunus said. "Begging."
"Irrylia had nothing to do with Asatho's death," Asander said.
"Oh, of course not," Redic replied. "Asatho's cupbearer has disappeared, as I hear it. When we see him again, he will no doubt be living high in Irrylia. Mark my words."
"Or Epiria," Hurrus added.
"Indeed," Redic agreed.
Kerraunus laughed. "Cupbearers tend not to resurface, my dear Redic. Demetrius would not pay that one in coin, believe me. But I wouldn't have thought Demetrius a poisoner, in any case. The man lacks the subtlety. I would think Demetrius would send a hired blade. Perhaps a Prathian."
"The cupbearer was no Prathian," Redic said, confused.
Kerraunus sneered at the man's stupidity. "I thought Gyriecians had Prathians do all their fighting for them. Perhaps I am mistaken. Well, I see Father has taken an interest in us. We must be off to pay our respects."
Hurrus saw Antona's eyes follow them all the way to the king's table.
"Are you reconsidering Ttymones?" he asked.
His words broke her reverie. She smiled brightly with Berenice's lovely teeth. "We shall bathe when we get home," she said.
"Our home," Hurrus said. "How about that?" And he squeezed her hand under the table.
Once the dishes were cleared away, the entertainment began in earnest. Each of the guests had brought their own unique performers. The Cerrhaganians had brought a troop of Midian horsemen who performed acrobatic stunts on their exquisite mounts. Hurrus was intrigued. He would love to see them on a plain, riding flat-out.
"Have them brought to my home on the morrow," he told an attendant amid raucous cheering and applause. He nodded approvingly to Antona. "I have never seen man and beast operate so as one creature."
"They are beautiful," she said.
These were followed by jugglers of flaming daggers, Gyriecian singers, musicians, and Merhessian dancers who painted their bodies half-white and half-black, divided right down the middle. Their music was savage in its intensity and did not seem to belong to the world of the assembly. Sorcerers from the lands beyond the deserts raised objects into the air using only the power of their strange mutterings.
But it was the Ashurians who stole the show with their elephants. Skilled riders shouted commands and the great beasts, their tusks sheathed in gold, obeyed unquestioningly, waggling their trunks, kneeling, turning circles and trumpeting on command. Hurrus sat forward in astonishment. Myletos had instructed him in the use of elephants in battle, having witnessed it himself in the army of Xarhux. Bellog did not know the first thing about them, and Hurrus had never seen them in action. He could see at a glance that he would certainly replace the smooth golden sheaths with razor sharp bronze ones. Then, when the elephants thrashed their heads... Oh, yes. He would need skillful handlers, as well as a reliable supply of the beasts...
Finally, and inevitably, the last of the Darkmen brought forth a cursed ape. He surveyed the gathering with a toothy expectant smile, knowing he would top all who came before him. With a flourish, he released the ape. It rushed up to Antona and gave a courtly bow. Hurrus couldn't help grinning. The bowing was clever, he would give the Darkman that. The thing looked up with its stupid eyes and said clearly in the Common Tongue, "Antona, will you marry me?" The hall erupted and the ape began a series of backward shoulder rolls.
You could tell who was who by their reaction. Tygetians smiled politely and rubbed their hands over their eyes or took that moment to take a drink, while the foreigners gaped in wild wonderment. Cattius was on his feet, his mouth open in a frozen grin.
"I have heard of these beasts," he cried. "I must have one to take back to Emorlium with me!"
"No, no!" some of the nearby Tygetians warned him, laughing uproariously at the curse Cattius would unwittingly bring upon his people.
The performances gave way to another round of drinking, more eating, music and dancing. By the time Hurrus and Antona rose to leave, few were paying attention.
"Perhaps we can make our escape now," Hurrus said. He pulled Antona along through a throng of dancing couples. Smiling, she tiptoed after him in a girlish pantomime of sneaking. But Myletos had seen them. He rose and hailed them. Hoisting the royal cup high, he offered a final toast, but his voice was lost to Hurrus in the din that surrounded the couple. He heard only 'many fat babies' followed by a round of drunken applause.
They couldn't help laughing as they were pushed along by a mob of boisterous well-wishers to the waiting litter outside. They jumped in and closed the gauzy curtains after them. Surrounded by Hurrus' mounted companions and a troop of Myletos' royal guardsmen, the eight litter-bearers rushed them through the streets toward Hurrus' home where Nadia had taken ill and would want to see them. The sun was beginning to set and people lined the streets and cheered as the procession passed. The mob's voices receded into the distance.
They settled in for the ride, feeling alone in the enclosed space of the litter.
"Father would have let me marry anyone," Antona said. "But it was you I wanted."
"I hope you did not expect an easy life," Hurrus said.
"I expect a prosperous life."
"That, my lady, you shall have."
"What, in particular, do you offer me?"
"I offer you a queen's crown," Hurrus said.
"Good," said Antona. "Because that is what I want."
She flung her arms around his neck and they rode all the way to Hurrus' house wrapped in a loving embrace.
Nearly all of Nadia's dreams were of Tygetia now. She could blame the healer Katra for that. Who would not be haunted by the horrors of her remedies? The probing stick-legs and burrowing heads of the blood beetles had been the worst. The broth of roseroot and what, judging by the smell, must have been horse shit had been little better. None of it had brought her even a moment's relief. All the force-feedings and bloodlettings had had but one effect, that of instilling in Nadia a terror in addition to her already ruinous fever. Even now, as she gazed through the darkness of her room to the rising vapors of the steaming stones, she thought she saw...
Was it eyes?
No, it was more than eyes. Entire figures. They sat there behind the veil of the wavering vapors. Looking at her. It was their indifference and interminable patience that terrified her. That, and their horrible Tygetian beast-heads. With his long, thin neck protruding from broad shoulders, the ibis man stared at her with unblinking eyes set in his narrow face, his beak curved like a scythe. Staring pitilessly. Staring patiently. Lidless eyes staring, staring... Waiting for her to die. They all were. Oh, please don't let me die in this land of horrors!
Nadia woke with a start. Nightmares were a tencopper-a-dozen in this damnable land. The air was heavy with the steam of the roseroot concoction that percolated over the stones. She was suffocating in it, but she could not rise. For as much good as it had done her, healer Katra might as well have jangled strings of witching beads over her face. At least then she would have been able to breathe.
The only good had come when Hurrus had stopped in to see her. She nearly broke down when she remembered.
"Xarhux?"
"It is Hurrus, Mama."
Her vision had become so feeble, it could not escape her mind. Why could she never see what was before her?
"I have brought you Antona."
Myletos was Xarhux's strong man. Antona was his daughter, a babe in her mother's arms. She felt herself struggling against the fever and her vision fighting to break free.
"Don't leave me here, Hurrus." Foolish, selfish old woman!
"I will take you home, Mama."
Now she was suffocating in roseroot, but she could not move her arms to reach for the little bell. The fever had taken all her strength. Her legs had been taken from her a year ago. She found that she could still move her head. She turned to the ibis man, expecting to find his curved beak just inches from her face now.
She saw nothing.
No veil of vapors concealed a ghastly confederation of gravediggers.
Nothing but darkness.
But it was more than darkness. It was utter blackness. What has happened to my eyes? She blinked and felt a peculiar moistureless scraping. She could not muster the tears to cry, she could not muster the tears to blink. Once she had closed her eyes, she was not certain to open them again. With an effort, she strained to raise her eyelids over orbs of stone -- hard and dry and utterly sightless. The soft brush of roseroot vapors on her cheek might have been the breath of the ibis...
Staring at her...
Get it away!
She bolted upright in her bed. She saw that there was no ibis.
She saw...
...but not with her eyes. The room was empty and dark. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. Her arms were free, but her eyes itched. She dug her palms into them, scouring. They were hard to the touch. She was not frightened. She was dying piece by piece. She understood this. One day her heart would fall still...
Where fear should have been, anger began to sprout wild. No ibis-headed man would make her cower. She stood and found that her legs would carry her now. She reached down in a fit of rage and overturned the tub of steaming stones. They crashed to the floor and rolled. The roseroot potion flowed around them, thick as blood. Her eyes itched fiercely. There was nowhere left to hide, no cloaking veil. The bastards better hope she did not find them. Her bare feet padded through the puddle of roseroot. What had been obnoxious in her nostrils just moments before was odorless now.
She had caught the scent of the jackal.
She cocked her head. She could see him, rising out of his burrow...
...and it angered her beyond reason. She rushed out of the bedroom and down the stairs into the courtyard. She could feel herself thrashing her head. Her teeth clicked as she snapped her jaws. She could see him in the shadows of the plantings. He thinks he is hiding, but my vision is of the night now, it sees into shadows. She would tear him apart.
But, gods, her eyes!
She covered them with her hands, but it did not matter. She could still see the jackal as he crouched in the shadows. She did not need her eyes to see. They were rock-hard and they hurt and itched and burned. She clawed at them. Her hands came away with the grit of sandstone under her fingernails. She rubbed and scratched and snapped her teeth...
And, because she could not stop the torment, she screamed.
\*
Both dressed in black, Xanthippus and Nydeon made their way down the riverbank, their feet skidding in the sandy soil. They clutched the stalks of chest-high weeds as they slid down to the water's edge. There they crouched in the black shadows and waited for the silence to resume. The night was clear and calm and the reflections of stars bobbed and dipped in the black water. They heard nothing but a seamless chorus of singing frogs. Satisfied, they began to rise when Xanthippus heard a rustling up ahead and held out his hand.
"Wait!" His voice was a husky whisper. His hand went to his dagger. Then he heard a quiet splash and in a moment saw the crocodile as it glided through the water, the starlight catching the ripples it made as it swam. Disturbed by the men thrashing through the weeds, it had slid headfirst down the bank and gently eased into the river. The creature was the length of two men. Its presence reminded Xanthippus of the need to hurry. Since coming to Tygetia, they had been plagued by crocodiles, but this was the first one that could not be appeased by a handful of coppers, and Nydeon carried no vial of croc-musk. This one would demand a foot-and-a-half of bone and the meat that came with it. Xanthippus was inclined to avoid that kind of offering.
They pushed on, the weeds parting for them as they passed. Xanthippus cleared away a patch of brush to reveal the mouth of a tunnel. As planned, the iron grate that covered it had been unbolted and came away easily in his hands. Once inside, Xanthippus at least felt safe from the crocs, but he had other issues to consider now.
The tunnel was round and constructed of mortared stone. The walls were slick with moisture and a stream of water no more than an inch deep ran down the center of it. The starlight penetrated only a few feet into the tunnel before turning pitch black. Far up ahead, Xanthippus spied a dim light.
"That is our destination," he said. He was glad to have that spot of starlight for a target. Without it, they would have been traveling blind, not a pleasant prospect.
Nydeon was at Xanthippus' back. He was trying to reattach the loose grating. The iron bars scraped against stone, echoing overloud in the dead silence.
Xanthippus reflected that it was no different now than it had ever been. Nydeon had always had his back. They had entered the Prathian School at the same time and had gravitated toward each other naturally, being among the only lowborn bastards then in the program. At that time, the Prathian Guard and the system of harsh military training that served it, the 'Prathian School', was still a respectable institution. Most of the boys were of noble birth, sent by their families to acquire the honor, if not always the strict discipline, of the Prathian upbringing. Before they feared Xanthippus, the boys had hated him, and it was Nydeon who more than once had saved him from their cruel intentions. Not that he required a lot of saving. But he knew when he owed a man a debt and he loved Nydeon like a brother.
Now, the Guard consisted primarily of blood-soaked ruffians, exactly the kind of men Xanthippus and Nydeon had been. Forget the nobility, Menleco recruited solely from the gutters of Gyriece. Now, the entire world called on Prathia when it needed soldiers and assassins. There was no longer any honor in it, only blood and death.
On the one hand, without General Menleco's corruption of the once great body, Xanthippus would never have been accepted into the Guard. Perhaps, on that basis, he owed the general his life, as he would surely have been dead or rotting away in a dungeon somewhere by now without it. Perhaps he owed Menleco a larger debt than even Nydeon. Perhaps. But he would never love him. Who could? On the other hand, he would not join the Guard today, not while there were men like...well, like himself in it.
After a moment, Nydeon gave up on the grating and let it fall into the weeds. They would travel without light of any kind. The tunnel was not tall enough to allow them to stand, so they walked hunched over, balancing themselves with their hands on the stone walls. Every footfall seemed to fill the tunnel, threatening to announce their presence. How could they not be heard?
Xanthippus stopped to let silence overtake them. He looked back and saw the mouth of the tunnel, starlight filtering through a jungle of weeds.
"What is it?" Nydeon asked. Outfitted all in black, he was a creature of the night, barely discernible, even from a few feet away.
"Nothing," Xanthippus said.
In fact, he was concerned that they were being followed, or watched somehow. It was the man Kerraunus who gave him pause. The map he had sketched for the assassins was of the tunnel underneath Hurrus' house. The light ahead marked the shaft that led up to his courtyard. So far, all had gone as planned. The grate had been unbolted, when Xanthippus had fully expected it not to be. Everything was as Kerraunus had said it would be. Yet Xanthippus did not trust him. He couldn't shake the notion that they were going after the wrong man. He had met half a dozen men in Tygetia who merited a bloody blade. If this Hurrus was the one they wanted dead, then by his reckoning he couldn't be all bad.
Or, more likely, he was the worst of the lot.
That idea was enough to make a man proceed cautiously, if ever there was one.
Long hair, like gold. You can't mistake him. The rest of the sketch was devoted to the interior of the prince's house. Up the stairs, his bed chamber... They would be in and out in moments. Then it was back to worrying about the crocodiles. Better than worrying about Tygetian princes. At least you knew where you stood with the crocs.
The shaft penetrated the roof of the tunnel at a four-way junction of branching passageways, each of which disappeared into impenetrable blackness. They could hear water dripping and the rungs set in the shaft wall were dripping as well. To climb, Xanthippus had to reach above his head and pull himself up. He climbed the rungs overhand until his foot found purchase on the rungs below. He counted ten of them altogether. The top of the shaft was closed with an iron grate. Xanthippus pushed on it gently. It was loose. He signaled for Nydeon to follow and gently shoved the grating aside. As expected, he found himself in the middle of a miniature forest of tall date palms and concealing ferns. He crouched low, taking in his surroundings. Doors and hallways opened into the wide courtyard. It was a lavish place with wide pillars. A pond lay behind him and to his left was the stairway, the way to the bed chamber.
In a moment, Xanthippus saw Nydeon's head emerge from the hole. Xanthippus suddenly thrust out his hand. "Someone's coming," he whispered, and Nydeon ducked back down into the shaft. Xanthippus unsheathed his dagger and crouched behind some brush, certain that he could not be seen in the shadows of the little forest. Someone was coming down the stairs -- and coming fast. His pulse quickened when he thought he saw...
It could not be!
Rushing down the stairs in the darkness he discerned the shape of a bull. No, not a bull. A man-bull. By all that is holy! He did not have time to puzzle it out, for the thing moved with astonishing speed. It was thrashing its head as it scampered down the stairs on the legs of a man, the great horns piercing the air, and it was...biting. He could hear the thing's teeth clacking together like a drumbeat of bones, could hear it snorting through great flared nostrils, could see the pupil-less eyes, blank orbs of stone...
...staring at him.
He didn't know how he knew, but the thing was staring straight at him. It sees me! The beast paused at the base of the stairs. Xanthippus dared not move. He blinked hard, thinking it must be a trick of shadows, a waking dream of crocodile-inspired demons...
When he opened his eyes, the bull-man had been replaced by... He peered closely, squinting into the gloom. By an old woman. The horns were now a wild tousle of white hair, the gnashing teeth a grimace of withered lips, strong muscle-bulging legs frail blue-veined sticks miraculously supporting her weight. Nothing was left of the bull but the eyes, the pale, sightless stone eyes that Xanthippus glimpsed for only an instant before the crone covered them with clawed fingers. When she brought her hands down, her cheeks were streaked with black--
He heard a cry from the shaft. It was Nydeon. Someone had grasped his leg from below. Xanthippus saw a flickering torchlight--
--and then the old woman began shrieking, staring directly at Xanthippus with black non-eyes, the round black hole of her mouth emitting an ear-splitting scream...
"We've been betrayed!" Nydeon shouted from the shaft.
Xanthippus drew his dagger and plunged backward down the shaft, his feet barely touching the rungs. He hung for a moment and then dropped to the tunnel floor, landing on the man from whose throat Nydeon was just withdrawing his dagger. Another lunged at them and Xanthippus sprang at him, aiming low, and took his legs out from under him. He sprawled face down on the damp tunnel floor. Nydeon plunged his still dripping dagger into his kidney. They could hear shouts from one of the branching tunnels. In another moment, they saw torchlight flickering on the wall, footfalls rapidly approaching them.
"We have been betrayed," Nydeon said again, looking up from the dead man.
"Back to the river," Xanthippus cried.
Hunched over, they ran as fast as they could toward the starlit mouth of the tunnel.
"Who are they?" Xanthippus asked as they ran. "Blue Men?"
"I couldn't tell," Nydeon replied.
"Kerraunus," Xanthippus said, clenching his teeth. He had forgotten all about the bull man. It was the snake Xanthippus wanted now.
"We should have abandoned this enterprise at the Crossing," Nydeon said.
They could hear footsteps behind them, voices calling. Ahead, someone pushed the weeds aside and a torch appeared in the mouth of the tunnel.
"I will not be taken," Xanthippus vowed. He firmed his grip on his dagger. He saw the black shadow of the man holding the torch. In his other hand, he clutched a sword and Xanthippus reckoned on arming himself with it. He would need something more than a dagger. Who knew how many men awaited them?
Then the man leapt back out of the tunnel and their exit was clear once again. Xanthippus could hear nothing but the voices calling behind them. The sound had actually begun to recede; the footfalls quickly lost their urgency. Their pursuers were giving up the chase. They're handing us off to their fellows. No doubt, the killers waited for them on the riverbank just outside the tunnel, probably lurking on either side of the mouth. Xanthippus decided he would plunge out of the tunnel and dive straight into the water. They would not be expecting that. That could buy him a crucial moment or two...
He ran to the opening and leapt out through the weeds. He had decided not to plunge into the river and instead launched himself into a shoulder roll down to the water's edge. Nydeon followed him, and they both crouched there in the sandy mud, awaiting their attackers.
But there was not a movement. Not a sound. Both men looked around and saw nothing. The riverbank was just as they had left it. Xanthippus caught a glimpse of some movement out of the corner of his eye. In the water. He started, supposing it to be a crocodile. But it wasn't. It was a man. He was floating face down, drifting placidly downstream.
Nydeon tugged on his shirtsleeve and pointed along the weedy bank. There, laying among the reeds and rushes, were five more men. They had all been ripped and hacked to pieces, missing parts of arms and legs, their torsos covered with black blood, glistening wetly in the starlight. Their unbloodied blades and extinguished torches lay all around them.
"Blue Men, do you think?" Xanthippus asked.
Nydeon shook his head. Who could tell now?
"Let's get off this riverbank before we find we're next," Xanthippus said.
\*
In his bedchamber, Hurrus heard the scream and woke with a start.
"What was that?" Antona asked. Hurrus saw the fear in her eyes. It had been a hideous cry, full of terror and pain and...
...and rage.
"Sounded like Nadia," he said, though he didn't quite believe it. He had recognized her voice in it, but the cry itself was almost inhuman. "Where is Katra?" he asked, as he threw on a robe. Whatever the meaning of the cry, it could not be good.
He ran to Nadia's bedchamber. A scene of violence greeted him. A brazier containing Katra's noxious brew had been overturned. The thick stink of the stuff assaulted his nostrils, causing his breath to catch. The cooling potion lay congealing on the floor, its smooth surface marred only by a set of perfectly preserved Nadia-sized footprints pointing toward the door. Surely belonging to an intruder, Hurrus thought. A small, barefoot intruder. It didn't make any sense. There was no sign of Nadia. Her little bell stood untouched at her bedside.
Other members of the household rushed by as Hurrus bolted out of the room.
"Nadia!" he cried, running.
"What is it?" Antona asked. She was standing in the hallway now, cinched tightly in her dressing gown.
"Something has happened to Nadia," Hurrus said.
He started down the stairs, but stopped short when he saw a group of servants gathered over a prone form in the courtyard. Had she fallen? But how? She can't even walk... He ran down the remainder of the stairs, fearing what he would find. The servants parted for him. The healer Katra was kneeling over the body.
She looked up. "It's Nadia."
Hurrus shoved her aside and knelt beside the old woman. He recoiled at what he saw. "By the gods! What has happened here?"
Katra spoke hesitantly, as if describing a shameful act. "She has clawed her own eyes out," she said.
Where Nadia's eyes had been, black, puckered holes stared up at Hurrus. Blood smeared her cheeks. Katra lifted one of her hands. Her limp fingers were drenched in blood. Under the long fingernails, Hurrus detected ragged chunks of a fleshy substance. He looked away.
Holding a torch, Xandros emerged from the shaft in the midst of the garden. Another man came up after him. "There are dead men down below," Xandros said. There was anger in his voice. Hurrus looked up, scarcely able to understand what was happening. Dead men? "And this--" Xandros kicked at the loose grating, "--this has been unbolted -- from the inside." He began barking out orders. He pointed and armed men scurried in every direction. He approached Hurrus and pulled him aside.
"I suspect an assassination attempt," he said. "They came in through the tunnel from the river. There are more dead men on the riverbank."
"An assassination attempt?" Hurrus was puzzled. It was too much to assimilate. "Who would assassinate Nadia?"
"Not Nadia," Xandros said. "You. Nadia just got in the way. Nadia, and those men in the tunnel."
"Men in the tunnel? What men?"
"Mejadym, from the looks of them, but it's hard to tell. They're pretty butchered up."
"But, Xandros... Look at her. How could an assassin have done this?"
Xandros shook his head sadly. "Surely, it is the work of demons," he said.
\*
Xanthippus and Nydeon rode at top speed all the way to Kerraunus' mansion. There would be no creeping in the bushes this time, no secret grappling hooks up back balconies. This time he would enter by the front door and whether or not he ever came out again did not concern him.
The guard at the front gate called the men to a halt. He was an angry looking man in a gold-trimmed white cloak. Before his horse had come to a full stop, Xanthippus dismounted. The guard leveled his spear and began jabbering at him in Tygetian. Xanthippus decided to communicate with an unmistakable universality, something he should have done from the beginning. He had been too soft. Far too soft. Without a word, he strode up to the guard and grabbed the leveled spear just behind the point. He twisted and at the same time drove the flat of his foot straight into the guard's locked knee. He heard a pop, and the spear came away easily into Xanthippus' hands. The guard fell to the ground, writhing in agony. He issues threats in Tygetian, but screams in the Common Tongue. His caterwauling was better than a bell. Kerraunus, your Gyriece are here!
Xanthippus heard the second guard before he saw him. His footfalls crunched on the gravel track as he rushed forward out of the shadows. He crouched in a fighting position, wearing a defiant and angry expression, but a look of uncertainty passed over his face when he saw his partner writhing on the ground. His eyes darted from his stricken companion to the man dressed all in black who loomed over him. They stared at one another for an instant. Then Xanthippus squared on him and pointed his spear at the level of the guard's heart. The guard dropped his weapon and ran. Xanthippus leapt onto his horse.
"Let him go," Nydeon said. "We should ride away from here. Make for Alaun and board a ship back to Gyriece."
Xanthippus glanced at the guard scurrying away across the wide yard toward the house. As he ran, his form vanished and reappeared out of the shadows that dappled the expansive grounds. Xanthippus felt a fire to follow, but looked back at his friend.
"We would never make it," he said. "The whole country is no doubt looking for us now. We were betrayed and these bastards tried to kill us to save their precious prince. Who knows what we'd find in Alaun? Probably worse."
Nydeon scowled and his dark eyes glistened in the shadow of his darker brow. Xanthippus knew the look. "Then let's put an end to it. Yah!" He kicked and snapped his reins. Xanthippus wheeled and both men galloped hard on the heels of the fleeing guard. There was no hope for them in Alaun. If they were not to leave Tygetia, they would not go down alone. They would retrace their steps. Xanthippus saw it all clearly. They would merely start with Kerraunus. Then he envisioned Sotheb floating like a rudderless river barge -- a hideously fat, rudderless river barge -- facedown in his own bath; and Seus' sandrunners feasting on the meat of their master; and pursuing blue men littering their path. He remembered the bearded man with the yellowwood staff. Ah, the yellowwood... It would almost be a pleasure.
They caught up with the guard just as he reached the front door. Xanthippus leapt from his horse and pinned the man face-first against the wall, his forearm across the back of his neck. The man grimaced in pain.
"Open the door," Xanthippus commanded. The man nodded rapidly, his eyes wide. Xanthippus released him and the terrified man reached under his cloak and produced a ring of keys from his belt. As he put a key in the lock, Xanthippus warned him, "Utter a sound and I'll have your tongue."
The man turned the key and stepped aside without a sound. Xanthippus flung the door open and burst inside. The door slammed against the wall and shuddered on its hinges.
"Kerraunus!" Xanthippus roared into the empty room. Nothing about the place surprised him, except perhaps that there was not a pair of wriggling legs projecting from the mouth of the rearing stone cobra. A little guttering flame burned in the brazier under its looming face, casting a faint orange glow. "Kerraunus!" he yelled again.
He heard a bell begin to clang in the yard at the same time that Kerraunus emerged from a dim hallway.
"Ah, I see you're using the front door now like civilized men," he said. He spoke in a tone that suggested they were old friends making a chance meeting at some festival outing. He strolled out from the shadows, smiling. "Have you changed your mind about my offer?"
"You have betrayed us," Xanthippus growled. Several armed men appeared on the opposite side of the courtyard. Kerraunus looked at them and held up a hand. They stood back.
"Betrayed you? But it was I who made your job possible. I would have thought you'd be halfway to Alaun by now. What do you mean 'betrayed you'?"
"The men in the tunnel who tried to kill us--"
"Men in the tunnel? What men? Who tried to kill you?"
"Tygetian bastard!" Xanthippus began to rush forward, but Nydeon grasped him and held him back. It was plain to see now that it was suicide. The armed men came out of the hallway. Xanthippus would not have gotten within ten feet of the prince. Kerraunus obviously knew it and could not have felt less threatened by Xanthippus' spear.
"Look here," Kerraunus said in a conciliatory tone. "I don't control everything that happens in Tygetia, no matter what your Mejadym man told you. These men in the tunnel... Surely you didn't expect to kill a prince of Tygetia and then just walk away, did you?"
Xanthippus stopped struggling. Nydeon released him. Xanthippus eyed Kerraunus carefully. He glanced at the armed men. The bell continued to clang.
Those men were not trying to prevent us killing the prince, but only from escaping. The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. They thought the deed was done.
"But we didn't kill anybody," Xanthippus said.
Kerraunus blinked. "Hurrus still lives?"
We were meant to die from the beginning.
Xanthippus turned. "Let's get out of here," he said to Nydeon.
"You failed?" Kerraunus' tone was stern and angry.
"Quickly!" Xanthippus shouted. He pulled Nydeon with him as he began sprinting for the door.
Xanthippus found himself staring at Ledios' head. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and his smoothly shaved cranium flickered orange in the torchlight. Whatever it was that caused these people to shave their heads, Xanthippus thought, this one observed it zealously even while he neglected his beard. His cheeks sprouted a stubbly growth of several days. For some reason, the incongruity made Xanthippus vaguely uneasy. The fact that the man was calling himself Ledios when he was clearly Tygetian was easier to understand. Who wouldn't have used an alias in the man's place?
Smiling, Ledios folded his hands on the table in front of him. His teeth were crooked and brown. A bright swath of scarred flesh made a streak down one side of his face, cutting a path through eyebrow, eyelid and cheekbone. He could scarcely open that eye. The other twinkled with a kind of evil humor Xanthippus found irritating.
"Why should we help you?" Ledios asked.
His partner was more than irritating. Xanthippus hated him on sight. He was a shorter man than Ledios, stocky and strong-looking, with thickly veined arms. He wore a contemptuous expression and had since the moment Xanthippus and Nydeon sat down. He looked as if he smelled something. Xanthippus would have said that the stink emanated from the men themselves. The partner had no name and did not say a word; he just sat there with that foul odor in his nose. He wore a dark cowl over his head that left his eyes in shadow.
Xanthippus gritted his teeth. He was in no position to complain about any of it.
He slid a leather pouch across the table. It was all they had left, a few silvers. Xanthippus and Nydeon had no more use for money. The alternative to their every decision was now death or captivity. Death didn't appeal to him, and he had a feeling he wouldn't like Mejadym captivity at all. A few silvers were all they had, but it was probably more than Ledios had seen in a year.
When he opened the bag and peered inside, Ledios tried to hide his enthusiasm. Xanthippus glanced around. There were plenty of men in the crowded wine house who would not try to hide their interest in a bag of silver and Xanthippus would have liked Ledios to be a little more discreet. He was in Ledios' world now, however. He had to assume the man knew his own business.
Seeing the coins, his upper lip curled in what passed for a smile. It did his looks no good at all. "Yes, we can help you," he hissed in Tygetian-accented Common Tongue.
The offer gave Xanthippus little comfort.
The fact that this wine house reminded him of the one in Reeking Town did not help, either. Indeed, after Archentethe, Alaun, with its mainly Tygetian population, recalled Reeking Town generally, only here the air reeked not of raw lye but of fish and sea salt and was filled with the cries of hovering gulls.
The other difference was that now, of course, he knew who pursued them. He should. He had seen enough of them since the previous night.
It had seemed that every time they turned, another gang of blue men rode by. They were so thick on the Royal Road between Archentethe and Alaun that the Prathians had had to take a wide detour through the backcountry. Even so, all night and into the next day, they found themselves peering over the lips of ditches or laying flat across their horses' necks as they watched yet another troop of Mejadym ride by, oblivious that their quarry lay concealed just yards away.
As they lay there peering through the damp grasses, Xanthippus had found the feeling depressingly familiar. It recalled other long nights of his life, the longest nights, fifteen years ago on the island of Isala. Orphaned at an early age, he had been taken in by the man he would forever think of as his father, a nobleman and member of the king's own council, a man given to exotic carnal appetites. He had collected other orphans from the refuse of the island as well and all had suffered years of torment under the old man's attention, torments Xanthippus could not speak aloud even to this day. He had to bite his lip whenever he thought of his sisters, and he remembered fondly his little brother Angyos. They had all been bound, if not by blood then by their suffering, and the love they felt for one another could never be taken from them.
One day, Angyos had been called into his father's bath. It was the dreadful call, one they all knew. Angyos had already confided to Xanthippus that he was not going to bend to the old man's wishes anymore. He would run away. He would kill the old man. He would-- Xanthippus nodded sadly at his brave little brother. Every one of them had said the same thing at one time or another. Where do you run from a king's councilman? They all knew the answer: you don't.
But Angyos did run. He just did not make it very far.
The next day, his father called on Xanthippus to check on the water heater in the bath chamber, a giant ceramic cask with a fire that burned constantly beneath it. The water inside was kept searing hot and could be added to the bath through a spigot. The thing was clogged, his father said. Xanthippus went to check on it. Inside, he found Angyos' scalded body where he had flung himself rather than giving in to his father's craving.
That night, twelve-year-old Xanthippus cut the old man's throat.
He spent the next week eluding the king's men. He spent the next fifteen years killing the old man, over and over again.
And now, here he was. Still running...Still hiding...Still killing...
At the outskirts of Alaun, they had released the horses they had had since the Crossing and took their bags onto their own backs just as they had in the wilderness of the Tygetian desert.
"The Mejadym will be expecting us to go to Alaun," Nydeon said.
"What choice do we have? It is the only way out of the country."
The idea of going back the way they had come was even less feasible than leaving through the port. Xanthippus remembered the murderous desert, the trained sandrunners. He was no longer interested in making that long suicide run. He wanted to get back to Prathia, not die in some desert, his picked-over bones providing an amusement to passing Albyans. Should've taken the malecs.
"Menleco is behind this," Xanthippus said, even as he watched the latest band of blue men disappear over a rise.
Nydeon nodded. The thought had already occurred to him.
"When I think of his smiling face, offering us this job..." Xanthippus could not finish his thought. He would make it back to Prathia. He pitied the first blue man who tried to stop him. Nydeon put a hand on his shoulder and they trudged on toward the harbor.
Unspoken between them, however, was their absolute knowledge of the odds against them. Alaun was unlike any port either of the men had ever known. It was a strictly Tygetian creation, through and through. Foreigners were not allowed to enter it. When ships came to trade, they put in at a place called Sunder Island, some two hundred miles from Alaun. Closer to Albya than Tygetia, it was as inhospitable a place as any in that wretched country. There, as at the Crossing, deals were struck and foreign crews were swapped out for Tygetian ones. Thus, Tygetians themselves brought the ships into the bustling port. Few Gyriece were in evidence in the streets of the city. Even more than Reeking Town, Alaun was almost purely Tygetian.
"We will not blend in here," Xanthippus noticed. They had at least been able to change out of their all-black attire for Tygetian tunics. But they had no black wigs to hide their pale Gyriecian skin. Fortunately, it was almost dusk by the time they had entered the city. The encroaching darkness gave them some freedom of movement. A few discreet inquiries had led them to Ledios and his silent companion, smugglers of apparently good repute.
Ledios stood, securing the coin pouch to his belt. "Come with me."
The Prathians hoisted their packs onto their backs.
"Leave them," Ledios said, and the men put them down again, hesitantly. Having already rid themselves of silver and horses, Xanthippus realized that their lives were worth nothing now, and even a change of clothes was a pretension ill-suited to condemned men. At least he still had his dagger. Absurdly, it was the loss of their passports, curled neatly in their leather tubes in the bottom of his pack, that caused him the most consternation. That he had not already destroyed them was itself an act of desperation. The passports would only get them killed now. Yet he hadn't been able to part with them. He wondered vaguely what would happen when the documents were discovered, but he knew the forgeries implicated only the bearers, as Seus and Sotheb had explained to them -- in exquisite detail.
They threaded their way through the crowded tables, Ledios' nameless companion bringing up the rear. Outside, the sky was black as ink. Lines of torches sputtered along the docks. They could hear the hollow lapping of wavelets striking the hulls of the merchant ships moored there. Black against the sky, their empty masts were draped with tangles of rigging. They towered over them as they walked. Most of the day's work was done and few workmen remained toiling on the ships. Raucous voices borne on chords of stringed instruments drifted out from waterfront bawdy houses. Ledios led them to a winding set of stairs, cut into a stone wall, leading down to the beach. There they saw a line of shallow draft fishing boats drawn up onto the strand.
"We keep a little boat here," Ledios explained as he led them to the beached craft. Most were single-mast sailing skiffs. Several small rowboats lay crookedly in the wet sand. One lay overturned and a crab came scuttling out from beneath it. Ledios kicked it contemptuously into the lapping surf.
"You are not proposing we take one of these all the way to Prathia?" It was an absurd notion, but by now Xanthippus believed anything was possible. He scrutinized Ledios, giving particular regard to the bag of silver at his belt. If the Prathians were to risk sharks and grasping octolusks, they would at least, by the gods, do it with their coins back.
The short, squat man chuckled sardonically. It was the first sound he had uttered. Xanthippus turned and looked at him, but the cowl covered his face. Only the ugly curl of his sneering lip was visible.
Ledios nodded toward a ship anchored in the harbor. "That will take you to Prathia."
From where Xanthippus stood, the ship was little more than a couple of bobbing lanterns in the darkness. Faintly, he could hear the random clanking of some distant bell.
"Don't look so dubious," Ledios said. In the gloom, the vicious scar that closed his eye made it look like he was winking, though Xanthippus would never have mistaken him for a jolly, light-hearted man. "You might be surprised to know how many people need to escape Tygetia this way. Enough for us to make a good living." Smiling for real now, he patted his pouch of coins, making a soft chinking sound.
"Then again," Xanthippus replied, "I might not. In fact, I should think you might need a bigger boat."
Ledios bent down and heaved on one of the overturned rowboats. "This one suffices," he said, straining. "Help me, you stunted bastard." Short-squat rushed forward and managed to get a hand on a gunwale before Ledios had the boat set aright. When his cowl fell away from his head, Xanthippus saw that Short-squat had a neck as thick as a bull's. There was nothing but a hole where one of his ears had been. The smuggler's life was slowly whittling these boys away. The thick-necked, one-eared man retrieved the oars from the sand and fixed them into their brackets.
Ledios extended a hand and bowed. "Have a seat, gentlemen."
Xanthippus and Nydeon climbed in. Ledios followed. From his seat in the stern, he signaled and Short-squat, bearing down, pushed the boat towards the water. The keel hissed through the sand and then floated free in the surf. Short-squat leapt in and took up the oars. Ledios climbed forward and sat in the bow.
After a few strokes, Xanthippus began to discern the outline of the ship anchored in the harbor, a modest double-masted merchantman. He saw a faint light glowing in a cabin window.
"Who is on board that ship?" he asked.
"You worry too much."
"I worry just right. I want to know who is on the ship."
The only sound in the entire harbor was the soft splashing of the dip and pull of Short-squat's oars. The oars' fittings clanked a little and the wood creaked. Xanthippus watched the ship grow in size as they approached.
"Well, if you must know," Ledios said impatiently, "the crew, obviously. And several more like you. Some others."
"More Gyriece escaping Tygetia?"
"Of course." Ledios sounded angry. "It doesn't matter. The ship is going to Prathia. That's all you need to know. I wouldn't doubt if there were some choice goods down in that hold too. Who knows?"
Short-squat kept rowing. The ship kept getting bigger.
"And we're just going to sail out of the harbor?" On a point of land in the distance, Xanthippus saw the stone tower of the great lighthouse of Alaun, blinking out into the Middle Sea, its back to them. He saw that they would have to sail right under it to leave the harbor.
"All things are possible in Tygetia -- if you know the right people," Ledios said.
"And you know the right people?"
Ledios' form rose and fell with Short-squat's rowing. The ship grew large and then towered behind him.
"I am the right people," he said. "Here it is."
Short-squat had rowed them around to the stern of the merchantman. There Xanthippus noticed a ladder, descending to the waterline. He looked straight up but saw no faces peering back down at them as he had expected. Had they approached the ship unseen? Seemed unlikely... Rocking, the boat banged against the hull of the larger ship. Ledios stood and clutched one of the side rails of the ladder to steady them. The ship's name was inscribed in huge letters. Falisar. Some Tygetian babble. The meaning was lost on the Prathians.
"Up you go," Ledios said, standing clear of the ladder. The rowboat rose and fell in the shallow little waves. The ripples failed to move Falisar at all. She stood steady as a stone.
"You're not coming?" Xanthippus asked.
The unscarred half of Ledios' face smiled. "You don't think we're all sailing to Prathia, do you? One big happy family? Oh, no, this is the end of the road for us. You're on your own, friend."
Short-squat worked the oar handles to keep the boat steady. Xanthippus heard a noise like a chuckle emanate from him. It was an ugly, joyless sound; he might also have been hacking up phlegm or vomiting. He had replaced his cowl, once again hiding his face, so it was hard to tell. Xanthippus looked back to Ledios.
"Go on," the smuggler urged. "Don't worry. They're expecting you."
Nydeon shrugged. "What choice do we have?"
There was no arguing that point. Xanthippus took hold of the ladder. Before climbing, he leaned in close to Ledios.
"If anything happens to us, I know where to find you."
Ledios' lip curled in an unconvincing attempt at a smile. His good eyelid gave a slight flutter. Tygetians were pigs. Xanthippus would be glad to be rid of the lot of them, once and for all.
He was not halfway up the ladder when he heard the splashing of Short-squat's oars. He glanced down and saw Nydeon on the bottom rung. In their eagerness to be gone, the smugglers had rowed the boat out from under him. Below, there was nothing but the black water of the harbor. By the time Xanthippus reached the top of the ladder, he could no longer hear the oars and the boat had vanished. The smugglers were gone, swallowed by the night.
A hand appeared in Xanthippus' face. He grasped it and felt a strong arm help him climb on board the ship.
"Welcome aboard the Falisar," the man said.
Xanthippus planted his feet on the deck with a sense of relief. The man clapped him on the back. Nydeon came up behind him. Xanthippus turned and gave him a hand over the rail. Now that they were on the ship, he felt that their departure was assured. While in the charge of the smugglers, the issue had been in doubt. He felt in better hands now.
A lantern hung from a mast and beyond that, amidships, stood a little cabin. Through a lighted window, he could see grim-faced men. Five or six of them came out and started across the deck toward them. Something did not feel right. Xanthippus noticed that the men were armed. Even the smiling, friendly man who greeted them had a sword sheathed on his belt. Xanthippus instinctively reached for his dagger, but stopped short. Of course the men are armed, he thought. This is no pleasure barge. Armed men approaching him made him nervous. No pleasure barge, indeed.
"When do we make sail?" Xanthippus asked. The men kept coming. They weren't smiling as their greeter was. He began speaking. If his tone was to be believed, it was a pleasure barge. Xanthippus heard nothing of what he said. He was watching the men. They were picking up speed. He glanced quickly at Nydeon, at the approaching men, and then at the window of the cabin.
"...three days to Prathia," the greeter was saying, his voice riding a wave to Xanthippus' ear. The man seemed to slowly back away from them even as he spoke. "We disembark at Serusi...."
There, in the window, between the backs of a pair of shaved heads, Xanthippus caught sight of a bearded man. A sudden chill ran down his spine. The man was holding a bright yellowwood staff.
"Blue men!" Xanthippus cried. It was the Mejadym man from Jakuk. The greeter lunged out of the path of the Mejadym as they rushed across the last few yards of deck toward the Prathians, unsheathing swords and unleashing staffs. Xanthippus whipped his dagger from his belt just in time to have it clubbed from his hand by the business end of a fighting staff. Nydeon ducked under a blow and took the legs out from under an attacker, dropping him to the deck. They're going for the capture, Xanthippus thought, not the kill. He saw the swordsmen hanging back. The staffmen rushed in. Twirling, Xanthippus eluded a gut-busting lunge and caught his assailant under the chin with the heel of his hand. His knuckles having already been whacked, pain flared up his wrist, but the Mejadym, with a teeth-shattering crack of his jaw, fell limp as a rag doll.
In the next instant, the bearded man himself, the Jakukian blue man, came whirling out of the cabin like a crazy dancer, shrieking a bloodcurdling cry. The man moved with lightning speed, his yellowwood a blur.
"Nydeon!" Xanthippus cried in warning.
The yellowwood caught him in the ribs. Unprotected by armor, Nydeon winced in pain, but forewarned of the attack, he managed to catch the staff and, turning quickly, twisted it from the blue man's grasp. He then delivered a fearsome jab to the man's midsection which dropped him to his knees. Certainly, the man from Jakuk had chosen the wrong opponent. Nydeon was famous throughout the Guard as a master of the staff. Xanthippus would almost consider it worth capture to see the Jakukian blue man pay for his folly, but Nydeon, with a conferring glance at his partner, flung the yellowwood at the gathering swordsmen who were just starting to get ideas. They ducked under the whirling staff and it fell with a clatter on the deck behind them. Nydeon leaped over the rail. Xanthippus followed, plummeting feet first into the water below.
When he emerged, he saw Nydeon in distress, sputtering water. Each movement brought a new grimace of pain.
"Can you make it?" Xanthippus called. Gyriece were born to the water. Even Isalan orphan boys could swim before they could walk.
"Don't worry about me. Go!"
"I'll not leave you," Xanthippus said.
"I'll be right behind you. Make for the docks."
Xanthippus understood at once. A party of the blue bastards would no doubt be waiting for them on the beach. They would swim for the docks.
He ducked his head and began swimming as hard as he could. An alarm would soon be raised, and -- who knows? -- maybe men had already jumped in to swim after them. It was important to reach the docks as quickly as possible, for even they would soon be teeming with searchers; he was certain of it. Stroke after stroke, he swam, the beating of his arms and legs soon became a rhythm in his head. Ledios...Ledios...Ledios...He had not a single idea how they would escape from Alaun, but he did know for a certainty that they would not leave unfinished business behind them. His strokes went on and on. Ledios...
A few minutes felt like an hour. He stopped and looked around him. He was in a black sea in the middle of a black world. The docks loomed fifty yards ahead of him. He heard Nydeon thrashing some distance behind, lost in the darkness.
When he surfaced again, he found himself amid massive pilings. Water lapped against the hulls of ships. The dead quiet of his surroundings was amplified by the peal of a distant alarm bell. Faintly, he heard shouting from the men on the Falisar. The entire port would soon be looking for them. He dog-paddled between the dock and the ship moored to it. No sign of Nydeon. Treading water, he waited. The alarm bell continued to clang. He heard a troop of hobnailed sandals tramping on the dock above him. When he looked up, he could see through the gaps between timbers the passing shadow of running men. The footsteps receded toward the shore. He would have to move quickly.
"Nydeon!" he called out in a harsh whisper. He might have already surfaced somewhere within the sound of his voice. There was no reply. He tried again. "Nydeon!" A little louder this time. He waited.
"Damn it!" he cursed. His heart sank. He pondered what to do. Whatever it was, he must do it quickly. Nydeon would not want him to wait -- nor to go looking. Time to move on. Under the dock, he paddled for the shore, the distant clanging of the bell in his ears.
The shore rose steeply under the dock and he clambered up onto the rocks and peered over the lip of the embankment. Two men rushed past him on the street. Other figures appeared in lighted windows and doors, looking out to see what the commotion was. Stealthily, he made his way to a crate-filled wagon parked near the dock and crouched behind it. His only hope was to cross the street and get into the dark alleys. Sopping wet and dripping, it was going to be difficult escaping attention.
He heard a skittering of rock, a footfall. There, to his left, something moved. He pulled his head back. When he peered out again, he saw a shadow moving purposefully toward him from the far side of the dock. Was the shoreline being searched? Unarmed, Xanthippus felt naked. He reached over the rim of the wagon bed and began groping blindly. Perhaps he would find a crowbar, a broom handle even. Anything. His hand came away empty. A rock. He had just bent down to find a stone when he heard a voice.
"Xanthippus." His heart leapt at the sound. "Xanthippus," the soft voice repeated. "It is me, Nydeon."
Nydeon!
"Hail, old fellow!" Xanthippus whispered into the dark where he had seen the shadow. When the shape dropped down behind the same wagon, he saw Nydeon's face grinning at him. Nydeon glanced at the rock in Xanthippus' hand.
"I have learned to approach you carefully, my friend."
Xanthippus clapped his partner's sodden shoulder. They were a couple of drowned rats.
"We must arm ourselves," Xanthippus said.
"Do we save a blade for the smugglers?"
Xanthippus nodded. "How is your rib?"
"I have a special blade in mind--" Nydeon's breath caught and he winced in pain, grabbing his side. "A special blade for the yellowwood man," he said.
"First, we have to get across this street."
They watched as three more men with swords in their hands sped past. Mejadym. Others were now spilling out of doorways and heading toward the beach from where another bell was now clanging wildly. During a lull, the Prathians sprang from their hiding and made a dash across the street. The dark mouths of the alleys beckoned invitingly. They ran to the first one they saw, eager to plunge into the darkness and lose themselves in the city.
They stopped dead in their tracks. A group of men with torches were running right at them. They wore blue head scarves with yellow stripes.
"There they are!" one of the men cried. "Look! It's them!"
The Prathians turned and ran. They ran openly now through the street, not pausing for anyone. They heard the torch men emerge onto the street behind them, shouting. They kept running.
They turned a corner and Xanthippus felt a hand on his shoulder. Before he could react, the hand whisked him off the street and into a dark alley. His heart beat wildly. He was nearing exhaustion. He expected to see another gang of Mejadym. Perhaps the first had split up and had cut them off.
Instead, he found himself staring into a Gyriecian face. Blue flashed before his eyes, but not the blue of a Mejadym head scarf. It was the blue of the flowing robe of a nobleman. A Gyriecian nobleman.
"I am Asander," the man said quickly. "Kerraunus sent me."
The man's Gyriecian appearance stayed Xanthippus' hand. "Are you here to kill me?" he asked.
"I am here to save you," Asander replied.
The men who remained behind with the Shadow Riders were the lucky ones. The two Menleco had brought to Irrylia with him were anything but.
The old general shivered at the notion. If it had not caused him such anguish to capture the pair, he might have felt pity for them. But the effort had cost him two of his Shadow Riders, and that he could never forgive. A dead Rider was an abomination. It gave people hope and made his job that much more difficult.
Still, the screaming left him feeling rattled -- and Menleco did not rattle easily.
Lord Taler laid a skinny arm around the aging general's shoulders. Taler was a sharp-faced wraith of a man who moved like a ghost, with nary a flutter of his floor-length robes. A simple thin gold band around his forehead caused his stringy, graying hair to pucker over his ears and his wispy still-black beard hairs danced and bobbed on the end of his pointed chin whenever he spoke. In his free hand, he held a little bag. He clapped it into Menleco's palm and the general could feel the satisfying mass of coins inside. They chinked melodically.
"Despite the fact that you have only brought us two conspirators," Lord Taler said, "the Lady remains appreciative and pays in full."
The Lady? Menleco had to think for a moment before realizing that Taler spoke of Pylia. Menleco had never heard her referred to as Lady. But he supposed she was.
He moved out from under the Lord's skeletal embrace.
"These two cost me plenty," he admonished his lordship. The screaming stopped for an instant, and then resumed, causing Menleco to stammer. "They are... were... I mean, these are the leaders of their little band."
A man and a woman. The Shadow Riders had found them in a subterranean chamber beneath their home with two dozen rebels. Their captors had thought them unarmed, but one of the men carried a concealed dirk. He had been fast, and suicidal. A zealot. He had suffered a zealot's death, as had they all. Only the man and the woman had been brought to Pylia. Menleco had waited until nightfall to bring the two dead Shadow Riders out of the cellar. The local peasants believed them immortal. It would not pay to have them see the Riders' blood.
"I have brought you exactly what you pay for, Taler," he said, making a conscious effort to steel his spine. He had allowed the shouting of the Epirian traitors to unsettle him. He knew that Lord Taler had noticed it. "You'll pardon me if I don't blubber with gratitude. In fact," --he bounced the bag of coins in the palm of his hand, judging its weight-- "if the purse proves light..." He drew his dagger and described an arc with its point at the level of Lord Taler's throat. The palace guards took a step from the walls before Taler motioned them back.
"You wave your blade in my face, but do you also have a blade for Pylia?" Lord Taler asked.
Menleco let his dagger fall to his side. It was the screaming that did it. He was off his game. Damn it, anyway! Tell her what she wants to know already! It was maddening...
"You should save your threats for the Epirian rebels, General," Lord Taler continued. "This next we ask for is no skulking couple pulled from some cellar. The Epirians have a leader now, it would seem. We mean for your..." He closed his eyes in thought.
"Shadow Riders," Menleco reminded him.
"Yes, of course. We mean for your Shadow Riders to find him."
"Oh, we will find him. There is no force in all of Epiria that would dare stand against my Riders."
"We shall see," Lord Taler said with a shallow smile. "The Epirians have always under-appreciated Demetrius' rule. The king has been tolerant of their outrages in the past, but now they grow bold, and their efforts are coordinated and purposeful. They use our war with Sethaly to their advantage. We need to put an end to their pretensions once and for all."
"Don't include my Prathians in your 'we'," Menleco said. "The only 'we' I care about are the shiny little fellows in this bag here. I care nothing for your Epirian rebels and their hopeless aspirations. It is coin that interests me, Spymaster. Nothing more."
"Just as it was with the Epirian prince, eh, Menleco?"
"Epirian prince?"
"The Tygetian boy--"
"Oh, the Tygetian prince. I have men dealing with that now," Menleco said irritably. It was Taler himself who gave Menleco that job, and now he spoke as if --
"He is the one the people speak of."
The man spoke in riddles. The screaming would not stop. Menleco's head began to throb. "What people?"
"The Epirians. We know someone coordinates their efforts now, but it is Hurrus they speak of. Pylia has foreseen it. The Tygetian eagle soared in her vision, plucking the snake from Gyriecian waters. Demetrius himself interpreted the lady's Seeing. It was Hurrus, blood kin of Xarhux--"
"So this leader you seek is Hurrus?" Menleco asked. "But my men are already--"
"No, no," Lord Taler said. "Your Shadow Riders will find the rebel leader -- as soon as the Lady uncovers his identity, just as she uncovered the child Hurrus' hiding place and the identity of the man who spirited him away. Nothing escapes Pylia, as you can hear--"
"As I can hear? I hear simple torture, Taler, and nothing more. I never would have thought you susceptible to such superstitious prattle, a man like you. Confessions made under the blade are far from seers' visions, my friend." The spymaster was starting to sound like a zealot himself. First, King Demetrius, now Lord Taler, the last sane man in Irrylia, had fallen under the witch's spell.
Taler flashed his knowing smile. "Oh, there is nothing superstitious about it, General."
If there was anything supernatural about the sound that assailed Menleco's ears, it was the maddening constancy of it. The screams were relentless, ceasing not even for confessions -- confessions which should have been made long ago. And where was the witch's voice in all this?
"For the love of the gods, why doesn't she just question the traitors? Surely they will talk by now."
"Pylia prefers to See with her own eyes," Lord Taler said. "It is not instantaneous. She found Hurrus' hiding place buried in the minds of his mother and father. That had taken some time. A dirty business, to be sure..." Taler shook his head, remembering -- not unhappily it seemed to Menleco. "Soon, we will have Hurrus' head to show the rebels. That is, if your men do not fail."
"My men do not fail," Menleco said, stiffening. He realized that he was too tightly clutching his helmet in the crook of his arm. He loosened his grip and could feel the stiffness in his increasingly arthritic fingers.
"Let me show you the price of failure." Lord Taler glided toward the door through which the screams were emanating. Guards stood on either side. They wore high domed bronze helmets sprouting fountains of sky blue horse hair, spilling down their backs. Their faces were covered by plates sculpted to resemble bearded faces and their bodies were wrapped in their entirety by bright yellow cloaks. Menleco was still Prathian enough to consider them shamefully ostentatious. Or would have, if the door they guarded did not fill him with such dread.
The guards stood like statuary as Taler reached for the door handle. He opened the door a crack, but turned back before entering. "It occurred to me when you unsheathed your dagger that you might like to see our Pylia at work."
Hearing was enough, Menleco thought, but Taler opened the door anyway.
The screaming exploded in Menleco's ears. His eye was first attracted to the man and woman chained tightly to the wall. He remembered them as brave, steely-eyed fighters. Now they were nothing more than heaps of animal flesh, helpless and howling inhumanly. They had been stripped naked. Their ankles and wrists were raw and bloody where they thrashed against the restraining shackles. Menleco had steeled himself for the sight of bruises and blood, and purple swollen flesh, but aside from shackle-wounds there was no other mark on them. Their contorted faces made them unrecognizable to him. Their anguish was hideously clear, but Menleco could discern no source of their torment.
It was a moment before he noticed a shape capering on the floor before them. His heart leapt into his throat and he involuntarily jumped back. The thing was a woman. She was down on all fours circling a pool cut in the floor. Her grasping fingers clutched the stone rim of the pool like claws and she scampered crab-like to and fro around the circumference of the black water. Menleco was aghast. Was it even human? Whatever it was moved impossibly fast, around and around the pool, gazing into its reflection-less surface as though striving to see into every hidden corner and crevice of ... Of what?
A single torch sputtered on a supporting stone column and the crab woman went around and around in the gloom while the captives writhed in agony above her. The pool might have been an inch deep; it might have reached to fathomless depths. Not even the torchlight played on its surface. The woman paused, her nose just brushing the water. She seemed to sniff at it like an animal. She also was naked. A thick snake had wrapped its tail around one of her thighs. Its glistening body ran the length of her back and it peered over her shoulder into the pool, its tongue licking the air. When the woman raised her head, Menleco saw innumerable tiny snakes intertwined in her long hair, a squirming den of hatchlings. The woman was impossibly old ... or young and supple ... or ... it was impossible to tell. She was one or the other, changing in an instant. Perhaps she was both at once. Menleco only hoped she had not seen him. She went back to circling the pool.
He could hear Lord Taler chuckling close to his ear. The sound was an outrage amid the screaming.
"By the gods, Taler, what form of evil is this?" Menleco asked.
"Our lady will soon See the identity and location of the one who leads the Epirian revolt. He is to be the next target for your Shadow Riders."
"But how is this possible?"
"The minds of her captives are revealed to her in the black water. See how she peers into it. When she halts, she is Seeing. The rounding of the pool is her struggle to See. It is touching, how she struggles. Look at her." Taler gazed upon her lovingly. "It was in this way that we found the whelp Hurrus all those years ago. Unfortunately, the process causes the captives some discomfort."
"But what is she?" She came to a sudden halt and seemed to stare across the room at Menleco. Her eyes burned into his, full of rage. It was all he could do to stand his ground. He saw now that she was a crone, ancient beyond understanding. In the space of a heartbeat, the crone was replaced by a seductress who beckoned him with her eyes, her hair a squirming mass. When she halts, she is seeing... It is a vision she sees, Menleco thought with rising panic, not me... Then she was off again.
"She is the mother of Xarhux," Taler said.
Menleco felt that he had crossed the threshold into a land of nightmares.
"It is not possible," he said. "She is young...and beautiful."
"Yes, our Pylia is beautiful," Taler said. "You must understand our lady. She is passionate beyond human comprehension. She couples with gods. The gods keep her fresh to satisfy their appetites. She is the whore of Sarlon."
Menleco could take no more.
"Let me out of this place," he said. He pushed Taler aside and turned away. Before he could take a step toward the door, however, a voice rose above the screaming and his skin prickled in fear.
"Clautias!" the crone cried piercingly. She slammed her frail fists into the black water. Startled, her snake reared on her shoulder, hissing. "Clautias! Clautias!"
"It is Clautias!" Taler cried. "The man who smuggled Hurrus out of Epiria leads the rebellion! Pylia's hatred for him knows no bounds!"
"I consign you to the fangs of Sarlon!" the crone cried, splashing in the black pool. "I see him! I know where he is!" The captives howled with renewed vigor. When would it end?
"For fifteen years we have hunted him and your failure--" Taler turned on Menleco. Menleco moved hurriedly toward the door. Taler rushed after him, shouting. "You, Menleco! Your failure to find him has resulted in this rebellion! Our lady wants him. Sarlon wants him. And they want him alive. Do you understand? Do you think you can do that, old man, without killing everything in sight?"
Menleco pushed through the door and strode rapidly across the polished floor of the palace, pulling on his leather gloves as he walked. In the bright sunshine, he felt like he was back in the sane world of men. Taler followed on his heels, jeering him in his rage. Menleco rounded on him and thrust a thick finger under his nose.
"I will find this Clautias for you," he snarled. "But do not think for a moment that I care about your obscene little court here. I will find this man because Demetrius pays me. But you stay out of my way, madman, or it is you who will find himself twitching on the point of a Shadow Rider's spear."
His troop of Riders was waiting for him in the street when he emerged hurriedly from the palace. They made a terrifying appearance. Mounted on steeds as black as night, they sat wrapped in their long black cloaks, fingering weapons with black-gloved hands. Their helms were forged from black iron. Plates sculpted to resemble skulls covered their faces. Dark eyes glowered inside cavernous black eye holes and the sun glanced off the ridges of iron cheek bones and carved teeth that formed the jolly grin of the death's head. In action, each man of them was a galloping reaper.
Yet, when it came to instilling fear, Menleco suddenly felt like a laggard. Fear was his stock-in-trade. He had invented his Shadow Riders for just that purpose, to sow fear in his enemies. Though past his prime, General Menleco, commander of the famed Prathian Guard, was himself a man to be feared - not one to be sent scurrying away from some witch's lair with a shiver still racing down his spine. Had not even his own father, the former king of Prathia, feared him? The old man had accused him of cruelty and of harboring a tyrannical nature and a whimsical sense of justice. He feared for the people of Prathia, he had said. But because he also feared Menleco's wrath, the king granted his son the Guard as consolation for depriving him of the crown. Menleco could live with that. He knew the Prathian people hated him, and with the Guard at his disposal even the new king, his whelp cousin Areus, rarely dared to oppose him.
His father had given him the Guard because he knew the Guard would never turn on Prathia. Over the years, however, Menleco had twisted the Guard from an honorable fighting force into an instrument of black terror. Now, it served only Menleco. When he felt surly, he used it to terrorize Areus, winning for himself rich lands and gold. When he possessed all he wanted, he used it to win love in the form of Areus' beloved niece, Lyssa. He had sent Shadow Riders to whisk her from her bed and now he kept her as his bride, even though he knew she hated him. Areus could do little to stop him. In the end, it was fear of Menleco that accounted for everything he had.
Yet, now, donning the death's head helm of the Shadow Riders, he found himself rushing down the steps of the Irrylian palace, afraid to even glance over his shoulder for fear of what might be scurrying after him. Even as he mounted his horse and led the troop through the streets, noting the frightened stares of the city throngs that parted to let them pass, the recollection of the witch's cries made his skin prickle anew. He literally shivered with fright behind his reaper's mask.
They rode for two days to reach the Shadow Riders' encampment inside Epiria, arriving just before sunset. Some of the men had killed several wild pigs and they were roasting them on skewers in an open space among the tents. The camp was operated by a thousand Prathian footmen and supported by a vast train of wagoneers and their animals to haul the baggage. The 200 Shadow Riders were the kings of the camp. They sat bareheaded in their black cloaks around the roasting fires, jovially sharing flagons of brew from the supply train, while the footmen dourly sucked on strips of dried pork. It was important to Menleco that the Riders lived high. Once established in an area, they moved fast, struck hard and mercilessly, and were subject to a myriad of dangers spared the footmen. If they also picked the country clean of booty and plunder, Menleco considered that the price of their loyalty. The Shadow Riders wanted for nothing.
Menleco rode into the camp at the head of the ten troopers who had accompanied him to Irrylia. Despite his age, he could still outride most of them and rarely failed to lead the highest priority missions personally. He would not miss the taking of Clautias -- though, truth be told, he was tempted to have Raulon, his second among the Shadow Riders, hand him over to the Irrylians, once captured. His cowardice shamed him, but that was one meeting he was not eager to repeat.
His command tent was located in the center of the camp. Two guards stood outside the entrance. As Menleco approached, he saw Raulon himself emerge through the flap and walk briskly away. He had not seen the general.
Lyssa was inside. Menleco rarely let her out of his sight and took her along on all of his campaigns. It pained and angered him at the same time to look on her. She was the most beautiful woman in all of Prathia and he knew she was as eager to be rid of him as suitors were to take her from him. Had Raulon seemed furtive? Menleco did not like the looks of it. He did not like it at all. He dismissed his troop and dismounted quickly.
"What was the captain doing in my tent?" he asked one of the guards. Menleco recognized him as one of the young men who had just graduated from the Prathian School. A trained killer, but full of youthful pretensions. No doubt he was resentful at pulling guard duty and having to kowtow to Shadow Riders. It was beneath a Guardsman, especially a newly minted one. Menleco saw more hatred than fear in his narrowed, hard eyes. The general would change that soon. For now, he just wanted to know what Raulon was doing inside his tent, with Lyssa.
"Don't know," the youthful guard said with infuriating indifference to both question and questioner.
Menleco grasped him by the throat. "What was the captain doing in my command tent?" he asked again.
The boy's baleful eyes went wide with surprise. They had lost all their menace. "He brought a plate," he said in a strangled voice.
"How long was he in there?" Menleco squeezed the boy's windpipe. Because I am an old man, these inflated youths must be made to feel the strength of my grip. Some required harsher lessons than others. This one was a quick-learner. Still, it was tiresome.
"A few minutes... Just a few minutes..."
"A few minutes what?"
The boy looked puzzled as panic began to set in. He grasped Menleco's wrist in both his hands. He was unable to even budge the general's arm.
"A few minutes what?" Menleco asked again.
"A few minutes...sir. General, sir."
Menleco relaxed his grip and the boy nearly collapsed, breathing hard. "Very good. Now, go fetch him to me. Bring me Captain Raulon. Hurry!"
The boy scrambled away in the direction Raulon had gone. When Menleco turned his eyes to him, the other guard stiffened and struck his leather-clad chest with his fist in salute. That was more like it. He ducked under the flap and entered the spacious command tent.
Lyssa sat alone at the long table, cheerlessly picking at her steaming supper. Three slaves bustled about her solicitously. One filled her silver and crystal chalice, while another spooned onto her plate a delicate portion of chilled jellied apple. She accepted the slaves' attention with detached politeness. Even in her searing unhappiness, Menleco was struck by her beauty. In the sputtering light of the lamp stands, her hair fell about her shoulders in luxurious auburn curls. Her flawless cheeks glowed with health. Menleco felt a wave of melancholy pass through him, but the feeling was replaced almost at once by anger. He had taken the beautiful girl to spite Areus, yet, truth be told, it was Menleco himself who suffered.
She looked up at him when he entered. Her eyes were all surface luster, like Pylia's pool.
He would bring life to them, one way or another.
Menleco removed his gloves, strode across the room and struck her so hard across her flawless cheek that she fell in a heap at the foot of her chair. The fork with which she had been picking at her food twirled in the air after her, showering her hair with splotches of gravy.
"Captain Raulon is a busy man, my dear," Menleco said. At least now he saw pain in her eyes. "Yet you take him away from his duties to wait on you?"
"You have been spying on me!"
She did not even try to get up, a wise move. Her narrowed, hateful eyes were a dagger in Menleco's. "These slaves should bring you your meals, not my officers," he snapped.
"It is bad enough that you ... imprison me ... in this foul tent of yours, but now you have me watched, too."
Foul tent. It was little short of a traveling palace. Behind his back, Menleco knew that the men snickered at his high living. Most of all, they snickered at his imprisoned wife. Young enough to be his daughter -- his granddaughter -- he rarely let her out of his sight.
Menleco laid his helm on a table. "Because of me, my dear, you are a queen wherever you go."
"I was a queen," she said. "Now I am a slave. Worse than a slave. At least the slaves--"
Menleco raised his hand in blind rage, and Lyssa closed her eyes awaiting the blow. But it passed quickly.
"Be careful what you wish for, my lady. A word from me makes you a slave in fact. Do not forget that. Then you will not let the word pass your lips so freely, for you will know what it is to be one." She had relaxed when he dropped his hand, but she would not meet his gaze. "I will hand you over to those animals outside. Oh, yes," he chuckled. "You think the Guardsmen you are always making eyes at are a group of gallant lads? You think your handsome Captain Raulon is a gentleman of noble birth? A man to protect you from the base evils of the world? Think again!"
Menleco laughed out loud. It was a ludicrous notion. Yet in her girls' mind, it was true. Raulon, he supposed, was her latest infatuation. It was no different than her last, the man Xanthippus. She had said nothing of him, though he often noticed her looking for him, expecting to see him. One day, Menleco would ask about him with wide-eyed innocence. Whatever happened to that fellow, I wonder? Perhaps he would ask the same of Raulon someday. Maybe, instead, he would show her his head.
He ordered one of the slaves to bring him his supper and he ate in silence while Lyssa rose to her feet and sat in front of her plate. No slave had ever lived in such splendor.
After a time, she looked up. "One day, you will let me go and Areus will kill you."
The words were a knife to his heart. "Areus fears me, darling. I daresay he fears me more than even you do."
"I don't fear you."
"You should." He looked into his wine cup. "Oh, look at this," he cried. "Look at the dust floating in my wine. Some king and queen we are! This is a stinking, dusty country, the air smells of horse dung... In the morning, we travel south, my dear. To the mountains and clear, fresh air. Perhaps we will find happiness there."
He actually found himself hoping the news would please her.
Raulon entered the tent. He stood just inside the entrance.
"You summoned me, sir."
"Ah, yes," Menleco said, setting aside his half-eaten dinner and rising. "Captain Raulon, so good of you to stop by." A tall, square-jawed man, straight-backed and more regal than menacing in his black leather corselet and long black cloak. Menleco could see how he could be mistaken for a man of high breeding. But nothing could be further from the truth. The only thing bred into this one was thievery and murder. He had come to Menleco a fugitive from the king's justice. Menleco would never let him forget it. The king's justice, once rendered, was irrevocable. Menleco owned the man like none other.
He threw an arm around Raulon's shoulders. "Let's take a little walk, Captain. We have much to discuss. You won't mind if I take the captain from you, my dear?"
Menleco looked at his wife and then at Raulon, and he wanted to laugh. Their faces were blank slates. Raulon bowed his head to the lady. A man of gracious manners, to be sure. Menleco led him outside, and they walked through the camp together. The descending sun lay nestled between distant hills. From the hilltop encampment, they could see the lay of the land in every direction. Long, black shadows lay upon the green fields.
"The man the Irrylians want is called Clautias," Menleco said.
Raulon raised his eyebrows. "I have heard of this man. He has been hunted for a long time."
"Well, the hunt is over. He is in one of the mountain towns on the Prathian frontier."
"Prathia?" Raulon was surprised.
"Yes. A scandal for Demetrius to take his own men there. But not for us. Here is the name of the place." Menleco pulled a scrap of parchment from a pocket. On it was written the name of the town in Lord Taler's spidery script. Apparently, Pylia had Seen this place, as Taler had called it. Menleco was glad when the cursed relic was out of his possession.
"I know the place," Raulon said after reading it. "So we ride for Prathia?"
"At sunup," Menleco said. "Have the Shadow Riders ready."
Raulon shook his head in amazement. "Clautias! At long last... The Irrylians will honor you greatly."
"I care nothing for Irrylian honors, Captain. Only for their coin. Two battalions of the Guard fight with them in Sethaly and I have sent men into Tygetia. Demetrius is mad for blood."
Menleco only hoped none of it would be his own.
"Blood-coin is still coin," Raulon said. "It all spends the same."
The footmen had dug a shallow trench all around the perimeter of the camp, heaping the excavated dirt to make a palisade and leaving causeways for entry and exit. These were heavily guarded by armored spearmen. Menleco led Raulon through the south-facing gate and into a field of crucified men.
There were twenty-four of them, minus the two Menleco had taken to Taler. Most had been nailed, wrists and ankles, to the cross beams and uprights. These had been dead for some time. Several days, most of them. On the hilltop, the bristling garden of the dead could be seen from miles around. The carrion eaters making lazy circles in the sky above them could be seen for miles beyond that. At least some of the stink dear Lyssa complained of may have wafted to her on a south wind. The birds had already made a good start picking them over. They had lost their skittishness and only reluctantly took wing when anyone approached.
The man responsible for killing the two Shadow Riders had been tied to his cross instead of nailed and given a little perch to stand on. The Shadow Riders had sliced his eyelids away. The men could hear his laughter, his singing, his cries of anguish. Two spearmen stood at the base of his cross, their faces at the height of the madman's feet.
"We were just getting ready to stick him," one of the guard's said when he saw the general and captain approach. He had a guilty look in his eye.
"This man killed Shadow Riders," Menleco said simply. "He dies in his own time."
"But listen to him," the guard pleaded. "He is beyond comprehending his own suffering."
"Now it is we who suffer, listening to his ravings," the other guard added.
The men made a good point. At first hearing, Menleco thought some mad Epirian hermit had come begging out of his cave and had only to be shooed away. He saw there was no shooing this man. His eyeballs had been bleached white.
"Please, sir. Let us end this."
Menleco waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, do as you will." Perhaps he had had enough of suffering.
Menleco turned away and led Raulon through the field of corpses. Behind him, the singing abruptly stopped.
"The Epirians in this neighborhood have given us no trouble since the crosses went up," Raulon said with a smile. "We have been kings of the country here."
Menleco stopped and looked Raulon in the eye. The captain's smile vanished.
"Enter my wife's quarters in my absence again," Menleco said, "and you will end up one of these." He slowly twirled his finger, a gesture encompassing the entire field of crucified men.
Raulon's mouth opened as if to protest, but his eyes grew fearful, and he said simply, "Yes, sir."
Menleco smiled and clapped Raulon on the back. He too was a quick learner, and, truth be told, an excellent officer. A drunkard, a thief, a murderer, a sexual deviant ... All true, but a fine leader. Menleco would hate to lose him. "Good. Then we will speak of it no more."
"We will be kings of Prathia, too, Captain," Menleco said on their way back into camp. "I'm glad this Clautias hides there. I look forward to entering the country. I hate Prathians."
Closing his eyes, Demetrius pressed his head into the cushion of his high-backed chair. "Tell me what you see," he commanded. The captain of his guard began to speak, but the king, without opening his eyes, held up a finger, silencing him. "Gonatas. You tell me."
The captain fell silent and Gonatas looked towards the city of Lacecia.
"I see men hauling ladders up to the walls of the city," he said.
From where he stood, the masses of men swarmed like ants at the base of the city wall. Gonatas found it strange. Because he could hear nothing of the fight, the scene bore an unreal, staged quality. He had to remind himself that those were real men being crushed under the weight of the stones hurled at them from the battlements; and the wisps of shadow that passed through the air were masses of real arrows plunging out of the sky on top of them.
"Our men fall like wheat under a scythe," he added.
His father, the king, made a soft groan. Whether it was satisfaction or despair, Gonatas could not tell.
"There! Some of the men have made it to the top of the wall... The defenders make short work of them. Our ladders fall as quickly as our men put them up. The men on the top rungs ride them all the way to the ground."
No thud and no scream reached Gonatas' ears. The figures clung to the ladders as they arced their way back to earth. Some of the figures jumped from them, as if their landing would be softer. When the figures hit the ground, they simply went immobile and other throngs of ants raised the ladders again.
"I count twenty ladders against the wall," Gonatas went on. "The defenders rush from one point to another. Any man who reaches the battlements is hacked apart. The men on the ground try to hide behind their shields, but they are crushed under stones. Enemy archers fire without ceasing. Have you heard enough, Father?"
He looked with distaste at the king and his cronies. A long table had been erected in front of the royal command tent. His father and his men were dining in full view of the assault of the city, as if it were a mere dinner entertainment. The table had been set up on a makeshift flooring of marble tiles laid out on the ground so no grass or dirt would sully the hem of Demetrius' royal robes. He sat there in his purple, his eyes closed, his fingers tented on his chin. Despite his age, his hair and long beard remained jet-black, tightly curled and shimmering with oil. Today, he wore his golden laurel leaf crown. Gold rings glittered on every finger and wide golden hoops dangled from his ears.
He opened his eyes abruptly and leaned forward, taking a pear from a bowl that overflowed with hanging clusters of grapes. "You might as well eat something, Gonatas," he said. "The steak is excellent, slaughtered just this morning. The very bull in which my diviner saw..." He leaned forward again and peered down the table at an immense fat man, the diviner. He was loudly smacking his lips, happily chewing away in his own little world. "What was that you saw again, Diviner?" the king asked in a loud voice. The diviner gave no indication of having heard the question. Demetrius motioned to the man next to him and he elbowed the diviner in the ribs. The fat man looked up with a start.
"A thousand pardons, King," he said, dabbing at his greasy lips with a cloth. "What was that you say?"
"I say, what was that you saw in the bull's...Where was that you were looking, now?"
"Oh, yes," the diviner said, sitting up straight. "In the bull's entrails. It was a standard reading. You see, the--"
"Yes, that's it, the entrails. And what did you see there?"
The diviner swallowed. His eyes darted from one face to another. "All indications pointed to capitulation, sire," he said hesitantly.
"Yes, all indications pointed to capitulation. So you see, Gonatas, you might as well eat, for we have no further use for this bull. We have already inspected the creature's entrails for omens, and my diviner found exactly what I could have told him he'd find -- bullshit. Isn't that so, Diviner? Does that look like capitulation to you out there?"
The diviner sat with his mouth open, stammering for a word. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. The other men at the table were clearly enjoying his discomfort.
"Oh, go on and stuff your fat face," Demetrius said after a moment. "Perhaps you will find more wisdom in the roasted haunch of the bull than in its bowels. Better yet. Here." He tossed the fat man a little leather pouch. It fell with a wet-sounding slap on the table before him. "What omens do you find there?"
The diviner opened the pouch and the blood rushed out of his face.
All the men laughed. All but Gonatas.
"I am not hungry, Father," he said. While half of the Irrylian army assaulted the city, the other half busied itself digging trenches and building siege works around its walls. Groups of slaves hovered about the royal table, refilling wine glasses, while scribes, messengers and armed guards waited nearby. Gonatas caught the eye of one of the mounted messengers. He was waiting to deliver the order calling off the assault -- an order that never came.
"But it really is quite good," Demetrius exclaimed. He held up a tasty morsel of meat on a fork, saluting the cook with it. "Excellent, Cook!" he cried. The cook grinned, nodding vociferously. "The man doesn't speak much Gyriece, I'm afraid," the king explained, taking the morsel between his teeth. "I have forbidden him speech in my presence. I can take only so much 'Is good, no? Is good, no?' It drives me mad, like listening to the babbling of a child. Now, look at him... Nodding so happily... Much better..."
"But Father, if I may--"
"Certainly, my boy. I'm boring you. Please, what is it?"
"Our men cannot continue to assault the city. You have ordered an escalade -- in the full light of day." Gonatas spoke between clenched teeth. He could feel his temper rising. He swallowed it down. "You send men needlessly to slaughter, and I want to know why."
"Gonatas, if you are ever going to be king, you must learn to control your emotions. You must learn to make decisions, hard choices, and be happy with them."
"You are happy with this slaughter? It is mindless! These men are wasted!"
"You say you want to know why. Well, I will tell you." Demetrius leaned forward in his chair. "I throw these men away because I don't have to find rations for the dead."
Gonatas could feel himself grinding his teeth. Demetrius was his father, but, by the gods, the man was mad. Demetrius went on.
"I throw these men away because my diviner," --who was back to chewing loudly, lost to the world-- "gives me bullshit when I need foresight. I throw these men away because my royal advisor," he looked down-table at a wisp of a man with hollow cheeks and a long pointed nose, "told me there would be no resistance from the garrison in Lacecia. I throw them away now because my Master of Horse," -- the thick-necked man sitting next to the oblivious diviner, glancing up and then back down again -- "assured me that I would control the countryside. Oh, that rumbling you hear? That's not thunder. That's Sethalian cavalry running rings around our position. These men climb the ladders now because my quartermaster, stupidly believing these others, laid in supplies for only a short siege and not this long drawn-out affair we're now faced with." The quartermaster looked up sheepishly and then started moving food around his plate with a fork. "So you see, Gonatas, these men in the field now must die because my council foresaw NONE OF THIS!" Demetrius slammed his open palm down hard on the table, rattling the silver, chalices and plates.
Gonatas himself had brought his father the Lacecian's answer to the Irrylian's demand for surrender. The gifted officer Bythion, an impressive, cultured man with a silver tongue, selected by Gonatas himself, had led the delegation to the city. He was the only man among the Irrylians who could speak to a foe without bluster and threats. All were certain of Lacecia's capitulation. Demetrius' army stood arrayed before the city as if on parade. Mostly for show, preparations for a siege were undertaken in high spirits, an afternoon's lark. But something had gone wrong.
Gonatas came riding into the camp carrying a small leather pouch. He found his father standing on the marble tiles outside his tent. Even before his horse had skidded to a halt, he flung the pouch onto the tiles at his father's feet.
"What on earth is this?" Demetrius asked irritably. Gonatas knew that the king's mind was already working over the issues of the treatment of the Lacecians and the distribution of the plunder. In his mind, the plum of Lacecia was already the newest province of his burgeoning Gyriecian empire. He stood looking at the little pouch, but made no move to pick it up. "What is this?" he asked again.
"Bythion's balls," Gonatas said, dismounting.
"Bythion's what?"
"Bythion's balls," Gonatas repeated. "His testicles. They were nailed to the city gate. We found Bythion's ball-less body in the road."
"Get this thing away from me!" Demetrius kicked the pouch and it went sliding across the tiles. He turned and strode inside his tent. Gonatas removed his helmet and followed.
"We shall raze the city," Demetrius cried, turning on his son. Servants rushed to his side to assist him into his chair, but he brushed them away. "We shall make slaves of the people. Anything left we will grind to dust."
"It is a Sethalian garrison inside the city," Gonatas reported. It took a moment for this to sink in.
"Then it is war," Demetrius said.
Now, the dishes still quivered as all the men sat in stiff uncomfortable silence. Demetrius glowered at each one of them in turn. The Master of Foot's empty chalice had fallen onto its side. The Master reached out and righted it, leaving behind a spot of deep burgundy on the white cloth. Those were his men being massacred on the walls.
The High Priest of Sarlon was the first to break the silence.
"Might I remind His Worship that these are but small obstacles?" Demetrius frowned. The men shot the priest frightened, warning glances. Did he dare diminish the king's distress? "Sarlon places them in his path only to reveal His Worship's greatness." When Demetrius' expression did not change, the priest added, "When His Worship overcomes them."
Gonatas had not noticed the priest sitting at the end of the table, though he was never far from the king and no less hard to miss on this day than any other. He wore the night black robe of his order, embroidered with copious stitching of silver thread in arcane patterns. His white beard hung almost to his waist, his white hair to his shoulders, puckered by an unmarked band of white gold around his head. He was no more High Priest than Gonatas himself. Pylia and her snake cult required no intermediary. Demetrius favored him because of his self-professed service to Pylia's god and nothing more. Gonatas had never known him to perform any function aside from dining at the royal table and embezzling from the temples of Irrylia. He was a kindly looking man only because he had lost much of his former guile and cunning through ease and high living.
Demetrius regarded him with interest. "Go on," he said.
"Well, sire, as you know, granted visions by the great Sarlon, Pylia has already foreseen the fall of Lacecia. Indeed, she has seen all of Sethaly falling into His Worship's hands."
Demetrius thought about it and began nodding in agreement. His council began nodding as well. If anyone could divert the king's wrath, it was the priest of Sarlon.
"So, you see," the priest went on, "the outcome is already settled, Your Worship. Only the manner is to be determined."
This brought smiles and murmurs of agreement.
Demetrius pursed his lips. "So you are saying that I might as well send my council here up the walls of Lacecia, for as much good as they do me."
"I only interpret the will of Sarlon, sire," the priest stammered. "I make no recommendations..."
Demetrius craned his neck to gaze down-table. "Engineer, do you think you could have one more ladder constructed?" The royal engineer, a bald-headed square man in an ornate bronze breastplate, a practical mathematician who fancied himself a military man, stammered in confusion, uncertain whether the king spoke in jest. He did not have long to wonder, however, for Demetrius began to laugh.
"Can you imagine this gang of buffoons waddling across that field down there carrying a ladder over their heads?" Gonatas forced a smile. "The defenders would fall off the walls laughing. That's one way to take Lacecia!" Demetrius slapped the table again, this time in mirth. The men chuckled nervously.
"No, no," Demetrius continued. "That would be a waste of a ladder. Instead, I might have half a mind to hand you all over to my loving wife to see what she could make of you."
Now, there was no longer confusion and nervousness in the council's eyes, but terror. Demetrius enjoyed it for only a moment before sitting back with a sigh. "Oh, would that I could..." he muttered in resignation. "Would that I could..." Finally, he raised a hand to the mounted messenger, waving his fingers in a dismissive gesture. At once, the messenger galloped off toward the city and, just like that, the escalade assault was canceled. Enough rations had been saved for one day.
"Are you happy now, Gonatas?"
"It is not a question of my happiness, Father..."
"Of course not," he said. "You simply urge me to countermand a decision you yourself have never had to make."
"I would not decide for slaughter."
"Steel yourself, my son, for you may have to decide for more than that in days to come," Demetrius snapped. "Though he crawls on his belly like the serpent he serves, the High Priest is correct, Gonatas. He lacks only breadth of vision. My lovely Pylia, your mother, has indeed foreseen my realm expanding, but far beyond the bounds of Sethaly. Beyond even all of Gyriece."
Gonatas was appalled. His mother! Demetrius was mad if he thought Gonatas would stand silently for that. Oh, rest assured, old man, I have decided. Long ago. And it was no hard choice, believe me. It was not just the mad king's priest that crawled on his belly. It was all of them. All in the spineless service of a lunatic.
"My mother took poison rather than share that witch's--"
"Watch your tongue, boy, I warn you. That witch, as you call her, has given us Epiria. She is giving us Sethaly, which I will take despite your squeamishness over the manner of my taking."
"Beyond Sethaly?" the High Priest of Sarlon exclaimed. "What has Our Lady foreseen, Your Worship?"
"She has foreseen bold men in the service of her king, Priest." Demetrius paused, regarding him closely. "Does this worry you?"
By the look in his eye, Gonatas would have judged the answer 'yes.' The High Priest cleared his throat. "But what of your realm, sire? What does Pylia see?"
"She sees Xarhux's empire," Demetrius replied.
Gonatas could almost hear the stifled gasps from the king's council, though not a breath escaped their lips. To a man, they leaned forward and peered past one another toward Demetrius.
"Is that too big for you, Priest?" the king asked. The man of Sarlon shook his head. "How about you, my Master of Horse?"
The Master seemed dazed, doubtless unable to comprehend the sheer size of Xarhux's conquest. Until the Conqueror had gone into the eastern lands, no maps even existed of the places he would put to the sword. The Master had no doubt spent little time studying them since.
"It is an ambitious undertaking, sire," he said. In fact, Gonatas thought Lacecia beyond the man's scope. "Xarhux's empire..."
"...will require the service of big men," Demetrius finished for him. "Is that you, Master?" The Master of Horse stared back at him with hard eyes. Demetrius' gaze bore into him, deciding. He regarded the other faces with the same scrutiny. "Each of you must ask yourself if you are big enough for King Demetrius. Be assured, Pylia will know your answer and she will know if you answer truly. I have been to the wild eastern lands and I have fought unknown enemies such as you have never seen. Young Gonatas, you blanch at the sight of a few men falling off ladders, but I have dripped with the blood of unnatural warriors cleaved in half by Xarhux's own hand."
"The tales tell of Xarhux's madness," Gonatas said. "His birth of the gods and his descent--"
"Tales written by fearful young men like you, afraid of victory and conquest. That is what it is called today, is it not? Triumph, by small, fearful men, is called madness. Is that what you call conquest, Master? Madness?"
"Xarhux was a divine warrior..." the High Priest offered.
"He was demonspawn," Demetrius said. "Demonspawn, but not mad. His mother, who today goes by the name Pylia, had been foolish enough in her youth to believe that she consorted with gods when all the while she had been coupling with demons." Demetrius laughed at the looks of his men. "Oh, don't be so shocked," he went on. "Pylia's wisdom comes from Sarlon. Before Him, she was as foolish as the rest of you, as she herself would be the first to admit. Sarlon saw through the demonic lies and Pylia came to view the cursed twins she had birthed for the devils they were."
Gonatas was taken aback. "Xarhux? A devil?"
"And his half-wit twin, Arrhus. Pylia saw it. Xarhux had foolishly divided his lands, handing them over to petty men. As the first step in redeeming his error, she allowed me to conquer Epiria. In gratitude, I gave her Arrhus. Would you call that madness?"
By the gods, yes! Who would not? "Her own son..."
"Your tales prefer to speak of divine births and falls from grace. Beautiful stories bursting with moral lessons, but told by small and fearful men, unable to comprehend the hard choices of bold leaders. The tellers of tales might find it poetic to speak of the twilights of great men, but that is only because great men cast such great shadows..."
"Great men like Xarhux's one true successor -- Demetrius!" The High Priest exclaimed from his end of the table.
Demetrius nodded. "It is the tellers who live in the twilight. But there is no shadow where the great men tread. We live in the dawn of a new empire, gentlemen -- the dawn of Demetrius."
"Hear, hear!" the Masters, Horse and Foot, cried out in unison. All the party began banging the table with cups and the palms of hands. Which of these cheering men will still be alive to see a Demetrian Empire? Gonatas would have put his money on none of them. His ears had heard the description of a nightmare, of a darkness beyond twilight. Yet the mad king's minions sat there cheering.
The king stood. "Now, let us get down to the serious business of taking this cursed city. Engineer, if you have finished your meal, go see to the construction of my war engines." With the stiff-backed officiousness worthy of any of Demetrius' most grandiose generals, the engineer stood and bowed to his king. Sunshine glinted on his golden breastplate no less than on his denuded, sweat-slicked pate as he strode off in the direction of the construction crews. Unlike the earlier battle, Gonatas could hear the noise of the workmen's endeavors, the hammering and the sawing of great timbers. "I do nothing in a small way," Demetrius said with satisfaction as he gazed down upon the burgeoning framework of a massive siege tower. When complete, it would dwarf the walls of Lacecia. Smaller constructions of catapults--stone hurlers and massive throwers of bolt and flame-- were arrayed around its base like a litter of deadly offspring.
"Ah, General Nachtus!" Demetrius called when he saw the great general striding towards him. "You have the look of a man with grave tidings."
Gonatas stood aside as Nachtus stepped heavily onto Demetrius' marble dining floor. It was a wonder the tiles did not crack under the general's tremendous weight. He was the biggest man Gonatas had ever known, standing nine feet tall and as broad as a giant. On the training grounds of Irrylia, he towered over his soldiers, blustering at them like the Lord of Storms dispensing thunder with his booming voice. Every notable Irrylian military achievement spanning generations could be attributed to some member of the general's illustrious family, if not Nachtus himself then his father or one of his many uncles or grandfathers before them. Irrylian armies had always had a giant to lead them. General Nachtus was the one man whose competence and loyalty Demetrius would never question.
Nachtus handed the king a scroll of parchment. "The Prathians from Menleco have arrived," he said sourly. "Two thousand of them. Spearmen. Fully armored."
"Excellent," Demetrius said. He scanned the document and then tossed the scroll onto the table. "I'm sure you will put them to good use. Place them where the Lacecians can get a long look at them. Between my Prathians and my war engines, the enemy may find that he has no stomach for this fight, after all."
Nachtus had not lost his sour expression. "It is the Prathians who bring the grave tidings, sire," he said. "It is a tale of Sethalian cavalry they tell. The enemy swarms all over the countryside. The Prathians tell of fending off attacks not half a league from this very camp!"
Demetrius clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles flexing. His face grew red as he whirled on the Master of Horse.
"Get your men out in the field and engage the enemy!"
"But, sire, until we receive our reinforcements--"
"Saddle up yourself if you need more men."
"It is foolhardy to engage the Sethalians. They cannot touch us here behind our trenches. To confront them now would be suicide--"
"Then let it be suicide!" Gonatas saw the madness take hold of him. Demetrius searched wildly for a weapon, then grabbed up a fork, still dripping with the fat of the slaughtered bull. He rushed around the end of the table, making for the Master of Horse as if he were going to stab him where he sat. The Master leapt out of his chair and rushed away. "And you lead them personally, you coward," Demetrius shouted, flinging the fork after him. "From the front!" He glowered at the remaining men. "That's what we need around here, more suicide missions. I am surrounded by cowards, afraid to confront Sethalians. It is shameful."
"There is also this," Nachtus said without so much as a flinch. "From Lord Taler."
He handed the king another scroll, this one bearing the royal seal. The king began reading impatiently. His interest gradually grew.
"Clautias," he said as if to himself. He looked up at Gonatas. "It is Clautias," he repeated with an air of wonder.
Gonatas' heart leapt into his throat. He stole a glance at the giant, but the general betrayed nothing. Generations of royal service had bred a stoic non-reaction into his expression. "What is Clautias?" Gonatas managed weakly after a moment.
"The man I have sought for so long..." A smile began to creep over Demetrius' face. "He now leads the Epirians against me. It is Clautias!"
"Clautias leads the uprising?" Gonatas asked. "Pylia has Seen him?"
"The people prattle on about the return of Hurrus. The return of their king, they say. I will return Hurrus to them. I will, at last. Part of him, anyway. Now, I will have two heads to show the people." Smiling, Demetrius rubbed his hands together in pleasurable reverie. "Menleco pursues him with his Shadow Riders," he said, coming out of it. "Gonatas, I want you to find him first. Find Clautias and bring him to me. I would like to introduce him to my wife, Pylia."
Pylia Sees everything, Gonatas thought. And when her divinations are applied to Clautias...What will she See then?
"...take as many men as you need," Gonatas heard Demetrius saying. "Gonatas!" he snapped.
"Yes, Father." He would have to ride fast to reach Clautias before the Shadow Riders. But find him he must--not to capture him, but to warn him. "I will bring him to you," Gonatas said, his face as inscrutable as the giant's.
Because when Pylia finally peered into Clautias, he knew what she would See.
She would See Gonatas.
The dice banged off the base of the gunwale and clattered to a halt.
"Thirteen!" Xanthippus cried. Laughing, Nydeon slapped him on the back and Xanthippus scooped the last of the deckhands' coins into his own pile. The Irrylian deckhands themselves were not laughing. The dice stood in mute testimony and they stared at them in disbelief. How many thirteens was that?
Xanthippus began dropping the coins one-by-one into his little leather pouch. When he had retrieved it from the smuggler, it had been half-empty. Now he could scarcely cinch it closed. "How does that saying go, Nydeon?" Xanthippus asked.
"'Given this life, one dreams of revenge'," Nydeon said.
"No, no, that other one," Xanthippus said. "About the dice...""Oh, that one, yes. Um..." Nydeon searched his memory. "'Never throw dice with Prathians'," he said quickly, once it had come to him.
"Yes, that's the one!"
The Irrylians looked on in astonishment. A couple of them tried out menacing stares, but they did not stay with it for very long.
"Even with Irrylian dice, apparently," one of them said bitterly.
"Especially with Irrylian dice," Xanthippus quickly corrected him. "For the Irrylian loses either way--either his coin or something even more precious."
The man simply shook his head and walked off.
After the first day gambling with the crew, Xanthippus had procured a pair of honest dice. He had palmed the Irrylian ones on the first throw of the second day and secretly dropped them into the sea. It was a wonder they even floated.
Xanthippus chuckled as he watched the men disperse across the deck. It felt good to have a full coin purse once again, even if it would be another day before they could spend any of it. They were sailing among the green isles of Gyriece and the mainland was already in sight. Still, they would be another day at sea, for they were not bound for the southern ports, but for Irrylia, in the north. Xanthippus and Nydeon were just happy to have gotten out of Tygetia alive.
It was cruelly hot on the deck of the Mighty Quill, a two-masted merchant galley of a hundred oars. Even the tailwind that made billowing crescents of the square-rigged sails was like a blast from a furnace. During the heat of the day, the crew, who quartered on deck, lay under sunscreens they had made of their bedding, while the captain and Asander and his party retreated to their spacious cabins in the raised afterdeck. Unlike most merchant galleys, the Mighty Quill was not expected to double as a warship. It was designed to carry diplomatic missions quickly from one port to another so had many luxuries unheard of in any other ship Xanthippus had ever known.
Certainly the luxuries surpassed those he had known on the giant Rycassan cargo vessel that had taken him from Isala as a boy. Of course, stowed away fugitive murderers were not known for the luxuriousness of their accommodations. Far from it, his lot had been horror scarcely less than he had been fleeing.
The ship was one of the huge Rycassan merchantmen that still ply the Middle Sea today. It was like a floating city, its hold bulging with grain, olives, wine, timber, ivory and fine linens. The life of a twelve-year-old stow-away deckhand was not a happy one, even among the enlightened Rycassans. He was not able to escape until well after he had turned thirteen when he became the scourge of Serusi. By then, he understood the mechanics of survival, and had even pioneered a few new ones. It bothered him little that the people would call him a 'wharf rat', a boy who made his living rolling drunks, dicing with sailors, picking pockets, and killing when he had to. There was little these Irrylian deckhands could put over on him now. In fact, their efforts at cheating had been laughably amateurish. It was good that Xanthippus had taken their money before the wharf rats of Cumyra had a go at them.
Still, Xanthippus couldn't help feeling that he was living in circles. It seemed that every time he boarded a ship it was with hounds snapping at his heels. Once they had met Asander, however, he had to admit that it had been easier leaving Tygetia than Isala.
"I'm here to save you," Asander had said. No one had been there to save him when he fled Isala. Perhaps things were looking up, after all.
"Here, put these on. Quickly."
The Prathians changed into the slave tunics Asander gave them, leaving their own sopping clothes in the black alley.
"Kerraunus sent me," Asander told them. That, alone, might have been enough to get the man killed, but it was obvious by that time that they were not leaving Tygetia without help. Xanthippus was exhausted enough to set his suspicions aside. In addition, he had spied Asander's dagger sheathed harmlessly at his belt, an encouraging sign of the man's good intentions.
"Our winehouse is right at the end of this alley," Nydeon said suddenly. Xanthippus did not need him to repeat it.
He grabbed Asander's dagger before the man could say another word. The Gyriecian's eyes went wide as Xanthippus flashed the blade under his nose.
"You wait here," he said.
"What in the names of all the gods are you doing?" Asander asked.
"We accept you saving us," Xanthippus said, not wanting Asander to think that they meant him harm, as clearly he did. "But right now we have some business to conclude. We'll be right back. We left something..."
"There is not time," Asander began, but the Prathians had already vanished into the night.
A man standing in the middle of the alley could stretch out his arms and lay his palms flat on the buildings on either side. Of necessity, then, the men crept one before the other to the cross street. The intersection was illuminated by torches, one guttering in a wall sconce, the other held in the hand of a tall man. A tall blue man.
Their luck could not have been better. Not only did the Mejadym have his back to them, but he was talking to the very smugglers they sought, Ledios and Short-squat. As the Prathians had hoped, the deceitful smugglers had returned to the place where they no doubt conducted most of their business. The blue man held the torch in one hand, and a yellowwood staff in the other. A short sword was sheathed in his belt. Arms enough for the Prathians. The alarm bell continued to clang and they could see men running in the streets, but the commotion seemed a part of a distant world. The Prathians were alone with the two smugglers and the solitary Mejadym, doomed men all.
"Nydeon, do you think you can handle that blue man?" Xanthippus asked. Nydeon grasped his injured ribs and nodded. Xanthippus handed him Asander's dagger. "Put this in his back. I'll take the smugglers."
Xanthippus gave the signal and the two rushed silently across the narrow street. Nydeon slipped the dagger into the Mejadym man's back. At the same instant, Xanthippus drew his short sword and had it at Short-squat's throat before the Mejadym had hit the pavement. Short-squat was the one to be careful of. Ledios had fallen into a terror-stricken paralysis from the first instant of the attack. He began to blubber when he finally recognized the assailants, but Nydeon clapped a hand over his mouth before he had a chance to cry out. His good eye bulged above Nydeon's clenched fingers. Short-squat's face was hidden inside his cowl, his mouth a rigid line.
"Do I get my money back?" Xanthippus asked.
Ledios reached down and removed the coin pouch from his belt. He held it out, his hand shaking.
Xanthippus took it from him. "I remember how many coins were in there when I gave it to you," he said, jiggling the pouch. "Shortages come out of your hide. Perhaps the ugly one loses another ear." Xanthippus realized that they were both ugly, but only one of them had a hole in his head where an ear should have been.
Short-squat lunged and knocked the sword from Xanthippus' hand with a blow from his fist. He was a massive bull of a man with fists like hams. Massively thick, but slow. Xanthippus whirled and had him down on the ground in an instant. He could feel the man's strength as he gripped Xanthippus' restraining arm. In Short-squat's other hand Xanthippus saw the glint of steel flashing toward him, a concealed dagger. He dove and rolled, found where he had dropped the short sword and plunged it into Short-squat's thick stomach before he was half-risen from the ground. He fell back silently on the pavement.
Xanthippus stood. What he was thinking, he could not have said, not at the time and not afterward. He saw tears in Ledios' eyes. He strode over to the fallen blue man, already dead and forgotten, and began cutting strips from his blue cloak.
"Tie him," he said to Nydeon, handing him one of the strips. Ledios started whimpering.
"Xanthippus..." Nydeon began, but did not continue. He merely took the strip and bound Ledios' hands with it.
Xanthippus picked up the yellowwood staff and tied the end of a long cloth strip to it.
"Don't beat me," Ledios said. "I gave you your money. I'll make good any shortfall. I have more." His eyes brightened as he believed he had landed on the strategy that would save him. "I will bring it to you. How much do you want?"
Xanthippus looped the cloth around Ledios' neck and secured the other end to the yellowwood. Then he began turning the staff. The cloth strip tightened around Ledios' throat. He threatened, he cajoled, he begged... Then he sputtered until he could sputter no more. Xanthippus continued turning the staff until it felt like the strip would snap.
"Xanthippus, it is done," Nydeon said.
Xanthippus felt Ledios' dead weight in his arms. He let the body fall to the pavement, the long yellowwood staff bound to the back of his neck. It was an ugly way to die. Ugly, but quick and certain.
"The blue men will find their yellowwood to have been put to good use on this one," Xanthippus said.
They gave Asander his dagger back and less than an hour later, dressed as slaves, boarded the Mighty Quill, bound for Irrylia, away from Tygetia and away from blue men.
It wasn't until after the two smugglers were dead that Xanthippus and Nydeon truly felt the peril they had been in.
"The Mejadym are snakes," Asander had told them once they were safely on board the ship. "These men, these smugglers... They are Mejadym no less than the ones wearing the blue."
"They said they were going to smuggle us out of the country, but they smuggled us into the hands of the blue men."
"Half of Tygetia are Mejadym. Only the ones who wish to make themselves known wear the blue. Truly, it is an evil place," Asander said.
"Not so evil that the guilty do not pay a price," Xanthippus replied.
The next day, with nothing but the blue of the Middle Sea reaching to every horizon and canvas snapping overhead, Asander invited the Prathians into his cabin to dine with him.
"Ah, the food is excellent," Asander told the captain, whose name was Diokles. In salute, he raised a morsel of boiled fish he had speared on his fork. The fish had been smothered in butter, garlic and exotic spices Xanthippus could not name, some so hot his nose began to run.
"Tygetians eat well," Diokles said. His skin was dark and leathery, with deep creases in the corners of his eyes. Xanthippus soon found him to be an amiable man, quick with a smile and prone to laughter. "I always have cook stock up when we go there. The fish is called cherpi, found only in one of the Darkmen's rivers, prepared as the Darkmen eat it. How do you boys like it?"
Xanthippus nodded appreciatively but with difficulty through a mouthful of fish. He was famished. What he had a harder time with were the plates, cups and silver that kept shifting whenever the ship rose and fell into a trough between waves. Nydeon forked a bit of cherpi into his mouth and immediately reached for his wine cup, fire on his tongue. Diokles laughed uproariously.
"A poor Darkman you would make!" he exclaimed.
"The Darkmen must have tongues of leather!" Nydeon said.
The other two men at table were a different matter. Asander, it seemed to Xanthippus, was closed and cunning. It was hard not to trust a man who was in the midst of saving you from certain death, but Xanthippus couldn't help but wonder what they were being saved for. While they ate, he more than once caught Asander staring at them. The other, the captain of Asander's guard detail, a lad named Thalen, spoke not a word and seemed to sniff contemptuously at the Prathians whenever he caught their eye. Xanthippus thought he seemed too young to be a captain of any guard, even one on a friendly diplomatic mission. He didn't like the lad's demeanor, but that was nothing new. He wrote it off to youth.
Xanthippus tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in melted butter. From the corner of his eye, he saw Asander watching him.
"And what is your role in this?" Xanthippus asked, slowly turning his eyes from his plate to meet Asander's.
"My role?" Asander seemed surprised at the question. "I am the Irrylian Foreign Minister--"
"The Irrylian Foreign Minister has as one of his duties the rescue of doomed assassins?" Xanthippus paused for an answer, noticing that neither Diokles nor Thalen batted an eyelash at his admission. Asander began laughing.
"Prathian scum!" Thalen exclaimed. "How dare you question an Irrylian nobleman? Look at you!"
Asander raised a hand, and Thalen, who had seemed about to rise, settled back in his chair. "Don't mistake these men for slaves due to their garb," Asander cautioned. "And don't take their word for fact, Captain. Doomed he may say, but I have my doubts. I tracked them by the trail of dead men that littered their path. Mejadym men, Thalen. Not Epirian farm boys and sticky fingered wharf rats. You think on that!"
"Assassins!" Thalen scoffed and fell silent, sulking like a scolded schoolboy.
"This is mere flattery," Xanthippus said, biting into his butter-drenched bread. "We actually considered leaving the country by the way we entered. We would have tracked easily, believe me." He contemplated young Thalen while he chewed.
"I thought of that," Asander said with a smile, his little triangle of beard rising on his chin. "No, that's not exactly true. Prince Kerraunus thought of that, but I didn't believe you suicidal. I found you where any sane man would have gone. The only thing harder than getting into Tygetia is getting out again."
"Nydeon, make a note: Our sanity made us easy to follow."
"Betrayed by sound minds," Nydeon said. "It is our curse."
Diokles roared with laughter. "It is true!" he bellowed, slapping the table. "How much better to be a fool in this life!"
Asander smiled humorlessly. "I have news for you. It was not your sound minds that caused you to make yourselves known to Kerraunus. That was very unsound, indeed--and very dangerous..."
"It was the Mejadym who led us to him," Xanthippus said. "I suppose you will tell us that he is Mejadym also?"
"Kerraunus Mejadym? Oh, doubtful...doubtful. That would imply some form of humanity, feelings of loyalty to a cause greater than oneself, perhaps even friendship. No, not Kerraunus. Whatever else he may be, he is at least a simple man. I have known him for fifteen years now, and he is easy to understand. He is evil to the core."
"And yet you treat with him? As this Foreign Minister?"
"As far as Irrylia is concerned, Kerraunus is Tygetia. No one's happy about it, least of all me." Asander spooned some more steamed carrots and onions onto his plate. "King Myletos hates Demetrius. His right arm Bellog is pure Tygetian and therefore wholly unapproachable -- an unimaginative oaf, anyway -- and Prince Garon does only what Myletos tells him. Kerraunus is the only one of the bunch clever enough to avail himself to all comers. He leans towards Sethaly, though, because of his sister, but I can still deal with him. He speaks for me to his king."
"And he had you save us," Xanthippus said, remembering Asander's words.
"In exchange for one less squadron of Tygetian warships to be brought against Demetrius. Or so he promises." Asander's teeth scraped the tines of his fork as he slipped a sliced carrot, dripping with honey, into his mouth.
"Just one squadron?"
"That's all I could get in the short time I had to work. The Mejadym were hunting you, remember. They arrived just after you left, as I hear it."
"It's pleasant to know our lives have value."
"Apparently, your deaths as well," Thalen put in.
"You would not profit in the attempt," Nydeon said without looking up from his plate.
Near to bursting, Thalen pursed his lips and fell silent. Nydeon's own lips secretly curled into a smile.
"The only death that would have had any real value is Hurrus', I'm afraid. He will now be impossible to kill."
"We had no chance to kill this prince," Xanthippus began. He remembered the bull man and the crone, the Mejadym in the tunnel and those slaughtered by the river and said no more. Who knew who this Asander was, truly? He would speak no more of Hurrus. "The Irrylians want this prince dead?" he asked instead.
"We have no wish to kill him," Asander said, unconvincingly if Xanthippus were to judge the truth of it. "But I will tell you this. You will see him in Gyriece someday, and you will wish you had killed him."
"But there is hatred between your kings--"
"Demetrius hates the Mejadym," Asander interrupted with passion, "and he will not be happy to know that they are involved in this."
"But what does a king in Irrylia care of these Tygetian cutthroats?"
"They killed his son," Asander said. "His heir, Thilemon. He was found in his bed one morning, poisoned. It was the slow-acting venom of the Tygetian asp. They had gotten to his food somehow. Pylia found out through the cook, a man named Aegin, that it was one of the servers. Aegin suspected him and Pylia uncovered his suspicion. The Mejadym were very clever. The killer was just a boy, just a waif of a beggar boy who had shown up at the kitchen door, as Gyriecian as any of us. A true Mejadym convert from Tygetia, a brainwashed zealot. At first, the beggar boys would show up at the kitchen door for scraps, but Aegin was a kindly man and he would put them to work, practically adopting them. His kitchen was like something out of a children's storybook, full of laughter and joy. Always enough room for one more. There has been no laughter and joy since that day. Thilemon was a surprisingly decent young man. The venom of the Tygetian asp is no good way to die."
Xanthippus knew all about young beggar boys. He stared at Asander without comment.
"It was a sorry business," Diokles said, shaking his head. "A sorry business indeed."
"Everyone knows the Mejadym do not operate outside of Tygetia. But this time they did." Asander sighed at the memory, and then resumed in a brighter tone. "But that is why they needed bodies to show their king, Prathian bodies. You. The Mejadym would never treat with Prathians. Or so it is believed. Kerraunus, however..."
"But what of Kerraunus?"
"Kerraunus' motivations are his own. Certainly nothing so crude as self-preservation. I suspect he is looking to purge the Mejadym, as is his occasional wont. An ugly, family dispute. But I merely speculate..."
We have stepped into a nest of vipers, Xanthippus remembered telling Nydeon. He felt vaguely ill, but consoled himself with the idea that in a matter of days they would be back on Gyriecian soil. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Assassination, by its nature, was a nasty business and the more powerful the target, the messier the affair must be. Still, he had expected something far simpler, far cleaner. He had expected simple faceless murder, and a fat coin purse waiting for him at the end. What he found instead were layers upon layers of deceit and betrayal. The Prathians had been as much a target as this Hurrus.
And that, in Xanthippus' mind, would not stand.
"We will give Menleco the benefit of the doubt," he told Nydeon later, though he spoke through clenched teeth. Nydeon nodded but Xanthippus could see his jaw muscles working, his teeth grinding.
"We will give him that," he granted. "Just before he dies."
"We will let him explain himself. We owe him that. I owe him that. At best, I might have been one of those beggar boys in that kitchen. That would have been a clean end for me. By rights, I should have been on one of Menleco's crosses."
In a flash, he saw a pair of Shadow Riders galloping by torchlight through the narrow streets of Serusi. He remembered his fear of them. But the image was replaced by Menleco's smiling face. I have a job for you boys...
"Then he dies," Xanthippus added.
Nydeon nodded. "Then he dies," he agreed.
By the time they disembarked at Cumyra, the idea of finding Menleco was set in their minds. The other idea that had begun to formulate there was the growing suspicion that perhaps they were prisoners. Asander had procured mounts for the party and an enclosed carriage for himself. Thalen and his Irrylian guardsmen, a dozen of them, well-armed, surrounded the Prathians. It troubled Xanthippus that he and Nydeon had not been given weapons and they remained dressed as slaves.
"Where are we bound?" Xanthippus asked.
"To Myssene," Asander replied, speaking of the Irrylian capital. "We must inform Lord Taler of your experience in Tygetia. He will want to know of the Mejadym involvement."
What this Lord Taler cared about any 'Mejadym involvement' Xanthippus could not begin to guess. He only knew that the road from Cumyra to Myssene was short and for the time it took to traverse it he would agree to dance to Asander's tune, issuing whatever report was required of him. Then he and Nydeon would depart for Prathia on business important only to Prathians. No more mysterious lords and bickering kings. However dirty their task, that, at least, would be a relief.
The road from Cumyra was a rocky path that climbed steeply inland. The walled city diminished below them. The ships in the harbor, including the Mighty Quill, seemed to glide effortlessly and silently over the water like toys in a pond. Countless green isles dotted the endless sea beyond. It was a breathtaking vista, but a couple steps past the crest of the ridge and even the smell of the sea vanished, replaced by stifling heat and the dust of the road.
The horses of their party were covered snout to stern by handsome cloth barding, sky blue with mustard trim, matching the attire of Thalen's guard troop in their long yellow cloaks and helm tassels that streamed down their backs. Xanthippus took the troop for some sort of honor guard and not a fighting force. No doubt, they had made an impressive spectacle in some palace courtyard in Tygetia, prancing in front of princes and fetching ladies. Here on the Cumyra road, with no hanky-waving damsels to swoon over them, the lads looked ill-at-ease with their swords and lances. If necessity dictated, Xanthippus knew the Prathians could easily disarm the two riders bringing up the rear and probably disperse the other ten with harsh looks.
But, on the second day of their journey, it was more than harsh looks that Captain Thalen brought them. He spoke harsh words as well.
"You don't look like so much to me," he said, riding up alongside them. His tone suggested he had reached a conclusion after some long observation. He gave the Prathians his most fearsome look, obviously practiced in mirrors. All Xanthippus saw was a boy who had reached his rank by some means other than experience and ability, if he were to guess.
"There is no shame in that," said Nydeon. "He doesn't look like much to anyone."
Xanthippus was glad for the opportunity to laugh, even if the young captain was not. The journey had become tedious. Once they had entered a pine wood, the air had at least freshened considerably and the sleep-inducing cadence of their horses' hooves was now muffled by the mat of brown needles covering the road.
"You'll not be so jolly when you meet Lord Taler," Thalen said with a sneer.
Xanthippus kept riding. "We might."
Thalen gave a bitter little snort. Xanthippus knew what the young captain was about, and did not begrudge him overmuch. The Prathians were like caged bears and the boy was bravely sticking his fingers inside the bars.
"I'd like to have a crack at one o' you Prathians sometime," he said. "Alone. Just me and the Prathian dog. Oh, I've heard all the stories, same as everybody else, but I am not afraid."
"And what do the stories say?" Xanthippus asked.
"They say what any frightening bedtime tale says. Nothing. Nothing with any truth to it, anyway. Fictions to frighten children."
"Is that how your mother puts you to sleep at night? Her precious boy?" Xanthippus lowered his voice, theatrically. "'The Prathians will get you!'? Well, you have two Prathians right here, friend, unarmed and unarmored. We may even be prisoners, for all I know."
"Yes, and your Prathian perfidy would have a knife in my back in no time. I would not wish to fall in what our people call a 'Prathian Battle'."
"A Prathian Battle?" Xanthippus shot Nydeon a glance. Nydeon shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes. An old woman found with her coin purse snatched and throat slashed. We say she died in a 'Prathian Battle'."
Prathian Battle. The captain was himself becoming tiresome now.
"They will say the same of you when you are found with that spear up your ass," Xanthippus snapped. "How does a boy like you get an assignment like this? A peaceful mission to Tygetia? No doubt reserved for Irrylia's fiercest warriors."
"The spice on that cherpi was dangerous," Nydeon allowed in the captain's defense.
Thalen could not be put off. While the other guardsmen had tilted their helms back over their foreheads for air and comfort, Thalen wore his low over his brow in the manner of a fighter ready for action. "Well, I am not baseborn as you are, no doubt," he said. "I have heard that all the Prathian Guard are. I am proud of my family's honor, something you would know nothing about. My uncle oversees tax collections for all of Dionys province..."
"Let me tell you something, Captain Thalen. That is the reason you find the stories so frightening." Thalen made to protest. He would not have it that he was frightened of anything. Xanthippus could see that. But it was foolish. The boy would need to learn when to fear, the same as any young pup. "You fear the Prathians because while Irrylian uncles find plush jobs for their dear nephews, most Prathian warriors have had to kill their uncles at some time or another. Baseborn or no, the two lives produce different sorts of men. Wouldn't you agree?"
"You kill your uncles in their sleep, no doubt."
Xanthippus regarded the bitter lad for a second and then burst into laughter. This one would not stop rattling the bars. He reached over and slapped the young captain on the back. Thalen flinched at first, then his angry expression softened. Xanthippus thought he even saw the lad smile.
"You will make a fine captain someday!" Xanthippus exclaimed. "I can see it!"
Just then, a shout rose from the head of the column, bringing the party to a stop. An overturned wagon blocked the road. Its contents lay jumbled around it, broken grain sacks and shattered jars of pungent oil. A single dray horse lay dead in its tethers, its legs pointing stiffly skyward. On either side of the road stood outcroppings of needle-covered rock and dense foliage. The wreck would have to be cleared before the column could proceed.
Asander's carriage clattered to a halt and Asander stuck his head out the curtained window. "What is the meaning of this delay? Why have we stopped?"
One of Thalen's men had dismounted and stood closely inspecting the wagon. Another guardsman joined him. The first man pulled an arrow from out of the wagon bed.
"It is Epirian," he called, holding it up. Xanthippus could see its distinctive black and gold fletching.
"It is the work of rebels!" the second man exclaimed.
"Epirian rebels? On the Cumyra Road?" Asander scoffed in disbelief. "This is the work of bandits and nothing more. Clear the rubbish away."
Xanthippus heard a dull thunk and another black-fletched arrow appeared in almost the exact spot from which the first had been pulled. The Irrylian guardsmen looked at it in astonishment, unable to discern its meaning. By the time it dawned on them, it was too late. The first guardsman still held the arrow in his hand when another appeared in his bare thigh, like a trick of magic. The man cried out and fell in a heap. Blood welled around the shaft. His comrade began dragging him away to safety but was himself felled almost at once by yet another arrow, this one a killing shot to his belly.
"We're under attack!" came the cry from the column.
"To arms!"
More arrows toppled the guards in the rear. Their horses whinnied fiercely and reared with riderless saddles. Dead blocked their path now, front and back. There was a moment of confusion. Horses sidled and turned and the men's heads swiveled, looking for their unseen assailants. A horse reared, spilling its rider. He fell, rolled and sprang to his feet. His helmet fell from his head as he took to his heels into the pine wood.
"Get back here!" Thalen cried at him, but the man kept running.
At that moment, Xanthippus heard the growing roar of thundering hooves, and then the mass of shrieking riders was upon them.
"For Hurrus!" they cried as they charged.
Two more Irrylians fell to sword thrusts. One of the attackers, a lean man in a rough-spun woolen cloak, the hood of which fluttered as he rode, pulled up short and loosed an arrow from horseback at the man who ran through the pine wood. The first shot took him between the shoulder blades and he fell, a crimson stain marring his mustard cloak.
A shiver raced down Xanthippus' spine. He was dumbfounded. Hurrus? Could it be? The war cry of the berserkers bursting out of the pine wood was the name of the Tygetian prince he had tried to kill? He suddenly felt in mortal danger.
"Give me your sword," he cried to Thalen. The young captain held his spear overhand as he prepared to heel his mount. His command was rapidly falling all around him.
"I'll not arm you," he cried back, "only to suffer death by my own sword."
"Fool! Death will find you, but not by my hand."
"Spare the slaves!" Xanthippus heard a cry ring out and a galloping spearman veered away from Nydeon at the last moment. Another bypassed Xanthippus and charged straight at Thalen instead. Acting instinctively, Xanthippus reached out a hand and just caught the man's spear arm as he raced past. It wasn't much of a blow, but it knocked the man off-balance. He swayed in his saddle and clung to his horse's neck as he shot past Thalen who stabbed at him wildly with his spear, rending only air.
Xanthippus heard the clash of steel and saw blurs of horsemen passing him on all sides. In the next instant, the battle was over and the Prathians found themselves surrounded by a dozen arrows quivering on drawn bowstrings aimed at their chests. Thalen threw down his spear. "I yield," he cried, throwing up his hands. Asander stepped out of his carriage and into a bristling crescent of spear points. The entire Irrylian guard troop lay dead in the road. Not even Asander's carriage driver had been spared.
The lean, dark-haired man in the woolen cloak walked his horse into the crescent of mounted spearmen. Asander fell to his knees and the lean man looked down on him from the height of his saddle.
"In the name of King Hurrus," he declared, "I claim you prisoners of Epiria."
"Zarcen unfolds his golden wings over the sky and the radiance illuminates the land. He is the god of birth and of re-birth. He is the god of the Morning Star." Though he spoke softly, the stone walls made Jhar's voice rich and sonorous. His words flowed and filled the space like honey. "As the wings begin to spread in the east, Kunuum settles down upon his haunches in the west and descends over the edge of the earth into the everlasting night. He takes the souls of the dead with him. There he judges them and devours the wicked. He is Deathbringer."
Across the interior of the tomb, the gods stood in opposition to each other. The full spread of Zarcen's golden wings filled the eastern wall while Kunuum glowered at him from the west, his black pupil-less eyes staring sightlessly. He was the blind bull, Deathbringer.
Between them lay Nadia, her body wrapped tightly in resplendent white linen.
"Kunuum is death?" Hurrus asked.
"Kunuum is judgment," the priest replied. "It is true he devours the wicked, but he also releases the souls of the innocent, and spreads them across the sky, where they become stars in the night."
Nadia was no star in the night. Kunuum would not touch her, would not judge her. Not here. Hurrus would take her beyond the reach of the bull.
A third wall was filled with colorful Tygetian picture writing. Hurrus saw depictions of boats, animals, something that looked like a labyrinth. In truth, Nadia would be appalled. Forgive me, Hurrus thought. He looked up slowly across Nadia's body and saw Jhar's torch-lit face, full of shuddering shadows. Kunuum towered over him. The bull's right hand threw a shower of stars onto the ceiling.
Hurrus said, "Kunuum holds court in the sky. I shall hold court on earth. I shall devour the wicked and they shall live in my belly."
"Men murder one another for the right to judge the wicked, young prince. You'll find no shortage of rivals."
"I intend to fight. I would have it no other way."
"You possess the wisdom of gods?"
"I shall dispense retribution worthy of a god. A wrathful god."
It was the dawn of the first day of Nadia's entombment. Her mausoleum was housed in a thirty foot high pyramid, built in a matter of days by a thousand laborers. Hurrus could still smell the drying paint. From both eastern and western walls, two small rectangular shafts emitted weak rays of silvery starlight. The rays met at Nadia's wrapped body.
"The western shaft points precisely to the setting star pattern of Kunuum; the east to the rising of the Morning Star, the head of the eagle," Jhar had told him. "The alignment of Nadia's tomb fixes the day of her entombment for all time, for those who can read the heavens."
The priest then produced a palm-sized sphere of polished glass and placed it in the Kunuum shaft. Hurrus gazed into it and was amazed. There were the bull stars as he had never seen them before. The star that formed the tip of Kunuum's horn had several smaller orbs surrounding it. In the east, the Morning Star might have been the glow of a torch not one hundred yards away. Hurrus drew back with a start.
"It is a farsee stone," Jhar said. "It makes distant objects appear close. There is a man in Rycassa who has unlocked the secret of making them."
Hurrus scrutinized it closely between his fingers. "May I have it?" he asked. He wanted to try it from the deck of a ship. How far could he see with it? If he could see stars in the heavens, would he be able to see Epiria? It seemed to him an awesome power.
"It is yours," Jhar said. "But please, Prince, be careful with it, for it is exceedingly rare."
Now, Hurrus rested both hands on Nadia's marble slab and leaned over her body. He wore a kilt with gold-studded leather straps crossed over his chest. His eyes were red with tears, and fierce. His hair, as radiantly gold as Zarcen's wings, hung down around his face.
"Tell me, Jhar. What did the faceless man mean, 'Here is truly a Son of Kunuum'?" He could hear the words as clearly in his mind as the day they were uttered and his skin prickled at the sound.
"The faceless men are only human, Prince," Jhar said. "At best, they are imperfect interpreters of Kunuum's words. The faceless man was overcome. It happens sometimes."
"I don't believe that," Hurrus said, "for the man spoke in blood. I saw it on his veil."
"The faceless men speak in blood out of pure passion as well as untainted truth."
"What could cause such passion, if not the truth? Damn you, Priest! I must know what he meant." Hurrus slammed his fists on the marble.
His words hung in the air for a moment as Jhar considered his next carefully. The torchlight danced in the priest's black eyes no less than in the glittering bull medallion around his neck, seeming to confer life to each. Hurrus was struck by the connection and fleetingly wondered if the blind bull saw through Jhar's eyes.
"Xarhux was the last true Son of Kunuum," Jhar said hesitantly. "He was the last to be truly Bathed in Blood. I will speak to you plainly, Prince. There are those even among the Kunuumi priesthood who believe...well, they believe..."
"Out with it!" Hurrus snapped. "What do they believe?"
"That you are he," Jhar said all at once. He twittered a nervous laugh.
"That I am who?" Hurrus asked impatiently.
"Xarhux."
Hurrus laughed. "So that's what it is? Xarhux?" He turned and regarded the image of Zarcen unfolding his golden wings. Is this what the Kunuumi believed? That Xarhux reemerged out of the folds of Zarcen's wings as an exiled prince? Perhaps there was a time when Hurrus could have believed that. But those dreams lay dead and wrapped in linen on the marble slab before him. "My father was Xarhux's twin, it is true. But their divinity saved neither of them--and look at me. They tried to murder me in my bed. Apparently, being mistaken for Xarhux does not get you very far. Not around here."
"They fear you, my lord," Jhar said.
"Who fears me? Who? Out with it, Priest. The Mejadym?"
"The Mejadym love Xarhux," Jhar said. "He is a god to them."
"But do they love a man supposed by the Kunuumi to be Xarhux? Or would they hate and fear such a man? I wonder..."
"They would exalt him, if it were true," Jhar said.
"I do not feel exalted."
"Then perhaps what the Kunuumi believe is not shared by all."
"What is it the Mejadym believe?" Hurrus asked.
"They believe in Tygetia, and Tygetia alone. During the Sarian occupation, it was the Mejadym who kept Tygetia alive. While the Kunummi priesthood hid in shadows and kept Kunuum alive in our hearts, it was the Mejadym who kept him alive in fact. You saw the ruinous state of the temple?"
Hurrus nodded.
"It was the Mejadym who saved what little remained. Any Sarians who tried to bring it down were found in such a state that rumors and superstitions grew up around them. It was a vengeful Kunuum stalking those who defiled his temple, it was said. The Sarians, accurately, blamed the Mejadym, but the Mejadym themselves were a shadow. They defended not only Kunuum's temple, but all of Tygetia. The Sarians would find them, one by one, but they could not destroy them."
"In what state would these Sarians be found?" Hurrus asked.
"Torn apart," Jhar said, his medallion catching the light. It seemed to shoot sparks across the tomb. "Chewed up and spit out." He smiled uncomfortably. "Or so it was said."
"The men found on the riverbank near my home were in such a state," Hurrus noted.
"Were they?"
"And these were said to be Mejadym men. Apparently, someone else kills in the same manner..."
"The Mejadym are committed murderers," Jhar offered. "Don't forget that. When Xarhux liberated us... Well, that was when the real killing began. The Mejadym commenced a slaughter such as this land had never seen. Any Sarian they could get their hands on fell prey to them. But it was worse for Tygetians judged to have collaborated with them. Far worse. Xarhux allowed them free rein, for he loved Tygetia as much as the Mejadym did. He funded the rebuilding of the temple. His interest was...intense. After Xarhux left, the Mejadym began wearing the blue, as you see them today. But there are many more Mejadym besides the ones you see. As they were under Xarhux, they are a law unto themselves."
Hurrus had seen Mejadym men throughout Tygetia his entire life. He had always thought of them as a policing force, a stabilizing presence. Yet, the last of them he had seen lay dead in a tunnel beneath his house and slaughtered on the riverbank--all on a night when an attempt had been made on his life, and Nadia's taken.
"So you believe they might be hostile to the rule of Gyriecians? Myletos surely tolerates them, if he does not exactly embrace them."
"Forgive my saying so, but Myletos has no choice. No one rules the Mejadym, not even Myletos. He found them here when he arrived. They will remain after he leaves."
"Are they hostile to Gyriecians, though? That is my question. If I am not safe in my own bed because of them..." Hurrus clenched his teeth, feeling his anger swell in him. "Then I have some work to do."
"The Mejadym are hostile to any force that stands in opposition to Tygetia, my lord. Myletos' rule has been benign. In addition, he is Xarhux's man. I see no reason for the Mejadym to be hostile..."
"And yet I find them in a tunnel below my house, and now Nadia is dead. And not just dead, Jhar. Her eyes were torn from her head. Do you understand me? I will tell you honestly, it troubles me deeply. If being a Son of Kunuum means that you chew your enemies up and spit them out, then I am, as your faceless man believed, truly a Son of Kunuum."
"It is more than that," Jhar said. "Do not think that Kunuum is all blood and killing. The Mejadym is blood and killing. Do not confuse them. Kunuum is blind justice, Prince, one of the pillars of civilization..."
"You said Xarhux was 'Bathed in Blood'." Hurrus leaned forward on the marble slab again. "Tell me what that means. Tell me now!"
Jhar reached to his throat and anxiously rubbed his medallion. "It is the culmination of the long rigorous training every acolyte endures," he said. "In ancient days, the acolyte would become accepted into the priesthood by being bathed in the blood of the slaughtered bull, symbolizing the wisdom of Kunuum. He would stand under a grate and the blood would flow over him. Today, the temple is in ruins and the way is blocked."
"Xarhux undertook this rigorous training?"
"Xarhux," Jhar began in an even and forceful tone, "had conquered the world, Prince. There are shortcuts afforded such men."
"How was it done, then? Did he stand under the bull?"
"Now, we sprinkle the acolyte's head with a few drops of blood. It is...it is impure...it is false. I hate to say it, but...damn it all, it is false!" Jhar closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, a man forced to confront some hidden shame.
"I wish to be Bathed in Blood," Hurrus declared after a moment. "Just as Xarhux was, so shall I be."
Jhar shook his head hopelessly. "I tell you, it is merely symbolic now, Prince. It is the sprinkling of a few drops of blood. It is meaningless."
"Xarhux's 'intense interest', as you say, was in some 'meaningless' ritual? I do not believe it. I do not believe you."
Jhar spread his hands, smiling sadly. Beneath his quiet, studious bearing, Hurrus sensed a strong man, but distant and sly. His was a character shaped by hard and dangerous times. The High Priest and ancient Tygetia were, in Hurrus' mind, as inextricably bound as the incomprehensible picture-words and the dreadful sounds that slipped from a priest's tongue reading them. He knew he could never understand either of them fully.
"I hold nothing back, Prince Hurrus," Jhar said. "If I could make you Xarhux, I would. Come now. Perhaps this is not the time for these matters. Perhaps it is not prudent to be speaking of so much blood over the body of your dear loved one, in the sight of the gods."
Hurrus laughed. "No one's blood ran hotter than Nadia's, Jhar. She was no wilting flower, believe me, to blanch at the prospect of spilling blood." He laid a hand on either side of her wrapped head, holding it between his palms like a magic crystal. "She brought me out of Epiria when evil men would have killed her for the chance to dash my brains out against a wall. Just as the Mejadym and your Kunuumi priesthood preserved Tygetia through times of darkness, Nadia preserved Epiria in me through years of exile. I will return, Jhar," Hurrus vowed, looking up from Nadia's corpse. "You believe her spirit shies from blood? Well, she has seen nothing yet, for I shall show her blood, the blood of all who have wronged us. She will find no peace here, no peace among your stars." He gestured dismissively toward the ceiling, festooned with the myriad souls unleashed from Kunuum's fist. "She will find her peace under Gyriecian skies, cradled in the arms of Gyriecian gods."
"Surely, you are not suggesting removing her body from this tomb?"
Hurrus knew it was a transgression of some sort. Tygetian mumbo-jumbo, Nadia would have called it. "This is your world, Jhar. Not hers. This one will not be staying long."
With that, Hurrus turned and started up the steps out of the tomb. Jhar pulled the torch from the wall and followed, leaving Nadia in darkness.
Outside, King Myletos, Queen Berenice, Garon and Antona waited. Standing at their side was Xandros and all the armed men of Hurrus' companion body. The guards Hurrus had placed at the entrance to Nadia's tomb stood silent and stiff as the prince passed them. Zarcen's wings had spread across the sky; it was full daylight now.
Myletos' beautiful Gyriecian wife, Berenice, approached Hurrus and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. "She is a star above now," she said.
Hurrus did not pause under her hand. "Not in this sky, she isn't." From the outside, Nadia's tomb was much the same as inside, writ large. A thirty-foot-high Zarcen decorated the eastern face of the pyramid, Kunuum the west. A golden cap glittered at the peak. Hurrus walked a few steps toward his men, and then turned back. "In Epiria," he began, noting the sympathy in the eyes that gazed upon him change to looks of incredulousness and a little fear, "I will build her a tomb to rival the greatest kings of all Gyriece. I will erect it next to the monuments I build for my father, Arrhus, and his wife, Eunice, my mother. The people will call the work of my hands a marvel and will travel from all over the Middle Sea to gaze upon it. Xandros," he turned to his trusted second, "call out the men of my Eagle Corps. Today we will begin to find out who returns with me to Epiria."
\*
"Oh, Jorem..." Kerraunus cooed into the Mejadym leader's ear. The man did not stir. The wiry hairs that sprouted from Jorem's ear brushed Kerraunus' lips. He grimaced and jerked his head back, close to retching. He was a foul, hairy beast, this one.
"Jorem..." he tried again, a soothing singsong. That one got it. Jorem's eyes snapped open and he gave a start.
"Oh, no, don't move," Kerraunus said quickly. "The blade you feel at your throat is sharp as a razor. One move will slice you to the bone."
Kerraunus smiled when Jorem strained to see Kerraunus' face with his eyes only, the whites dazzling in the darkness. It gave him a terrified, animalistic look that Kerraunus found pleasing. With the blade kissing the apple of his throat, Jorem kept his head very still. A quick learner, Kerraunus thought. An obedient man, when motivated.
"You were sleeping the dreamless sleep of the innocent," Kerraunus said softly, "which seems peculiar to me, for a man of such ill-intent. I find it hard to believe that you are so free of conscience that your dreams do not torment you. And yet, here you lie, sleeping like a babe."
"What do you want from me, Kerraunus?" Jorem asked. Wheels turned in his eyes now. Men were so transparent.
"Oh, I can hear the bile there, Jorem. I'm starting to believe perhaps you don't like me." Jorem's eyes darted to the opposite side of his bed. Kerraunus followed his gaze and saw the Mejadym weapons, a sheathed short sword hanging by a strap on the wall, a fighting staff propped up next to it. "Don't get any ideas. Your house is mine tonight. Outside that door behind me, you'll find my men. Snake men. Down in your yard, more snake men. In that little guardhouse at your gate... Well, you get the idea..."
"What have you done with my people?" Jorem asked.
"You have no people, Jorem. Your people are mine. You would do well to remember that."
"The Mejadym serve at your pleasure, Great One," Jorem said.
"You should don a mask and intone that line on the stage, you old Satyr," Kerraunus said with an unintended smile. He had half a mind to call the whole affair off. A man who could lie that boldly deserved a long life.
"But you know it is true..."
"It is true that you belong in the theater, Jorem. I hear tell you staged a comedy in Alaun the other night, a real side-splitter as I hear it..."
"Someone interfered--"
"I understand one of your men was found...How was that now? Oh, yes, it was told me that one of your men was found garrotted with his own yellowwood staff. Oh, that's precious! That is precious. I offered the Prathian a job, and--by the fangs of Cretis!--I wish he had accepted. When I heard that, I thought 'Well done, young man! Well done!' My own snake men, regrettably, don't exhibit anywhere near that kind of imagination. They are all so...so...I don't know. Unimaginative, I guess is the word."
"There were forces in Alaun working against us, Kerraunus, attempting to stop us--"
"That was me, you lackwit fool! Did you think I would stand by while you lay Hurrus' murder at my feet?" Jorem's eyes darted toward his weapons again. Kerraunus let him feel cold steel to encourage him to mind his manners. "You wanted the bodies of Prathian assassins to show Myletos, didn't you? For who but I would hire them?"
Jorem shook his head, his eyes wide. "That is not how it was...""Certainly not you and your pure-as-sand-blasted-bone Mejadym. And I was supposed to unleash my Corps of the Snake Man to save my own skin? Perhaps that is closer to the truth of it?"
"To make you king!" Jorem said. "Tygetia for Tygetians!"
Kerraunus sniffed a laugh. "Save your slogans for your fanatical recruits. Do you think Myletos is a fool? He may be a peaceable man, but he is no weakling... Without your meddling, Hurrus would already be dead. Do you think anyone can kill him now? He will be surrounded by an army..." Kerraunus' hand began to shake. Jorem, flat on his back, strained to peer down his cheeks at the unsteady blade. "Damn you! With Hurrus gone, I could have talked Garon into giving me his inheritance..." He suddenly pulled Jorem to his feet. "I need to show you who is in charge here."
In his Mejadym garb and his heavy black beard, Jorem had always appeared a big, bearish man, but Kerraunus saw now that he was all lean rippling muscle head to foot. His chest and flat stomach were covered with an inch-thick layer of wiry black hair and his beard seemed to meld seamlessly into it. Kerraunus had seen him fight and knew the man was a terror with staff and sword, blindingly quick and bearishly powerful. For just an instant, Kerraunus feared he had made a mistake entering the man's room alone. But he held no staff now and had a sharp knife, not in his hand, but pointed at his back. He had to know Kerraunus would use it, as surely he would.
Kerraunus pushed him through the door of his open balcony, through wispy drapes that fluttered in the night breeze. When he touched him, Kerraunus felt under his fingers a mass of welts. He saw that Jorem's back was a tangled mesh of raised flesh, left by some long-ago lash. He filed that away for future use. No matter how old, he knew a lashing that terrible left marks in the mind as well as in the flesh.
"There are your people," Kerraunus said.
Down in the yard below them stood seven of Jorem's household guard, all dressed in the blue and yellow of the Mejadym. Each man stood under the sword of a white-cloaked snake-man, with over a dozen more held in reserve, commanded by Kerraunus' man, Samos. With a fist-thump to his chest, he saluted his lord when Kerraunus appeared at the balustrade.
"You have brought us the pig himself, Great One," Samos declared.
"I have brought you the Lord of the Swine," Kerraunus said to the chuckles of his men. "He will now stand in judgment of his people. Seven men, Jorem. You will choose..." Kerraunus considered, "three that will die."
"I will do no such thing," Jorem said.
"Three or one," Kerraunus said, lifting Jorem's chin with the point of his blade.
Jorem jerked his head away. "I will choose only two," he said fiercely. "You and me!" He leapt out of the reach of the razor sharp blade and squared on his captor, fire in his eye.
Kerraunus had seen this coming. He uttered a sharp cry and six of his men burst through the door of the bed chamber and surrounded the Mejadym leader. Defying Kerraunus was worse than mere suicide; it was pointless folly.
"Now choose!" Kerraunus snapped. "Three men die. I leave four alive--not to please you, but only to show that I am just."
"You call this justice?" Jorem spat at his feet. "I call it cold-blooded murder."
"And who would know better than you?"
Jorem stood to his full height, straight and tall. "Then I choose one," he said. "I choose me in place of the others."
Kerraunus turned to the men below. "Kill them all," he called. "The lord fails to choose. Now all must die."
"No!" Jorem cried.
"It is too late." Kerraunus nodded to his men.
Nefer was the first to draw his blade. It left a red trail across the Mejadym man's throat. Such a simple, effortless act. The next was Ramsut, the plunderer, followed by Imher, the strong. With each death, Jorem's face became a study in stone. Three more followed. The last man broke free of Ramma's grasp and took to his heels across the dark field. The snake-men moved to stop him.
"Leave him!" Kerraunus cried. "He shall live to tell the others, so all the Mejadym will know what happens when they meddle in my affairs. Just as their lord now understands."
"You truly are a snake," Jorem said. Was that a slight quiver in his lips?
"We will kill that last one later," Kerraunus replied. "Whenever it proves convenient for us."
"You would do better to kill all now, for I vow that you will have to kill us all later."
"That is a worry for another time," Kerraunus said. "Tonight, I have left you..." he began counting with the point of his blade, "one... two... three... four... five... Six dead Mejadym. We will leave them for you to clean up. You will probably want to bury them according to some secret Mejadym-y ceremony...or whatever it is you do. Hmm, I wonder what sprouts where Mejadym are planted?"
"Certainly a fruit you will find bitter, Snake Man."
"No doubt," said Kerraunus.
Hurrus held the farsee stone at arm's length. He drew it towards his eye until the leaping porpoise came into focus. It might have been ten feet before him. With a start, he pulled the stone away and once again beheld the plain as it was, a teeming field of seven thousand training soldiers, no man distinguishable from the next. The porpoise had vanished.
Tentatively, he gazed through the stone again and was amazed. He handed it to Xandros.
"Ah!" the big man cried, when he found his focus. "I see Deon's leaping porpoise as if it was next to me." He looked without the aid of the stone and saw only the teeming mass. With the stone, the painted image of the porpoise stood out in exquisite detail on Deon's shield. The shield was strapped to his back as he walked his horse across the face of a demi-talon of foot soldiers standing at attention.
"It is a marvel," Xandros said, handing the stone back to Hurrus.
"I want more of these," said Hurrus, looking through the stone again. This time he gazed beyond the training plain. He could see the silver thread of the river in the distance. He was even able to make out individual fronds of the trees lining its banks. Men were drawing water into an irrigation canal with a bucket suspended under a tripod. "I would give these to my scouts and to all of my commanders. With these, I would be invincible."
"Perhaps the stones would give us an advantage," Xandros said. "But it is men that make us invincible." Hurrus saw him wince as he added, "And we will need a passel more good ones for that."
Hurrus followed his gaze down to Deon's foot soldiers. They were arrayed in a block of sixteen files of sixteen ranks, nearly 300 men in all. As he watched, the front ranks lowered their pikes and the men began marching forward. They had gone no more than a few steps when Deon called a halt, the phalanx in total disarray.
"That is one of the groups of new recruits," Xandros told him.
"They look like soldiers at least," Hurrus said, noting their new uniforms, the bronze breastplates and crimson-crested brass helmets, scarlet cloaks, large round shields and twelve-foot-long spears. The money for the new equipment and the new recruits had come from Myletos who would deny Antona nothing. This was as much her army as Hurrus'. New men joined it daily, along with cavalry mounts and wagonloads of weapons and armor. Just as quickly, Hurrus rid it of the most unsavory elements until his Corps of the Eagle Man was alarmingly heavy with green soldiers.
"But they cannot even level their pikes without braining the man in front of them," Xandros observed. "Forget marching and changing formation."
"Patience, my dear Xandros. They just need practice. It will come to them."
"Perhaps they would be capable of planting their pikes in the ground and resisting a charge, I suppose. They are brave enough lads."
Deon had them raise their pikes again. He dismounted and took a pike from one of the soldiers, raising it and lowering it, turning about face, marching before them. Through the farsee stone, Hurrus could see that his face was red with rage. He could almost read his lips, and what spewed from them was not pretty.
Before looking away from the stone, Hurrus surveyed the foot soldiers. They stood straight, unbowed, even under Deon's withering tongue. He could see nothing of their faces but their eyes, and they glared fiercely. "They are the stuff of victory, Xandros. Anyone can be taught to level a pike. But these men, these new men of mine, have hearts of lions."
Hurrus had concentrated his recruitment efforts among Gyriecians. To his surprise, most of the new men were second, third and fourth born sons of the soldiers of Xarhux, those who had come to Tygetia with Myletos. Firstborn boys, Hurrus found, future inheritors of great wealth, were soft men, useless and timid. Their brothers were bold glory-seekers. They would fight for Hurrus; he saw it in their eyes. "Your brothers inherit Tygetia," he had told them. "You will inherit Gyriece!"
"The new may have hearts of lions, but the old, I'm afraid, have hearts of jackals." Xandros nodded toward a mounted squadron. "The First Talon of Horse, I think, is a total loss."
The First Talon of Horse was easily distinguishable by the gaudy black-and-white striped Ashurian tiger pelts that adorned their horse's backs and the leopard skins the men wore over their shoulders. One hundred of them hovered around the drilling phalanx, jeering at the foot soldiers. Even from the hilltop, Hurrus could hear their mocking laughter.
"They fancy themselves an elite," Xandros said.
"Perhaps as Tepes had trained them--" Hurrus began, but Xandros cut him off.
"They are trained for nothing but chasing down camp whores and plundering baggage trains!"
Hurrus smiled. It was the same line he had heard Xandros spit in their faces when he had taken away their bows and javelins and re-equipped them with lances, bronze corselets and greaves.
"Now, you will cut down men," he had told them.
"But Sarians are whores, most of them," their squadron commander, a sullen man named Temet had shot back, to a chorus of laughter and jeers from the hundred. Temet had been one of Tepes' favored officers. When Tepes had left the Corps, Temet had refused to leave the cavalry where he had established his own little fiefdom among Tepes' former soldiers. He enjoyed a great deal of loyalty within the ranks and caused Xandros more than a little frustration.
"I am not building you to fight Sarians," Xandros had snapped at them, "but to fight Gyriecians!"
That had quieted them, at least until they had overcome their fear.
"Look at them," Xandros said crossly. "Even now, they do not wear the armor I gave them." He took the farsee stone from Hurrus' hand and gazed through it disapprovingly. "On whose order do they not equip themselves as I commanded them?"
"Tepes used the First Talon as he used all of his cavalry, for scouting and raiding," Hurrus said. "They fought with missile weapons and dashed away at the first sign of danger."
"I am doubtful I can make a good heavy cavalry out of them," Xandros said. "They are a squadron of reavers, not soldiers."
"Perhaps they will request transfer when I ask them to deliver me victory rather than plunder."
Xandros gave Hurrus a sidelong glance. "If by 'request transfer' you mean 'desert at first opportunity', this would not surprise me."
Hurrus laughed and stowed the farsee stone safely away in a saddlebag. "Come, my friend," he said. "Let us go down and have a closer look at our troops."
They heeled their horses and started down the slope towards the vast training ground. When they arrived before Deon's demi-talon, shouts rang out over the field, announcing the arrival of the Eagle Man.
"Hail, Eagle Man!" Deon shouted.
Other officers picked up the cry, officers behind him and around him, unseen among forests of vertical pikes and bounding horsemen.
"Hail, Eagle Man!" the cry went up all over the training field.
Hurrus, with Xandros at his side, rode slowly among his men. Pikes and shields clattered, horses nickered and thousands of feet stamped the ground as, one by one, units began standing to attention. A stillness snaked across the field.
Hurrus rode along the front of Deon's green demi-talon. It was one of the last units to come to a halt as the men belatedly found their places in the ranks, the maneuvers not yet natural to them. The soldiers stood stiffly at attention. Suddenly, out of the rigid silence, a single pike began to fall forward like a felled tree. It landed just in front of Hurrus' horse. The soldier whose grasp it had escaped was too frightened to retrieve it. He continued standing at attention, staring straight ahead through his helmet's eyeholes, his fallen pike straddling the great prince's path. It lay there like a shameful secret exposed.
Hurrus heard men snickering behind him, Temet's First Horse. Xandros shot them a warning glance, to little avail.
"Looks like a brigade of shit-shovelers to me," Temet said in a loud voice. He looked at his men and laughter burst from his hundred mounted troopers. Other nearby soldiers picked it up and twittered derisively at Deon's raw recruits.
Hurrus dismounted. He bent down and picked up the pike. He examined it in his hands, tested its strength and the feel of the thing. Satisfied, he handed it to the soldier.
"Thank you, my lord," the young soldier said. "Forgive me, but I...I dropped it," he admitted nervously. "It slipped from my hands."
"The next time it slips from your hands," Hurrus said, "let it be because it has been made slick with the blood of our enemy."
"Yes, my lord," the soldier said.
"Take off your helmet so I can see your face, young man."
The soldier pulled off his helmet and Hurrus saw a man of about his own age, eyes fierce and proud, a wisp of a beard covering a strong, square jaw. He wore a strip of white cloth bound around his forehead.
"What is your name?"
"I am Aryk," the young soldier said.
"A good, strong Gyriecian name. From where does your family hail?"
"We are Irrylian, my lord."
"Aryk of Irrylia," Hurrus smiled. "I am Hurrus of Epiria."
"Yes, my lord," the soldier said uncertainly.
"How do you come to be in Tygetia?"
"My family lost our lands when Demetrius took the country. My father fought for King Myletos in Xarhux's army, so we came to Tygetia."
"And you want to be a soldier, like your father?"
The lad nodded. Hurrus saw a flash of passion cross his countenance. "His armor and weapons had forever hung on our wall, my lord. I grew up fascinated by these things. I was especially interested in a particular dent in his shield, obviously from some mighty blow. I imagined all sorts of great adventures, but the truth was beyond my imagining. My father told me it was from a battle in the Eastern Lands, against Painted Men, as he called them. Do you know of this race of men, Prince?"
"I have heard many tales," Hurrus said. "But of Painted Men, no..."
"My father told me the Painted Men tattoo themselves from head to toe. They have great fangs and carry the skulls of their enemies dangling from their belts. Can you imagine that? So, yes, I want to fight as my father fought. I want to tell of my own adventures..."
"His own adventures--shoveling shit out of the stables!"
The voice was from Temet or one of his horsemen, followed by derisive gales of laughter, grown bold. Xandros made to move towards the group, but Hurrus held up his hand, not taking his eye from Aryk of Irrylia.
"You shall fight creatures even more fearsome than these painted head-hunters, my friend," Hurrus told him. "You shall fight Gyriecians. I will need every brave man. Are you such a man, Aryk?"
"I...I can't accurately say. I long to be..."
"If you long it, you shall be it," Hurrus said fiercely. "You stay with me and we will reclaim your family's land. Do you understand me?"
Aryk's face lit up, but just as quickly, a shadow passed over it.
"Do not doubt me, young man!" Hurrus snapped. He mounted his horse and from the lofty perch turned to face the entire assemblage. "Do not doubt what we will accomplish together," he cried at the top of his lungs. "Do not doubt the great things men like Aryk of Irrylia will achieve with this army! Do not doubt it!"
With that, Hurrus reined his horse around. Xandros gave the order for the training to resume and in an instant, the field was as bustling with activity as before.
"We have a long way to go, Hurrus," Xandros said.
"The men lack only the taste of victory," Hurrus replied. "They must wade through the blood of our enemies before they will believe in themselves. This man Aryk will fight like a demon, he just doesn't know it yet."
"What should be done about the First Horse?"
"Send them to Tepes," said Hurrus sharply. "All of it. They are useless to me. Tepes' men corrupt my corps."
The Corps of the Eagle Man was already down by more than a quarter of the strength it had been when Hurrus took command of it. What was another talon of horse? He remembered the silence that greeted him upon taking command. The corps was slowly becoming his, but it was not a painless process. He would far rather have fewer of his own men than a multitude of Tepes'.
He and Xandros paused at the base of the hill and watched the training from a position where their presence would not be so keenly felt. Hurrus paid particular attention to Aryk of Irrylia. From where they sat, he could pick him out easily, even without a farsee stone. He watched him hold his pike vertically while they marched and then level it. Well done! The phalanx then resumed its advance in attack formation. They were already making progress. Hurrus winced when one of the lad's pikes dipped too far and its point stuck in the ground, sending a shudder through the advancing ranks, making a wreck of the formation.
"It will come to them," Hurrus said to Xandros, who shook his head sadly.
At that moment, Hurrus noticed the First Talon of Horse hastily assembling nearby. He watched the mounted men curiously, as with smirking faces they quickly formed a wedge, one hundred troopers strong. While they had not equipped themselves with the spear and armor Xandros had commanded of them, Hurrus saw that they carried the deadly sopiks, a curved cavalry sword that even Tepes' mainly missile-equipped troopers carried. As a unit, they unsheathed them and held them upright in the ready position, the blades flashing in the sun. Hurrus looked to the tangled phalanx. A great gap had opened where the soldier's pike had become lodged in the ground. He looked back at the wedge of First Horse chargers, Temet at the point. The wedge was an arrow aimed at the disordered footmen. He saw what was going to happen, but was helpless to stop it.
The First Horse started walking forward and then suddenly sprang into a gallop. Swords held high, the horsemen charged in a solid line toward the unsuspecting recruits. They heeled their mounts to top speed and screamed their war cry. The boys of the phalanx turned their faces in terror to see the charge coming right for them. Unable to present a solid wall to the attack, they threw down their pikes and fled in all directions. The cavalry cleaved into them, scattering them like a bevy of flushed quail. They slapped the panicked soldiers with the flats of their swords. The footmen tried to duck under them, falling to the ground, arms shielding their heads. The phalanx was utterly ruined. The First Horse turned and galloped away, their laughter rising even above the sound of the thundering hooves.
Xandros' eyes bulged. "I will do more than send them back to Tepes," he cried. "I will have their heads!" His face was even redder than Deon's who unleashed upon his phalanx a brutal tongue-lashing as one by one his soldiers began picking themselves up from the ground.
Hurrus held out his arm, barring Xandros from rash action. "We will do better than that," he said. "Aryk of Irrylia will have their heads. By gods, he will!"
This was an opportunity, and a crossroads. The men of the phalanx would become soldiers now, confident of victory, or sullen recruits who expected nothing but humiliation and defeat.
"I want 300 silver plated shields," Hurrus told Xandros. "Emboss them with the image of the eagle, wings spread wide. However many craftsmen it takes, at whatever cost, I want them by tomorrow morning." Xandros looked perplexed. Hurrus continued before he could raise an objection. "Deliver them to this field in the morning and assemble my companion body. Tomorrow we fight."
The next morning not only were the shields and the twenty men of his companion body waiting for him but Tepes and his entourage, draped in their leopard skins, came riding over the hilltop. Even from a distance, Hurrus could see the scowl on his face and he sighed. He had not supposed that whatever business brought him here would be pleasant.
He rode up with his men and Hurrus strode forward to meet him. Tepes gave him no word of greeting. He surveyed the training field.
"I'm surprised to see you have an army left," Tepes said, looking down on Hurrus from his mount. "I must have had half of your corps coming to me for reassignment."
"Only half? Well, it is only because your men miss you so that I send them..."
Tepes ignored the remark. "Kerraunus won't take them, so I have been forced to send them all to Garon. I never thought to have a refugee problem in my own army. Needless to say, Bellog is not happy. He wants to know why the Corps of the Eagle Man bleeds soldiers at such an alarming rate."
"Clever of you to put them in Garon's corps where they can't do much harm. I rather think that is what I would have done with them. I'm certain parades will suit them better than battles."
Hurrus could see Tepes bristle. "I left the Corps of the Eagle Man a proud and tested fighting force. That is more than I can say for the green boys I hear you are recruiting to replace my men."
"I believe they are my men, Tepes, and I replace them as I see fit. We were about to begin an exercise you might be interested in. I hope you can stay and watch."
Tepes merely narrowed his eyes. Hurrus turned his back to him and made his way to the wagons of the silver shields and his waiting companions. He mounted and started down the hill. Xandros and his men filed in alongside him, followed by the clattering wagons. Tepes and his entourage grudgingly brought up the rear.
After a moment, Hurrus heard faint cries from the plain below.
"Hail, Eagle Man!"
The cries rose sporadically from all over the field. The call was picked up by others and grew in intensity. Hurrus straightened and was about to raise his hand in acknowledgement when he realized the adulation was directed not at him but at Tepes. He saw the men of the First Talon of Horse rising upon their mounts, eager to make their voices heard. Hurrus looked back and saw Tepes grinning his fiendish smile. Having begun to cheer for Hurrus, the new recruits fell silent and looked about in confusion.
Tepes had ridden up alongside Hurrus. "Perhaps they are my men," he said close to Hurrus' ear and rode on ahead with his hand raised, soaking up the adulation.
"My lord," Xandros said through clenched teeth. "You cannot let this stand. These men are cowards and traitors. You must allow me to arrest them at once."
Deon rode at Hurrus' left. He would do more than arrest them, Deon would. "Let us lay them low, Prince," he said, with fire in his eye.
"Do not be so rash, Xandros. Deon, set aside your spear. I must win the respect of this army. Right now, I command the Corps of the Eagle Man because the crown of Tygetia wills it. I must make it so that it is the army that wills it. Today, we begin.
"Deon, take my companion body and distribute the silver shields to the men of your phalanx. Replace your own shields with them and intersperse yourselves among the first four ranks. Your job is to bolster the young men, to give them brave hearts, courage beyond their experience. The horse will fly at you and the young men will want to fall away in confusion. See to it that they do not. Today, we will make soldiers of them. Today, we will show them victory."
Deon and Xandros led the twenty to the place where the phalanx was training. Soon, the men's round bronze shields lay heaped in the wagons and they stood in battle array of row upon row of gleaming silver shields, flashing like mirrors in the sun, their pikes bristling above them. Hurrus found Tepes chatting amiably with the men of the First Horse. They fell silent when Hurrus approached.
"I'm glad you are here, Tepes," he said. "You will soon see your horsemen in action." He felt like he had entered some kind of strange menagerie. Temet's men sat slump shouldered upon their black-and-white striped tiger pelts in their leopard skin capes. It was enough to make a Gyriecian laugh. Or cry. Either way, this was the last day Hurrus would have to tolerate them, but he wanted to send them off with special memories.
Temet regarded the prince with a look of sullen arrogance. Hurrus adopted an amiable tone.
"Yesterday, you taught our new recruits a great lesson, Temet," Hurrus began. "You exposed a deficiency that perhaps would have gone unnoticed without your intervention. The new men need to learn to stand up to the charge of an elite force such as Tepes' First Talon of Horse. I ask you and your men to train with us today. I want to show the new men how to meet your charge."
Temet laughed contemptuously. "That I would like to see!" he spat. "They scattered easily enough yesterday. I daresay, some of them might still be running."
Hurrus chuckled, appreciative of a good jest. "My new recruits are still green," he told Tepes. "They perform shamefully in the face of your veteran troopers."
"No doubt," Tepes said, his bushy brow furrowed in his usual mischievous scowl, his lips grinning. "What say you, Temet? Shall you have another go at Hurrus' new boys? It appears he has given them mirrors to powder their noses in," he added, amused by the line of gleaming silver shields.
Hurrus shrugged his shoulders. "It is only to give them courage," he said humbly, amid a chorus of laughing derision.
"Perhaps they use them to brush their pretty golden curls," said one of Temet's smooth-headed minions to more raucous laughter.
"Show us where to line up," Temet said. "But remember, we don't hold back. If any of your boys get hurt, it shall not be on our heads."
"We may frighten them to death," one of the gang shouted amid the laughter.
Hurrus left them and rode slowly before the arrayed phalanx. Deon and Xandros had informed the men what was in store for them today and they gazed anxiously at Temet's horsemen as they lined up one hundred yards across the field. Beyond them, the rest of the corps continued to train, oblivious to the contest between the horse and foot. The sound of clashing steel filled the air, interspersed with the cries of officers and the tramping of feet and galloping hooves. Hurrus gazed down at the men. Though their faces were masked in bronze, he could see the fear in their eyes. But he also saw determination. He picked out Aryk of Irrylia and fixed him with a fierce eye. Aryk's return gaze did not falter, as Hurrus knew it would not.
"Today is a new day," he told the men in a loud voice so all could hear. "Yesterday, you shrank from the galloping charge. That is only natural for new men. Yesterday, you were new men, easily shaken. But what was natural yesterday is unthinkable today, for today you are the First Men of the First Talon of Foot, my vanguard, my point. You are the crux of every attack. You are the Silver Shields!" There was a shudder through the ranks. As Hurrus' eye lingered on one face after another, he noticed the familiar figures of his companion body, interspersed among them. Xandros nodded slowly when Hurrus caught his eye. Deon bowed his helmeted head. There was not a recruit who could falter with such men beside them. Hurrus went on, "You bear the image of the Eagle on your shields. Look about you. If you could see you as I do, and know what I have in store for you... By Zarcen, god of the Morning Star, you would swell with pride. There is not man or horse that can break your line. Yesterday, you shrank. But as of this day, when your enemies see the Silver Shields march over a rise, their blood will run cold. Your comrades will take heart, and all will say 'The Silver Shields have arrived!' From this day on, I say let our enemies come. The Silver Shields say 'Let them come!'"
A cry arose among the young foot soldiers. They pumped their pikes in the air, cheering, while others held their shields high. The polished surfaces caught the sun and shot rays of light in every direction. Hurrus saw Deon raise his arms, while Xandros began banging the shaft of his pike on his shield. The rest of the phalanx followed his lead and soon the entire training ground reverberated with a deep rhythmic pounding as from the drums of a mighty host. Hurrus looked across the field and saw Temet's horsemen, sitting dumbly, watching. They had not lost their smirking expressions. Let them come, Hurrus thought. The rest of the training field had grown still, watching.
Hurrus accompanied Tepes to the hillside where they could watch from a safe distance. An eerie quiet had fallen over the field, broken only by the commencement of a drumbeat emanating from the rear of the phalanx. The unit had to turn to face the horsemen, a maneuver fraught with peril.
"Surely you're not going to allow the spilling of blood, my prince," Tepes said with a sly look.
An officer's voice rose above the drum as the phalanx began to turn in place. Hurrus noticed a shuddering among the vertical pikes. He had not expected the move to be neat and easy, but...He felt a clammy sweat break out on his forehead.
"I do not encourage my men to kill one another, if that's what you mean," Hurrus said, his eyes locked on the turning phalanx. The horsemen began walking forward, then cantering. Hurrus gripped his horse's reins in an iron fist. "I understand accidents happen, however."
"I see one about to happen now," Tepes said.
Hurrus hoped his footmen would remember. They were Silver Shields now and not just an untrained mass of green boys. The horsemen broke into a trot, swords at their sides. The drum pounded and the soldiers marched, struggling to stay in formation as they turned. He could hear vertical pikes begin to clatter together as the men, especially those on the outside of the turn, began to falter. The unit was breaking apart. A wide gap yawned in the center of the line. If the horsemen struck now, they would slam right into the flanks of the front rank of pikemen. They would never turn and level their pikes in time. Never. He could see Xandros manfully holding his men together. Perhaps it was too much. Perhaps he had been expecting too much. "Faster, faster, faster..." Hurrus urged under his breath.
"What is that you say, Prince?" Tepes asked.
Hurrus pursed his lips and made no reply. The horsemen broke into a gallop. They raised their swords high. The sound of the drum and the marching feet was swallowed by their unearthly war cry.
"Oh, they are fine-looking men!" Tepes cried as the cavalry thundered toward the widening gap. "Don't you think so, Prince?"
The footmen looked up in terror at the charging horse. They tensed and Hurrus could see that they wanted to bolt. The companions would not allow it. Xandros used his great strength to fling men into position, while Deon and the others barked orders at the tops of their lungs. Distinctly, he heard one of the companions cry, "Remember who you are!" Finally, through force of will alone, they got the unit turned to face the charge head-on.
"NOW!" the companions cried. With a deep-throated roar that Hurrus could feel reverberate in his chest, the men braced themselves and thrust their pikes forward until the entire front of the phalanx bristled in an unbroken mass of deadly spear points.
Hurrus clenched his fist in the air. "They did it," he cried.
Now it was the cavalry's turn to break in terror. Confronted by the masses of spears, the horses wheeled frantically, eyes rolling, throwing their riders. Slamming into the ground with bone-crunching force, the men of the First Horse rolled in the dust. Horses in the center of the attacking wedge skidded and reared in panic, throwing men, Temet among them, headlong into the phalanx. They flew over the tops of the spears and crashed against a row of interlocked silver shields. Their horses fled riderless into a maelstrom of swirling dust.
The phalanx had held.
Once again, a great cry rose from the infantrymen, this time a cry of triumph. The men held their pikes high. A single voice rose above the others. "Let them come!" the voice cried in jubilation. Soon others joined in until the entire body of the Silver Shields cried as one. "Let them come! Let them come!"
Though Tepes' ear was mere feet from his lips, Hurrus had to shout to make himself heard. "What you saw there was no accident, Tepes."
"That was no true test, Prince. The First Talon of Horse is not designed for charging armored spearmen," Tepes said.
"It is designed for chasing down camp whores, I believe," Hurrus replied, remembering Xandros' words. "Make sure you take them with you when you leave here. I will not have them sully my army."
Hurrus started slowly down the hill. Seeing him, the Silver Shields began cheering wildly. Spontaneously there arose from them shouts of "Hail, Eagle Man! Hail, Eagle Man!" and Hurrus' heart leapt when he saw that this time they cried out for him.
Several of Temet's men lay unconscious where they had fallen at the feet of the phalanx. Others lay nearby grimly nursing bruised bones. Temet himself lay sprawled atop two men of the Shields, one of them none other than Aryk of Irrylia.
"I see leopards lie among the eagles today," Hurrus quipped to peals of outrageous laughter.
Aryk angrily shoved Temet's limp form from off of him and his fallen companion. Covered in dust, both men rose to their feet. With a grin, Hurrus saw that while one was Aryk, the other was Deon, angry as a hornet but no worse for having had a man fall on top of him. He gave Temet a good solid kick in the ribs, though the First Horse leader was in no condition to appreciate it.
"I didn't expect them to fly at us through the air," he groused, brushing himself off. "But we held, Prince," he added, looking up. "By the gods, we held firm."
"And what of you, Aryk?" Hurrus peered down at the lad. "Did you stand fast?"
Aryk of Irrylia met Hurrus' gaze with a look of abiding pride and strength. "The Silver Shields always stand their ground, my lord. There is no other way."
"Stand or die, is that it?" Hurrus asked.
"Let them come," Aryk said, and a smile fit for a giant spread across his young face.
The dead were gone when they arrived at the village. Even the living had vanished.
Ten man-high sharpened stakes jutting out of the ground marked the place of the dead, and ten freshly covered graves made it obvious where they had gone. Where the living had got to was anyone's guess.
Coronea knew at once what it meant. "Shadow Riders have been here," she said.
Shadow Riders. The name sent a shudder through Xanthippus. An imperceptible shudder, he hoped. As far as the Epirians knew, he and Nydeon were slaves in the service of the Irrylians. What could Shadow Riders mean to them?
If they made Xanthippus uneasy, however, the mere mention of the name made the Epirian outlaws furious.
Their leader, a gaunt man in a woolen cloak named Gorgeo, rode forward and examined the stakes. They had been cut from trees thick as a man's arm, stripped of bark and freshly planted, their points blackened by smears of blood.
The outlaw band had stopped in this village on their way north. "We had merely watered our horses here and drunk from their well," Gorgeo said.
Nearby stood a smoldering farmhouse. There was nothing left of it but a stone foundation and a jumble of charred timbers. Two of the Epirians had leapt down from their horses and chased a squealing pig that was still penned in its yard. Other structures of mud brick bore black fingers of soot on their lintels where flames had shot from the windows. Now, lazy tendrils of smoke twisted through them from their gutted interiors.
Gorgeo dismounted and thrust his spear into the ground where it projected from the earth like another of the stakes that surrounded him. He went down to one knee and bowed his head. The other rebels -- there were thirty of them altogether -- lowered their faces out of respect, whether for the dead or for their leader, Xanthippus could not tell.
Gorgeo stood and yanked his spear from the earth. "We will rest here," he said.
The man looked like he needed rest. Gorgeo was smaller than Xanthippus remembered from the attack, as all men appear smaller when they're not pointing a weapon at your chest, but now he saw that he was thin as a rail with sunken eyes and a good four days' growth of stubbly beard covering his sharp jaw. The band had been operating on Irrylian soil for the past week and from what Xanthippus had gleaned from their conversation there had not been much sleeping in the enemy's territory.
But it was all enemy territory, as far as the rebel band was concerned. To them, the enemy was wherever Demetrius claimed his dominion. They might have been back in Epiria now where they could find friends among the towns and villages, but they were no less hunted. Still, here, at least, they felt comfortable enough to rest, even if it was in the shadow of their pursuers' handiwork.
Over the past three days of their ride out of the pine wood where he had been captured, Xanthippus had gotten to know some of the rebels. He had come to see Gorgeo as a serious and determined man, if a little too easily vexed for his taste. Coronea, although no less resolute, he found to be far more enjoyable company. He saw that she laughed easily and that the men of the group, while gravely seeking her counsel on all matters important to the survival of the band, found their eyes drawn to her smooth thighs as they appeared from out of her short tunic. She was a natural beauty and he supposed the men's attentions were only to be expected.
Xanthippus himself found his thoughts turning to Menleco's captive bride, the lady Lyssa, who possessed all of the girl's beauty, but none of her happiness. As the days wore on, the idea of freeing her - as Coronea was free - began to be a more pleasurable thought to him than even exacting his revenge on the man who held her captive. More than her beauty, it was Coronea's freedom that sometimes caused him to see the gentle lady where the fierce girl stood.
Coronea, however, was anything but gentle. He had to remind himself that the bowstring that creased the fabric between her breasts was the same upon which she had aimed an arrow at his heart back in the pine wood. There had been no doubt in his mind that she would have loosed it. Happily, had he given her cause.
The point of the arrow had filled his vision, but the face that squinted along its shaft seemed to him to be that of a goddess. Hair the color of honey spilled over her shoulders. She might have been the divine Prathian huntress of Gyriecian legend made flesh.
"I never thought to find myself taken captive by Vironysia," he had said.
Coronea's eye did not waver, not for a second. "Let me assure you, slave, that this is not a bow of golden light, but of wood and bone. And, believe me, the shaft I loose will not fill your heart with love."
"It might," Xanthippus said.
The remark had won him a savage kick in the stomach. It might have won him more had not Coronea put a stop to it.
Later, he realized that the Epirians considered it a triumph to free a couple of the Irrylian's slaves and thought it natural that they would join their cause. They were less solicitous of Asander and Thalen.
"We should not give this one quarter," one of the men said of Thalen. "When have they ever given our people quarter?"
"He wears the cloak of the guard," another observed. "Which makes him a butcher and torturer."
Thalen stood in the center of the quivering arrows with his hands up, looking from one face to another as the rebels debated his fate. Xanthippus thought they would make a pin cushion of him before his eyes. The archers' rage increased the more they discussed the matter. Xanthippus saw their arrow hands tense.
"I have never known him to harm one of your people," he said quickly. He decided that he might use his mistaken identity to save the boy, but feared that it had occurred to him too late.
"He has always treated us kindly," Nydeon put in.
The rebels relaxed their bows. "He is no danger to us now," Coronea said. Despite her youth, her words carried weight with the band. "We will let Clautias question him. Then we will find out what crimes he has committed."
Asander had an easier time of it, for there was never any doubt of his fate.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Asander had asked, once he discovered that he was not going to be killed at once.
"A dandy in a carriage," one of the men said. "A ten-a-copper dandy, by the looks of him."A spear-armed old man with a long white beard rode into the crescent of horsemen surrounding the blue-robed diplomat. The ages of the rebel band ranged from boys in their teens to this old man in his sixties. He wore a brimless leather cap. Long white hair spilled out from under it. He was slender, his arms sinewy and crisscrossed with bulging blue veins.
"Don't let his robes fool you," he said. "Asander is no dandy. Are you, my lord? He is dripping with blood up to his elbows, this one. He is a former captain of Demetrius' guards. Oh, yes, I have been to the Irrylian court, my friend."
Asander squinted at the old man and a look of recognition dawned in his eyes.
But he had no time to respond, for no sooner had the old man spit out his accusation than Gorgeo began ushering them all off the road for fear of Irrylian patrols. The band was constantly on the move. Gorgeo would not allow them to tarry long in any one spot. Later, Asander brought up the possibility of his ransom.
"Ransom?" Gorgeo had sputtered. "Do you suppose that we are just some band of brigands, that we risk our lives merely to rifle through your baggage for bits of silver? We had men watching your ship from the coast ever since it entered Epirian waters. You think highwaymen on the Cumyra Road have just chanced upon Demetrius' Foreign Minister fresh from his mission to Tygetia? How bad you must suppose your luck to be!"
Now, the band began to dismount. By this time, the men had captured the pig and it squealed its last when one of them drew a blade across its throat.
Coronea was not satisfied. She remained mounted and said in a loud voice, "Surely, we're not going to rest here in this field of murder."
The pig men's hunger overrode whatever revulsion they might have felt at the bloody stakes. Xanthippus had to side with Coronea on this one. He was glad the bodies had been taken down and buried, at least.
"Why, Coronea," one of the dismounting men said, "I believe you have suddenly become afraid of ghosts!"
"Not of ghosts," Coronea exclaimed over the hoots of the man's laughing companions, "but of ill omens. This place is an outrage, an affront to the gods."
Her remark quieted the men, for this was indeed to all of them a serious point they had not considered.
"Perhaps an affront to our gods," one of them said at last, "but not to those of Demetrius. It is Demetrian gods who hold sway here and they grow fat with the blood of our people."
"That is the evil I feel in my bones," Coronea insisted. "You may want to cool yourselves in the shade of this abominable garden, but--"
Gorgeo cut her off. "We rest here," he said in a commanding tone. He was already carrying an armload of firewood he had collected from a nearby house. He dropped it in a heap not far from one of the bulging graves. "You said it yourself, Coronea. There is more here of Shadow Riders than of ghosts, omens and gods. Every morning the sun arises is an ill omen for us. If we waited for good fortune to light our path, we would never climb out of our beds. Omens or no, we act. Omens or no, we rest."
Gorgeo was an angry man, his tongue sharp, his every movement a threat of violence. Without ever having spoken a word to him, Xanthippus felt he knew the man well. Like the rebel leader, he knew what it was to curse the dawn.
"Still, the feeling of evil in this place is strong." Coronea was obviously not one to be put off. Xanthippus had already drawn conclusions about her. There was no more passionate warrior in the band than Coronea. It was the source of her authority. "Perhaps not of gods and omens, perhaps only of Shadow Riders. The pall I feel over this ground might be theirs, and this place a trap." She unstrung her bow from her shoulders and held it across her lap.
"These fires are a day old. The ten have been taken down and buried, certainly not by Shadow Riders' hands. Who would dare bury them with the murderers still in sight?"
"Gorgeo," Coronea countered with a touch of exasperation, "we do not still ride free because we charge blindly towards every well and pig, but because we heed the cautions that have been bred into us, because we..."
Coronea did not have to finish. Gorgeo knew when she was right. He began calling out the names of his men to search the village, sending them out in pairs.
"The rest of you," he growled, "pull down these evil things." He indicated the stakes and the men set to work on them at once.
"Leave them!"
The voice came from the edge of the clearing. Up from behind a ruined wall the figure of a boy arose. He wore a simple farmer's tunic, much spattered with mud and filth. A cord around his head pinched a tousled mop of curly hair. Xanthippus could see the wisp of a beard under the lad's chin and reckoned him at an age of just less than a man. He stood manfully enough, however, brandishing a sickle he had no doubt found in some burned out farmstead.
Gorgeo and his men started, their hands instinctively falling on the hilts of their swords. Coronea pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it, but did not draw the bowstring. The men tearing down the bloody stakes stopped their work and gaped at the boy.
"The stakes remain," the young man cried, coming out from behind the wall. "They are mine now. I claim them for the bodies of Demetrius and his bloody witch, for I will impale them with my own hands."
He took no more than a step onto the rutted road when his eyes rolled and his knees buckled. He fell on his face in the dirt.
As a body, the entire group of rebels rushed to him. Several of the men unsheathed their swords and formed a perimeter around the body in case there were more boys among the ruined walls, sickle-armed or otherwise. Gorgeo uncapped a skin with his teeth and, having turned the boy over, began mopping his brow with water. The captives joined the group gazing down at the boy's face. They saw that it was not mud that soiled his tunic.
"It is blood," Nydeon said.
"Yes, but not his," Xanthippus observed.
Indeed, Gorgeo ran a probing hand over the boy's chest and abdomen where the blood was thickest and found no wound.
"It is the blood of the dead," one of the rebels said.
"Look at his hands," said another. Dirt and not blood soiled them. It was caked under his fingernails. "These graves are his work, no doubt."
"The poor lad..."
Gorgeo wet the boy's lips and he sputtered to life. His eyes darted from one face to another, but he made no attempt to move.
"Are you Irrylian?" he asked fearfully. "Well, are you?" he demanded, when no one replied.
"We are friends," Gorgeo told him. He was gentle with the lad, speaking softly, a different man. "You are safe now. Irrylians did this?"
"I saw you were flesh and blood," the lad said. "Flesh and blood like me, so I came out of my hiding. I fear no man, but..." He stopped, his eyes again darting to every face that peered down at him.
"He is confused," Xanthippus said.
"You fear no man, but what?" Gorgeo urged.
"But demons are a different matter, sir."
"Demons?"
"Black-cloaked, shrieking skulls...Unleashed by the witch...They descended on our village, carrying torches...Mere bones of men..."
"I knew it!" Coronea cried. "Shadow Riders!"
"What is your name?" Gorgeo asked.
The boy screwed his eyes tight and turned his head away. "I hid from them. Gods help me, I hid from them. While they staked my own father, I hid like a coward..."
"Let's get him to the fire," Gorgeo said.
Gorgeo lifted him to his feet and he and another helped him to where the pig men had started a fire. The pig was already spitted and turning slowly over the flames. The smell of it made Xanthippus' stomach growl. The sun had nearly set. The men Gorgeo had sent into the village were returning from their search, empty-handed and without report of any more skulkers. Gorgeo sent half-a-dozen riders to scout out the surrounding countryside while the rest of the band settled down for a bite and a few hours rest before setting out again. The captives sat by themselves. The Epirians brought them strips of dried meat and hard biscuit from their packs. These were grudgingly given, while they kept the fresh pork for themselves.
Vironysia had just begun to stalk her prey among the stars above when her earthly counterpart approached the captives and sat on a stone next to Xanthippus. Coronea had taken a special interest in the slaves and Xanthippus was not surprised to find her join them.
"The boy has agreed to fight with us," she told the captives. She shot a pointed look at the two Prathians. "Though young, he is very brave."
"Hatred burns within him," Xanthippus said. "That is plain to see."
"And why should it not?" Coronea asked. "He hid himself in the village with the screams of his people ringing in his ears. He will be happy to have something better to fight with than a rusty sickle." She looked both of the men up and down. "He is braver than you," she added contemptuously.
"He is like your Gorgeo," Xanthippus said, ignoring her slight. He turned and looked over his shoulder and saw the rebel leader grimly peering into the flames with his men seated all around him.
"The man is coiled tightly," Nydeon agreed.
Coronea admonished them with a look as if they were children. Xanthippus reckoned her twenty summers at the most. Whatever was new to her, she thought new to the world. "We are in the country of Shadow Riders." she said in a scolding tone. "Demetrius pays them coin to hunt us. It is Gorgeo's coils, as you call them, that keep us alive. His name, we have heard tell, has dripped from Pylia's lips like venom. Do you know what it is to have your name on her tongue?"
The Prathian Guardsmen of course knew of Pylia and of Demetrius. They knew of Epiria and Irrylia and Sethaly, and all the rest, but it was living that occupied them, not higher causes. What happened out of their sight was none of their concern.
"I find it is not a good thing to have your name on anyone's lips," Xanthippus said.
Coronea frowned. "You would not make jests if you truly understood Gorgeo's position. Most men would hide themselves, but Gorgeo fights for his freedom and for the freedom of his people nevertheless. I would think you would value your own freedom as highly as Gorgeo values his." She glanced at Thalen and Asander, their masters, she believed. "At first sight, I had taken you to be brave men, but I see now that slavery suits you."
All evening, Thalen had sat staring at the ground between his feet. He had been morose ever since the Epirians had debated killing him. When he raised his head, there was a look of anger in his eyes.
"Don't get too comfortable with your captors, slaves," he said with warning emphasis. "Whatever they have planned for us perhaps might go doubly for you once words begin to fly."
Xanthippus did not need Thalen to remind him of the danger. He had only to recall the cry of For Hurrus! to understand the peril. He had tried to kill their king. Gorgeo's Epirians were inclined to zealotry, that was clear. Who knew how they would react? Better they believed them slaves.
"I saved your miserable life twice," Xanthippus said under his breath, knowing at once it would have been better to hold his tongue, but the words burned in his mouth. "I may not have a third in me."
"The slave speaks boldly," Coronea observed.
"They believe themselves freed," Thalen sniffed. "They gloat while we shall undoubtedly suffer at the hands of these bandits." He nodded toward Asander. A word seemed to worry the tip of his tongue, but Asander did not speak it.
"What happens to you is not up to me, Irrylian," Coronea said. "We will leave that for Clautias to decide when we take you to him. What we have planned for your...your slaves...is that we free them and they fight with us. If I were a slave, I would eagerly accept. Of course," she added with a sly Vironysian smile, "I don't believe you are slaves."
Xanthippus and Nydeon said nothing. Coronea reached out and ran a finger along Xanthippus' forearm.
"These scars on the right arm are those of a swordsman," she said. "I have never known a slave to bear them, and yet I see them on both of these men."
A smile came to Xanthippus' lips when he spied Thalen secretly inspecting his own right arm. It was as smooth and clean as had been his ass cheeks on the day he was born.
"They are bodyguards," Asander lied, still with that worried look in his eye. "Swordplay is one of their duties."
Xanthippus held his tongue, though he found the lie both humiliating and puzzling. Kerraunus sent me, he remembered. But Kerraunus is not here, and you made your bargain. Why did he lie for them now?
Coronea laughed, dispelling the notion that the Epirians had any laughter in them. "They are the first unarmed bodyguards I have ever seen. Had they been armed, I believe we might not be sitting here now. Unfortunately for you, your true bodyguards lay dead in the pine wood, nobleman."
"Lies roll off this one's tongue, Coronea. And he is no nobleman."
The old man, the same who had spat an accusation at Asander upon his capture, stepped out of the darkness and sat next to Coronea. His long white hair and beard seemed to shine in the night. His eyes burned like coals, and it was Asander who felt their heat.
The old man pointed a gnarled finger in the direction of Asander's face. "You were there the day Demetrius made the council dance, Asander. Oh, yes, don't think I don't know your name. Don't think I don't remember..."
"Cleonander..." Coronea warned. She grasped his outstretched hand and gently pulled it down. His arm looked strong as a tree branch. Coronea could have swung from it like a monkey, but he allowed her to lower it.
A light of recognition brightened Thalen's face. He looked up with a start.
"Is it the man himself?" he asked with a gasp. "I dare not suppose it to be!"
The old man stiffened. "I am Cleonander, the Epirian," he said fiercely.
"The Epirian playwright!" Thalen provided the unspoken word. "Vanished for fifteen years, since I was a child. Everyone thought you dead."
"The playwright is dead," the old man said.
A huge smile of wonderment blossomed on Thalen's face. Xanthippus winced. Shut up, you idiot!
"'What are you gaping at, you thunderstruck fool?'" Thalen uttered the oft-quoted line fervently.
So he was that Cleonander. Though he had never set foot in a theater, even Xanthippus knew the reference. It was the most famous line of Cleonander's most famous play, The Curmudgeon. Normally, to quote it would have elicited raucous laughter, but now it hung in the air like a soiled garment.
Cleonander gave no indication that he even recognized the line. "I have not laughed in fifteen years, young man, and I'm not about to start now -- not at the sound of some hackneyed nonsense written by some frivolous scribbler."
Words died in Thalen's open mouth. He looked heartbroken.
"Especially not when uttered by a doomed man, like you," Cleonander continued, his rage rising.
"Doomed?" Thalen asked, utterly at a loss. Xanthippus would have struck him in the teeth if he thought it would get him to shut up. No doubt his uncle, who had procured for him his captain's cloak, had accompanied his precious nephew to the theater and encouraged his hero worship of actors and playwrights. He might have pitied the boy if, while he was admiring the works of the famous scribblers, Xanthippus and Nydeon had not been fighting for their lives in Menleco's Prathian School. What pain must follow the realization that your childhood hero prefers you dead?
"I don't know why we left you alive," Cleonander went on, as unpoetic a thought as he had doubtlessly ever had. "What do we hope to gain through mercy?" he asked Coronea.
"We are not mere murderers. What would we gain by this man's death? We fight to free Epiria from Demetrius, not simply to slay our enemies."
"Revenge is its own reward," Cleonander said. "We might spare this boy, but we stand to gain plenty by killing this...by killing Asander, the Irrylian butcher."
"I am no butcher, sir," Asander snapped angrily.
Cleonander again thrust an accusing finger in Asander's face. "Do you deny standing at Demetrius' right hand while the council danced?"
Asander held the old man's gaze, but said nothing.
"Of course not!" Cleonander went on. "For how can you deny a clear truth? It was you who distributed the daggers. Was it not?"
Attracted by Cleonander's outburst, Gorgeo's men turned from their fire to see what was the matter. A few of them sauntered over and stood outside the ring of captives, listening, their faces hard.
"What would you have had me do? Forfeit my life in a futile attempt to save doomed men? I would have died with them. Is that what you would have done? Died with them? I notice you still live, though you were there as well as I."
"You speak as though you did not enjoy it, Asander the butcher, that you did not laugh along with the rest."
"Your recollection is true enough. I admit it, I was there. But I did no more than what was required of me. It was an outrage. Whatever part I was forced to play is now a source of everlasting shame to me. I would not wish that on you, Cleonander. Do you suppose that day is forgotten to me? If I am guilty of anything, it is cowardice. That is bad enough. Certainly not butchery."
Cleonander peered out from under his bushy brow at each face in turn. "It was he who handed the councilmen the daggers while Demetrius handed his men their wives. Did you get one, Asander?"
Asander stared at him, murder in his heart. Xanthippus tensed. He felt the growing crowd of rebels at his back, listening to the tale. He wondered if they would all be killed.
"Asander's master commanded them dance -- and dance they did. But not to the music of flutes and harps as we were accustomed to hearing in the court of King Arrhus. Oh, no, they danced to Pylia's tune, to the screaming of Arrhus and our beloved Eunice. Have you not heard this before, young mustard-cloak? Or is this story legend among Irrylians now, always good for a laugh?" Thalen shook his head, not daring to speak. "The screaming was unending, and the councilmen -- decent, wise, dignified Epirians -- danced while Demetrius' men laughed and pelted them with showers of nuts and fruit, whatever they could lay their hands on. He gave the councilmen a choice. Use the daggers as they saw fit, or dance in the presence of Pylia. So we watched them disembowel themselves. Given the same choice, isn't that what you would have done?" He regarded the group, but no one responded. "Oh, one of the men turned his dagger on Demetrius, but he did not get very far. He was taken alive.
"And what of me, the Epirian court poet, you ask? Demetrius commanded me to write a play of the proceedings. A comedy, he said. This is what I was to do." He turned his face to Thalen. "What are you gaping at, you thunderstruck fool?' I'm afraid the line has lost its punch for me, son. Perhaps I could have resurrected it in my new comedy. I could have, but I ran away instead. I have not touched a pen since and have taken up the sword. But I see that you, Asander, remain at Demetrius' right hand. Foreign Minister now, is it?"
"A Captain of the Guard does not so easily run away," Asander said. Xanthippus had the feeling that the danger had passed. Cleonander's rage had descended into sadness. "A poet is a different matter, perhaps even good riddance to you."
Cleonander laughed. "In my youth, I overestimated my worth, I will grant you that. Now, I live only to kill Demetrius. I would feed him to his own snake."
"They were angered that they could not find the boy." Gorgeo's voice rose from the knot of men who had gathered. "It is this that is our salvation."
"What boy?" Xanthippus asked, although he already knew the answer. The boy was the man he had gone to Tygetia to kill. An innocent man, Seus had called him. Asander and Thalen knew the truth of it. Thirty others would surely kill him on the spot if they did.
"Hurrus," Coronea told him. "Prince of Epiria and rightful heir to the Epirian throne. It is for him we fight."
"For King Hurrus!" several of the rebels uttered in muted tones.
"We know that the witch Pylia has foreseen his return in his eighteenth year," Gorgeo said. "Our freedom is at hand."
Thalen was dubious. "How do you know what the witch has seen?"
"Do not think that it is only Epirians who hate Demetrius, young man."
A horse was approaching. The sound of galloping hoof beats came to them through the darkness. Cleonander sprang to his feet, drawing his sword. There was a clatter as the rest of the band drew their weapons as well.
Gorgeo raised his hand. "Stay your hands," he called, as a lone horseman came into view. It was one of the outriders returning from his scout.
He was out of breath. "Shadow Riders," he huffed. "Not two leagues from here."
Coronea was on her feet in an instant. "We know them to be two hundred strong. They will overwhelm us."
"Are they coming this way?" Gorgeo asked.
The outrider shook his head, beginning to regain his breath. "They are in camp, heading south. It is a huge camp. They must have a thousand foot with them."
"They plan to strike us in the morning. We must hurry our prisoners to Clautias. Mount up. We ride now!"
The men turned and began running for their horses.
"Wait!" Coronea cried. The men looked back. "I will prepare a surprise for them for when they break camp." She called out half-a-dozen names of men to accompany her. They were all bowmen. "We will slow them down for you, Gorgeo, so you can get ahead of them."
Everyone knew at once what she meant.
"There is a small defile south of their camp," the outrider said. "They must march through it on their way south. I will show you."
"We will clog that road with the bodies of their dead," Coronea declared.
The rest of the men now ran back to the fire and began spreading the wood and tamping out the flames. Gorgeo paused.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Coronea?" he asked. Xanthippus could see that Gorgeo understood the value of her plan. He was a man accustomed to issuing hard orders, but this was eight against a thousand. He left it to her to decide. She was indeed the Huntress and he a man of iron.
"We will catch up with you by the next nightfall," she said.
"I will accompany you." The voice was that of the village boy, and he was not asking. He stepped forward manfully. His sickle was gone, but his anger remained. "I buried the dead of these demons, my own father among them. The rest of my village has scattered before them, to fates unknown. If they can be killed, it is my right to kill them. You cannot deny me."
"They can be killed," Coronea said, "and I would not deny you. Can you shoot?"
"I am the best bowman you have ever seen," the lad said.
"Then you shall join us. Come!"
Menleco could feel someone watching him. His eyes snapped open.
But for the light of a full moon, the bedchamber inside his tent was just as he remembered it upon falling asleep. The armor he had hung on a tent pole was still there, a man-shaped apparition, yes, but no different than he had left it, certainly not to be mistaken for one watching him. Crickets and frogs he heard clear enough. What he did not hear was more telling--the deep, sleeping breaths of his wife. Lyssa breathed as one awake. And what of that slight flutter of movement? Had that been her eyes snapping shut the moment he had looked her way?
He reached under his pillow and was satisfied when his fingers found the hilt of his dagger, just as he had left it. Lyssa did not sleep, that he knew. But he wondered if she watched over him in the night, perhaps even with dagger in hand. Did she gaze upon his sleeping face, struggling to summon the courage to use it?
He rolled out of bed, feeling the stiffness in his knees and shoulders. This was not the first night he could not sleep, not the first night he had felt scrutinized. He dressed quietly, watching Lyssa's back as it heaved deeply in mock-sleep. She was his wife, and every morning that she awoke in his bed caused pain to King Areus and, indeed, to all of Prathia. He would have thought that that alone would have been enough to make him happy, but -- gods help him! -- he wanted her to love him too. Might as well ask to fill his goblet with all of the Middle Sea. Even now, he caught himself walking on cat's feet so as not to disturb the woman who one day he knew would try to kill him in his sleep.
Pathetic old man!
He removed his armor from its peg on the tent pole. He might as well get ready for the day. The Shadow Riders had been riding hard for a week now and he was eager to put this campaign behind him. He would find this Clautias for the Irrylians, though he bore the man no personal hatred. He was expecting word any day now of the successful conclusion to the Tygetian affair. The Irrylians would have Clautias in their hands and Hurrus in the ground, and Menleco's purse would be bulging for his efforts. He could return to his estate and go back to entertaining emissaries from all over the Middle Sea, whoever had need of Prathian spearpoints.
He strapped on his leather corselet, watching his wife's farcical show of sleeping. Do you dream, my dear? He wondered if one who pretended to sleep also pretended to dream. The notion struck him funny.
He could not vouch for her sleeping dreams, but he knew what she dreamt of while awake; she dreamt of heroes and of champions. But their numbers dwindled almost as soon as she thought of them. Poor dear. He might have pitied her for her disappointment, so endless it was. The Tygetian agents would take care of Xanthippus and Nydeon. The men would simply vanish, he had been assured. Fools to believe they would be allowed to live. He had loved the men once. For a time, Xanthippus had been his right hand when Menleco's right hand had been deadly indeed. Never had there been a more natural warrior than that one, a man born fighting from the womb, a prized find. Menleco would almost be sorry to lose him. Lyssa certainly would. There was a time, he knew, when she had been counting on him to save her.
Yet another funny thought, in its own way. This time he even chuckled a little.
He was amazed by how his mood could improve simply by waking and not finding a blade poised to open his throat. It was indeed the little things in life that made one happy.
By the time he ducked through the flap and into the front room of the tent, he found himself whistling a cheerful little tune. Softly, though, so as not to wake those who yet slept. When you actually stopped to consider, there were few obstacles in life that were not easily overcome.
He heard voices from outside, muted but angry.
"This oaf of a guard will not allow me through," Captain Raulon complained when Menleco emerged from the tent.
"It is the middle of the night and the general sleeps," the guard snapped. It was the same young fellow Menleco had nearly throttled earlier in the week. He couldn't remember his name, but he'd lay odds the boy remembered Menleco's grip.
"The general does not sleep now," Menleco said.
The guard stiffened with a start and slammed his fist to his chest. "Sir! I didn't realize you were awake, sir...General, sir..."
"It's all right," Menleco said. He laid a calming hand on the guard's shoulder, fearing that he might pop a vessel. It was then that he noticed a second young man, this one dressed in a filthy farmer's tunic with a wisp of beard under his chin. "What have we here?" Menleco asked. The filth on his tunic might have been blood. In the moonlight, it appeared black.
"The lad brings us news from the countryside," Captain Raulon said.
"A farm boy come to complain of the theft of a few chickens, no doubt." Menleco looked the boy over. A complainer or a beggar, one of the two certainly. A righteous fire in his eye made Menleco lean toward the former, but it was hard to tell. Epirians were known to beg as fervently as they groused. "Surely, Captain, these tiresome appeals can wait for sunup when I've had my breakfast."
"I would not bring him to you if I didn't think it was important."
Menleco sighed. He had worked himself into a good humor for nothing. "Let him speak then. You must have a name..."
"Vonos," the young man said, stepping forward. "Son of Umey."
Menleco shrugged his shoulders. Oh, the grandiosity of youth and its silly pretensions. He wanted to laugh. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? I hate to tell you, but it is gibberish in my ears."
The boy didn't seem put off at all. "Perhaps a certain band of rebels means something to you. Perhaps the name 'Gorgeo' is more than gibberish in your ears."
Menleco looked up sharply. He might have had no personal hatred for the man Clautias, but the rebel bands were another matter. They had plagued his every step all the way to Irrylia, attacking his wagon train and ambushing footmen. He had crucified them, he had impaled them. Soon he would break them as the Shadow Riders broke the will of the people wherever they went. Oh, yes, he longed to get his hands on Gorgeo. Taler would pay handsomely for that one.
"Tell me more," Menleco said.
"Ah, but I have more than just information about Gorgeo and his bandits," Vonos said. "What I have to tell you is worth your life."
Grinning slyly, Vonos moved past Raulon, an unnecessary intermediary, and boldly entered the sphere of Menleco himself. Up close, the general saw that there was less farm boy than bandit in this one as well, and the commander of the Shadow Riders did not bargain with brigands.
"You have entered the camp of the Shadow Riders, which means your life is forfeit, Vonos, son of Umey. To loosen your tongue, I offer you only your life. If your information is pleasing to me, I will reward you in silver. Now, out with it."
Greed flashed in Vonos' eye. Menleco loved simple men. "A group of Gorgeo's rebels have set up an ambush for you on the road to the south. I am fresh from there myself."
Vonos went on to describe Gorgeo's sojourn in the burned-out village and his own presence there.
"When I came upon them, the villagers had already been removed from the stakes and buried in shallow graves. I dug a couple of them up, looking for silver. I supposed it was your handiwork and should have known better than to think I'd find anything of value remaining."
Menleco realized Vonos was intending to flatter him. One killer to another. Menleco nodded as he supposed brothers of a trade might and Vonos continued.
"I covered them up again, but when I heard hoof beats approaching--lots of them--I thought it was Shadow Riders come back. So I hid--only to find myself surrounded by Gorgeo and his band of brigands. I had to pretend to be one of them."
"But what of this ambush?" Menleco asked impatiently.
Vonos grinned, approaching the crux of his story's significance. This was where he would earn his silver.
"There is an ambush waiting for you in the pass to the south, near the temple. Eight men. Bow-armed. Wait, make that seven men. The eighth stands before you." He grinned again. "Six really, for one is a woman..."
Like Vonos, Menleco began calculating the weight of the story in gold. "Is Gorgeo himself among them?"
Vonos' eyes lit up. "No, but the Huntress is."
"Coronea!" Menleco exclaimed. This mysterious girl was no Gorgeo, but her name was increasingly to be found on the lips of every captive. Taler would be pleased to meet her in person. Very pleased.
Vonos began laughing. "I have her convinced that I am a zealot, like the rest of them. As if I give a damn about her bloody cause, whatever it is."
"You will lead us to this place at once," said Menleco.
"And my silver?"
"Silver you shall have, Vonos. Two pieces per rebel head. Four for the Huntress, if taken alive."
Half an hour later, Menleco, with Vonos riding beside him, led a column of twenty Shadow Riders to the south. They stopped on a rise that gave them a good view of the road as it disappeared into a gap between two craggy crests. The crests rose out of a long line of ridges that marked the beginning of the southern Epirian hill country. The mountains of Prathia were not far off. In the moonlight, the road was a pale ribbon. The crests were interlaced with fissures and pockmarked with scrub and growths of little twisted black trees.
"They are hiding in those rocks." Vonos indicated the dark crags above the road. Behind them, the horses of the twenty snorted and pawed at the rocky ground. Menleco could hear the creaking of the Riders' leather armor and saddles. "They can be approached unseen from the far side of that ridge, or through the little temple complex, there."
Menleco followed his pointing finger and saw the white colonnaded temple where it sat upon a sheer rock face overlooking a small sleeping city below.
"The temple is of Two-Face," Vonos explained, speaking of Ardonis, god of both Good Fortune and Calamity. "There is a little torturous path up the rock face from the city. The devout demand an arduous climb to the houses of their gods. I myself prefer straighter and flatter paths to wherever I'm going. Two-Face be damned, eh? How about you fellows?"
Captain Raulon sat with his helmet tilted back over his forehead, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle. "They could be anywhere in those rocks."
"Could be, but they're not. They are right where I say they are," Vonos said.
Menleco looked over the landscape. The road through the pass formed a natural ambuscade. Following Vonos' plan, he could also see how the bushwhackers could be ensnared in their own trap. "Raulon, take ten men across that ridge. The rest will come with me through the temple complex. And, Vonos...You will stay by my side, for if anything is not as you say, you will be the first to be struck down."
Vonos showed not the slightest hesitation. Menleco would have said the lad was enjoying himself. Never had he seen the prospect of a few bits of silver make a man happier. "You will find everything as I say it is," he said.
The first man they found exactly where Vonos had said he would be. While the rest of Menleco's group waited near the temple, two of the Shadow Riders dismounted and clambered up the rocky hill and disappeared over the crest. They reappeared minutes later, one of them making a slicing motion across his throat to show that the deed was done. Just like that, quiet and quick. Menleco wondered what thoughts had gone through the mind of the rebel as he turned to see two skulls smiling down at him from the rocks above. It was almost a disappointment. Anonymous killing was not all it was cracked up to be.
"That's two silvers for me," Vonos said, still grinning.
Menleco relaxed a little, but only until he heard a cry from the far side of the road. It was followed by other voices raised in alarm. Raulon's men. Menleco reached over and grabbed a black leather fistful of Vonos' tunic.
"If this is a trick--" Menleco began, but his voice stopped short when he saw the throat-slashing Rider pitch forward and fall flat on his face. His companion crouched in the shadows of the rocks. Menleco searched the ridgeline and saw a black shape dart away from under a twisted little tree.
In the next instant, an arrow sprouted from between the shoulder blades of the Rider next to him. He had just been dismounting when the arrow took him. He fell against his horse and then crumpled to the ground. His horse whinnied and bolted. Menleco's own horse reared as arrows loosed from the dark rocky slope above began to buzz past his ears. A second Rider fell, an arrow protruding from his chest. The rest of the men scattered. Menleco turned to Vonos, but he had vanished.
Treachery!
"Get back here!" he cried, but his men were in full panic as arrows flew at them from the darkness.
One struck his horse in the neck, another in its flank. Wild-eyed, the horse sank to its knees and Menleco rolled away from the creature, hitting the ground with a breathless thud. Springing to his feet, he found himself alone in the temple courtyard. An arrow clattered off the pavement, narrowly missing him. He had to get out of bowshot range of the hillside. His black form set against the white marble of the pavement would make him an easy target. As men began shouting in the distance, growing closer, he turned and ran.
He felt men chasing him--sensed it more than knew it--though his were the only footsteps that rang across the courtyard. Those who pursued him were masters of stealth, he could see that now. He slid past columns and under the shadows of statuary. He ran past an altar draped with strips of unburnt, rotting meat. The priests had abandoned the temple when the Shadow Riders came, but the devout stole up the rock face at night and left their pathetic little offerings while the demons up the road gorged themselves and pissed around their fires. Menleco's scouts had brought back reports of them, laughing at their efforts to get Ardonis to turn his stubborn face. Just one more lamb, just one more jar of oil...Like all of the Gyriecian gods, Ardonis was a true bastard.
Menleco zigged and zagged up the steps to the temple. He could not say how many arrows had bounced off the pavement at his feet, but he was mad to lose himself in the shadows under the massive columns. There he would be safe. The Huntress would have to come close to get him where her bow would profit her little. Better still, Menleco could duck inside the temple itself, for he spied a gap between the giant bronze doors. He rushed to them and slipped through.
Inside, the only sound was Menleco's frantic breathing. His heart pounded in his chest and blood pulsed in his ears. He drew his dagger and pressed himself up against the inside of the door, his chest heaving. He waited for his pursuer to emerge through the opening. Tens of seconds passed, but no one appeared. He relaxed and as his breath began to slow, he was certain he could make out footfalls from the steps outside. Cleverly, they did not approach the entrance, but he could hear them scuttling around to either side of it. Then he saw another pair of huge doors on the adjacent wall, a crack of moonlight between them. Gods! Another way in. They were surrounding him. He pushed his body from the door and ran into the heart of the temple, towards Ardonis himself.
Ten men high, the god stood with one arm upraised in greeting, his smiling face of Good Fortune peering down at all who entered. A light from behind Ardonis shone dim and red, a goodly dollop of priestly everflame behind a floor-to-ceiling rectangle of crimson glass. When Menleco came around the side of the statue, he saw Ardonis' second face. This one bore the weeping and wailing countenance of Calamity, tinged red with the fires of despair. Southern Epirians and Prathians were forever beseeching the deity to show them his smiling face. They lived constantly with the knowledge that a single twitch of his head might result in disaster without parallel. Menleco would have long ago deemed Two-Face unappeasable, but his worshippers would never cease trying.
The clacking of Menleco's hobnailed sandals on the marble floor reverberated and bounced off the temple walls in all directions. How many pursuers rushed across the floor at him, he could not tell. Perhaps they stayed in the shadows along the base of the walls, meaning to encircle him. Menleco could not be trapped so easily. It was true he was cut off from the way out, but not from the way down. What he knew was that all Prathian temples were built above labyrinths. The Prathian mind, which he knew well, was attuned not only to sudden calamity but also endless struggle, symbolized by labyrinths and twisting paths up steep rock faces. It was a mindset capable of producing great warriors, but, as he well knew, miserable companions. If he could find the entrance, he could plunge into the labyrinth and easily turn on his pursuers as they stumbled into dead-end passages.
He found the descending stairway at Ardonis' heels, under the face of Calamity. Menleco ran to it and started down. Everflame burned in the labyrinth as well, enclosed behind small squares of crimson panes set in alcoves in the walls. Bathed in a shimmering red light, Menleco raced into the opening passage. He followed labyrinthine twists and turns, blindly forking this way instead of that, until he felt he had put enough distance and enough complexity between him and the Huntress that he could afford to stop and listen.
What he heard was the swishing of shoe leather on a stone floor. The sound was at times hesitant, at times boldly rushing forward, at times non-existent. He could not determine from where the sound emanated, nor from how far off. His face dripped with sweat as he strained to listen. He heard a small skittering sound that might have been rats, a hollow drip of water, and a faint rattling growl that he realized after a moment came from his own throat as he struggled to catch his breath. And then...
He cocked his head. Was that the chinking of metal on stone? The scraping on the wall of a naked blade of a sword unsheathed? A sound emanating not from behind this time-- but from ahead. Masters of stealth! They were encircling him. Menleco burst free from the wall. The outlaws probably knew every winding passageway, every turn, every blind alley. He had to find a place to make a stand, to lay an ambush. It was his only hope. He ran, unheeding of the noise of his own footfalls, under which he was sure he could now hear his pursuers chasing him boldly.
He turned a corner and crashed headlong over a lump on the floor. Dazed, he lay sprawled on the cold stones, then scrabbled back to the thing that had toppled him. At first, he thought it was a tangle of bed sheets, abandoned in a heap. But when he flung aside a corner of fabric, he found himself staring down at Calamity itself, a crimson moaning face of eternal grief. He turned the body over and saw the three-days' dead temple priest, still wearing half of the double mask of his order. Good Fortune had deserted him. The smiling half of his wooden mask lay cracked and bloody among the jumbled heap of his robes. Shadow Riders had been here. If the priest could not find sanctuary in his own labyrinth, a tortuous path he walked every day...
Menleco pushed himself away from the body, a startled scream escaping his throat. He rose and scrambled blindly around the next corner. He once again found himself confronting Calamity, not laying in a maggoty heap on the floor this time, but standing tall as a man at the head of a dead-end chamber lit by spouts of crimson everflame. He had reached the end of the maze.
"Ardonis!" Menleco muttered. He felt absurdly relieved, as if he had been engaged in nothing more than a race to this spot, to this place of sanctuary. The priest had come up just yards short. Ardonis' head had been fixed to his shoulders so that it could be easily turned. Menleco ran to him and jerked his ugly face around. Now, perhaps Good Fortune would smile on him.
But the plate in Ardonis' hands was empty and Menleco had no offering to make. Even if he had, there were no priests left to make it.
The scuffling grew louder. He drew his dagger and turned, and then dropped it in fear. The blade clanged on the floor at Ardonis' feet.
What Menleco saw before him was not Calamity, but a Huntress' arrow aimed straight at his heart.
"No sign of the mighty host. But - damn it all! - not even the stone can see through a blasted veil of dust."
Hurrus handed the farsee stone to Xandros, but Deon swiped it from his fingers before he had a chance to grasp it. Lying on their bellies, the men were peering into a narrow valley. They had climbed the back side of the ridge, hoping to get a good view of the landscape below. Instead, they found only a good view of the next ridgeline - when they could see at all, that is, between the blowing sheets of dust.
"Cunama lies beneath that next hill," Deon said, one eye squeezed tight as he gazed through the stone with the other. "I can see nothing beyond it. Wait...What is this?"
Even without the stone, Hurrus could see what had attracted his attention - plumes of dust rising over the ridgeline, not windblown this time but thrown up by some unseen column.
"Chariots!" Deon said.
They crested the ridge, five of them, and raced down toward the valley floor. From what Hurrus could see, they were plain, unadorned war chariots, each pulled by two horses and occupied by two riders. Perhaps Kerraunus' reports were accurate, after all. Certainly, the Sarians were bestirring themselves.
Deon made to spring to his feet, but Hurrus clamped him down again with a strong hand.
"Be still," he warned.
"But we can destroy them easily," Deon said. They had left the rest of Hurrus' companion body waiting at the base of the hill as they spied the landscape ahead. Twenty mounted spearmen against five chariots - it would indeed be a slaughter.
"They have not seen us," Hurrus insisted, "and we do not know what lies on the other side of that hill. Let them go for a moment. We'll see what follows." The slaughter could turn on them quickly, if what Kerraunus' scouts had reported was true.
Hurrus gazed at the chariots through the stone. They galloped cross-slope into the wind. When gusts blew, they disappeared behind sheets of blowing sand and grit, only to reappear moments later under a clear blue sky. Checkered Sarian scarves covered their faces, but Hurrus could see the riders casting anxious glances over their shoulders as they raced into the valley.
"I am with Deon," Xandros said, in an unnecessarily low tone. His voice was already as deep as a drum. He could have shouted and it would have carried no further than Hurrus' ear amid the howling gusts. "Let us mount up and have at these cowardly bastards."
"You are both admirably bloodthirsty," Hurrus said with a smile. "But now is not the time for killing. Now is the time for watching. The killing will come soon enough."
The village of Cunama, a favorite target of Sarian raiders, had once again come under attack. When Kerraunus had sent a fang of horsemen to run them off, the Snake Men returned with wild reports. The pillaging was done in the vanguard of a general advance of a huge Sarian host, they said.
"Perhaps your men jump at shadows, Kerraunus," Hurrus had suggested.
Kerraunus had fixed him with a steely stare. "If my men say there's a mighty host marching on Cunama, you can believe them."
"More likely they have mistaken a foraging party for Memnon's phalanx," Deon put in.
"Or some hapless villager pissing in a bush for a brigade of Sarian lancers!" Xandros added to an unlikely chorus of laughter. Normally, Kerraunus was not so openly mocked, but the claim was outrageous.
If the reports were to be believed, it would be the largest army the Sarians had fielded since Xarhux's day and the first time they had advanced en masse into Tygetian territory. Myletos had called a war council at once.
"My own scouts confirm Kerraunus' report," Bellog said. "From prisoners we have interrogated, I estimate the enemy to have up to four times the number of men we can put in the field."
He looked about the room with satisfaction at the silence that followed his dire pronouncement. All the men sat at a massive marble table, each of the leaders accompanied by his top lieutenants. Hurrus sat with Deon and Xandros, while Kerraunus was surrounded by a company of his white-cloaked Snake Men. They conferred together often, speaking quietly in a tightly clustered knot. Kerraunus wore his blue war crown and a broad jeweled necklace that spilled over his bare shoulders. Around his chiseled biceps wound coiled serpents of gold. When his men finished conferring, they would part and Kerraunus would sit among them like a king, his expression inscrutable.
Bellog sat back with his thick legs crossed, his fingers tented at his chin. He was in his element now, Hurrus reflected, a man made for meetings, a man who liked the sound of his own weighty intonations. That he had been able to confirm the reports as well as provide the undoubtedly exaggerated news of the size of the enemy host gave him obvious pleasure. Taking advantage of the silence, he stood impressively. Garon and Tepes scooted aside to give him room.
"This is no raiding force, gentlemen," he said. "This is an army of occupation. The Sarians mean to stay this time."
"They grow bold," Kerraunus said out of his knot of men, "under this leader of theirs, this Memnon. He is spoken of as some kind of god-king. Perhaps a battle can be avoided by killing this man."
"You would sooner commit murder than warfare. Is that what you're saying, brother?" Hurrus asked.
Kerraunus leaned forward, slowly. "You can hack your way through Memnon's minions, if you like, Eagle Man. But I prefer a simpler, more direct approach. And to answer your question - yes, I would sooner commit murder than warfare. Wouldn't you?"
"Unfortunately, Memnon does not invade Tygetia alone," Bellog interrupted in his booming voice, "but at the head of an army of unprecedented size. You will get nowhere near him, Kerraunus, unless your Snake Men can slither past the feet of his hundred-thousand to find him."
Kerraunus flashed just the hint of a smile. "Perhaps they could," he said.
"What do you propose then, Master of Arms?" Myletos asked. He had listened silently since the council began, taking in all sides.
"I propose a night attack." Xandros and Deon surged forward in their chairs, both ready to burst with objections, but Hurrus stayed them with a hand. Bellog caught sight of them and continued quickly, raising his voice. "Given their numbers, it is unwise to engage them in a stand-up fight. We should hit them when they are unprepared. Surprise and the terrors of the night itself should be our allies in this battle."
"This is what my Master of Arms suggests I do?" Myletos asked.
Bellog sat down again. "I would attack them at night, if I were you."
"And you, Hurrus," Myletos went on. "What is your opinion?"
"I would attack them at night, too," Hurrus said, standing, "if I were Bellog."
Deon barked out a laugh, and Bellog frowned ferociously.
Tepes sprang to his feet. "You are no Bellog! Far from it!" He stood beside his father and glowered at the prince from under his heavy brow.
"Indeed I am not," Hurrus said. "Nor am I a Sarian boot-black. Can we agree on that? But you, Bellog...Perhaps that is a different story."
"We don't need to listen to this!" Tepes shouted. "King Myletos, put a stop to it."
"It is all right, son," Bellog said calmly, but with a murderous edge to his voice. "Let him go on. Let the lad make a fool of himself."
"Please, Hurrus," Myletos said. "Let us adhere to the matter at hand..."
"Oh, but the matter at hand is Bellog, is it not? He advises us to go skulking around at night like whipped curs hoping to steal a victory from an army of men. This same Bellog who, while the rest of the country chafed under Sarian rule, worked for the Sarians as a...As a what? Sword-polisher, or some-such?"
"I was but a boy," Bellog said. "I did what I needed to do."
"Boy or man, a coward you remain, Bellog, and I will not listen to your shameful proposals."
"Your words do not harm me, Hurrus. You have never had to make a decision upon which your survival depended. I have. Many. Yet I still live. That is why I command an army. I know what it is to survive."
"What a tragedy, to have never tasted glory."
"Where I have been, survival is glory, son," Bellog said dryly.
"Follow me and I will show you glories beyond mere survival, old man."
"Follow you?" Bellog blustered. Even Kerraunus burst out laughing, whether at Bellog or Hurrus it was impossible to tell. His men leaned in around him, smirking. "I command this army, and you will do as I say!"
"I will not sneak around the Sarians in my own country. That I can guarantee you. Neither will I descend to simple murder, as my brother suggests." He turned a piercing eye to Kerraunus. Kerraunus stared coolly back at him. "I would attack in the full light of day so Memnon can see who it is that destroys him."
"Hear! Hear!" Deon cried out, slapping the tabletop while Xandros nodded in satisfaction.
"Silence!" Myletos cried. "This war council is not a sporting match. Bellog is my Master of Arms and is deserving of your respect, Hurrus. You and your men."
Chastened, Deon fell silent. The old man's fury did not flash as often as in years past, but was still terrible to behold.
"And you will be the one to destroy him, I suppose," Bellog said when the laughter and murmurs of consternation had died away. "How many men do you have left in your Eagle Corps, Hurrus? Seven thousand?"
"I have seven thousand men who will follow me anywhere," Hurrus said.
"You have seven thousand men who can't even march straight," said Tepes.
"I would remind the prince," Bellog said, "that our goal is to push the Sarians back across their desert, not to cover you in glory."
Hurrus smiled. "Oh, but I will do both."
In the end, Hurrus had won the day, as he knew he would. Yet, even now as they watched the Sarian chariots race into the valley, Bellog's words came back to haunt him, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. He was not about to 'push the Sarians back across their desert'. He should not have left the council with those words hanging in the air as if he agreed with them. That was Bellog's game, played for his comfort and easy living. Where Hurrus was going, there would be no easy living and any man who stood in his way would quickly find that the rules of the game had changed.
Now, it was just a matter of locating the Sarian army. Hurrus had insisted on accompanying his scouts personally. He needed to see the great host with his own eyes before he would believe it. His own Corps of the Eagle Man was some distance behind them, in marching columns.
"The chariots are fleeing something," Hurrus said, noticing how the riders shot nervous looks behind them.
"Or racing towards something," Xandros offered. "Perhaps they intend to secure some piece of ground ahead of us."
"We won't know until we have a look over that next hill," Hurrus said. "Bring up our horses and call up the body. We're going in."
"Yes, sir!" Deon said with vigor. He leapt to his feet and crab-walked rapidly down the slope to where the horsemen waited.
In a few moments, Deon reappeared with their horses. The rest of the mounted troop followed. All of the men were unarmored and lightly armed, dressed and equipped for scouting, not combat.
In the valley, the chariots had come to a halt. The riders conferred with one another, gesturing in the direction from which they had come. Hurrus mounted and sat his horse atop the ridge in full view of the Sarians below. Deon and Xandros joined him. They sat with their hands on the pommels of their saddles, their head scarves fluttering in the wind. Deon wrapped his over his face and secured it tightly. As a gust blew up, obscuring their view of the parked chariots below, he drew his sword. Hurrus heard the sound of hissing metal as the remaining men drew their swords as well. The Sarians were oblivious to the threat looming above them.
"Stay together," Hurrus shouted back at the men. "There is a great Sarian host out here somewhere. Do not allow yourselves to be drawn off from the group. These chariots could be the vanguard of a larger force."
"A force that is about to get a little smaller," Deon said, his eyes conveying the smile on his hidden lips.
Hurrus fixed him with a hard look. "Just see that our force does not," he said, warning Deon against rash action. "Happy hunting, gentlemen. To the top of that hill!"
Hurrus whipped his reins, spurring his horse to action. In the next instant, he was galloping down the slope at the head of twenty sword-wielding horsemen, shrieking the terrifying ululating war cry they had picked up from desert tribesmen. "Alalalalai!"
Whether the Sarians heard them or saw them first was impossible to tell. In either case, they looked up in time to get their chariots moving before the madmen were upon them. Even from his bouncing saddle, Hurrus could see the terrified shock in the faces of the charioteers. The drivers whipped the horses furiously as the chariots picked up speed quickly, racing back up the hill. One of the riders attempted to nock an arrow to shoot back at them, but a sudden jolt as the wheel struck a rock or rise in the ground jarred the arrow from his hand. Hurrus' horse trampled it in the dust behind them as they dashed away.
The chariot horses were strong and fast. Only Deon, who, despite Hurrus' warnings, had sped out in front of the entire troop, managed to catch one of them. He slashed down at the driver, slicing him across the shoulder blades. A sudden bright gash stained the man's grey tunic, but failed to bring him down or halt his charge.
Deon flew over the top of the hill now and the chariots' wheels spun off the ground as they crested the summit. Deon reared as if to deliver another blow, when he suddenly reined to a halt, his charger huffing and shuffling as he peered down the far slope.
Hurrus and Xandros reached him an instant later.
There on the downward slope they saw the village of Cunama. In the blowing dust, they had failed to notice the rising black smoke from its fiercely burning buildings. Flames licked the sky, the wind bending them as the fire spread quickly from rooftop to rooftop. Evidence of a violent clash clogged the road. The ruin of one of the Sarian chariots lay amid a scattering of several dead horses and smaller black heaps in the dirt that must have been men. Between gusts of smoke, Hurrus saw the forms of living men with bundles in their arms scampering from the burning structures. Others on horseback rode through the streets to cries of anguish. Hurrus saw a woman being dragged from a house by her hair.
He felt the blood rush to his face. These Sarians were not soldiers, but plunderers and pirates!
"Hi-yah!" Hurrus shouted without hesitation, digging his heels into his horse. He whipped the reins to the left, pointing his mount toward the village and away from the chariots rumbling to freedom behind veils of dust across the plain.
Hurrus rode alone for an instant while his companion body stood frozen in confusion. When they saw where he was going, they quickly spurred forward, joining him in his charge on the village.
Hurrus could feel them galloping at his side. His eyes locked onto the man dragging the woman. He raised his sword. When the man saw him, he looked up in shock. Releasing the woman, he turned to flee. That was when Hurrus saw the man's gold-edged white cloak, the same as worn by all the plunderers.
"They are Snake Men!" Xandros' voice boomed in his ear. "Kerraunus' men! Not Sarians! What do we do?"
Hurrus said nothing. The woman knelt fearfully in the dust of the smoky street. She raised her hands defensively, but Hurrus charged right past her. She shrieked as the hooves thundered mere feet from her body. Hurrus saw nothing, heard nothing, and remembered nothing, as he slashed savagely at the scampering Snake Man. His wickedly curved cavalry sword nearly decapitated him. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The plunderers dropped their parcels where they stood. They ducked into doorways and rolled under wooden walkways and porticos. Bloody blade in hand, Hurrus reined up and looked back at his men. What he saw infuriated him.
"Kill them!" he cried, when he saw his men hesitating. He could not believe his eyes. His horse stepped over the dead man as he rode back to them. He grabbed Deon by the throat. Above the scarf that concealed his face, his eyes were wide with terror. "What are you waiting for? Kill them!"
"But these are Kerraunus' men, my lord," Xandros shouted out. "Tygetians. Our men. We are going to attack our own men in the face of the enemy?"
"Our men?" Hurrus heard himself spit the words in fury. "Our men are soldiers, Xandros! Not pillaging reavers! I will not abide this!"
He flung Deon from his grasp, and looked around frantically. He would kill them all himself, if he had to. He saw a man lying under a portico peering out at him from behind a post. He was about to go dig him out of there when a group of horsemen caught his eye. One of them, he saw, was Ramsut the Plunderer, living up to his name.
So these are not just mere soldiers of Kerraunus' corps, but his own companion body!
He remembered Ramsut as probably the vilest of his brother's Snake Men. His house, which he had visited once, was full of booty. He remembered in particular an elephant tusk sheathed in gold and a shield and crossed spear display from some campaign in the south. The shield was covered in the black-and-white hide of an Ashurian tiger. A blank space in the center of the exhibit, Ramsut had glibly announced, was where the former owner's head had been displayed - until it had begun to stink due to inexpert preservation, for which the preservationist had been promptly flogged.
They made eye contact across the square. A light of recognition flashed in Ramsut's eyes. He immediately reined his horse and galloped off down an alley. Hurrus gave chase, just catching glimpses of the horse's backside between gouts of billowing black smoke. The walls on either side of the alley whisked by him in a blur.
The alley opened onto a little dead-end clearing, bounded by the backs of mud brick structures and tangled patches of overgrown foliage. In the center of the clearing stood a brick well. Ramsut rode around the far side of it, looking like a trapped animal. He might have considered the idea of crashing through the weeds and brush between buildings, but thought better of it for the dense masses of thorns and brambles. He drew his sword just in time to block an overhand slash. The enclosed space echoed with the ringing of steel.
"Have you gone mad?" Ramsut cried. He danced his horse to one side of the well and then the other, trying to keep it between them. The well was covered by a little peaked roof. Hurrus swung at Ramsut's head and struck the roof instead, cracking tiles and sending them crashing to the ground.
"You call yourself a soldier?" Hurrus asked.
"I call myself no such thing!" Ramsut said, ducking under a side-armed swipe. The move toppled him from the saddle. He fell to the ground in a sprawl of arms and legs. His white head scarf fell, exposing a clean-shaven cranium that glistened with sweat. His bare torso was covered in dust as he scrambled to his feet, snatching up his sword from where it had fallen beside him.
Hurrus spun from his saddle at the same time that Deon and Xandros burst out of the lane and into the clearing. Their horses skidded to a halt, kicking up dirt and pebbles.
"Hurrus!" Xandros called.
Without looking behind him, Hurrus held out his free hand, holding his men back, while menacing Ramsut with the sword in his other.
"You damned little pup!" Ramsut snapped, his anger flaring, while he backed away from Hurrus' blade. "What do you think you're going to do? I was fighting with swords while you were still wet behind the ears. Now, look at you! All full of yourself."
"Fighting with swords!" Hurrus scoffed. He made a jab at Ramsut's belly. He leapt clear of the slicing steel. "Your days of plunder and pillage are over, Ramsut. This is a Tygetian village, and these are Tygetian people you ravage."
"Listen to you! It was my men who drove the Sarians out of here. This is our village."
Hurrus took another swipe. Ramsut jumped back and Hurrus' blade rang against the brick of the well.
"You better kill me quick, boy, because my men will be coming down that road any moment now. I will take you to Kerraunus myself. How will you like that?"
"Perhaps I have a blade for him, too."
"Oh, but he had one for you, young prince," Ramsut chortled. He slashed an overhand stroke, blocked by Hurrus' sword. Ramsut dodged a vigorous counterthrust. "Only he made a mistake by sending Prathians to do the job of a Snake Man. You would not have escaped so easily had one of us been sent instead."
"What in blazes are you babbling about?" Hurrus snapped. "Who sent Prathians? Where?"
"Kerraunus, you fool!" Ramsut unleashed a series of overhand blows, each ringing louder than the last on Hurrus' blocking blade. Hurrus could feel his sword arm weaken under the onslaught. Some of Ramsut's men had indeed emerged from the lane. Deon and Xandros held their own blades on them, but the men were interested in the contest and did not even bother to draw their weapons, even when threatened.
Finally, Hurrus rolled out from underneath the slashing steel.
Ramsut wheeled, grinning now. "Do you not even see what is right before your eyes? Foolish young pup!"
"Those men in my house...The men who killed Nadia..." Hurrus felt a pressure in his head. For an instant, he felt he might go blind. He charged, slashing. Ramsut's grin fell away at once. "The men who tore her eyes out were sent by Kerraunus?"
Hurrus unleashed a savage barrage of hacks and slashes, each forcing Ramsut back...and back, ever closer to the wall. His men drew their swords now and started toward him, but Deon and Xandros leapt at them. Disarming them quickly, they thrust them up against the wall themselves and held them there with the points of their steel.
"I know nothing of any eyes..." With a loud clang, Ramsut's sword flew from his hand. Hurrus' blade sliced open the flesh covering his ribcage. "Please," Ramsut said, pleading, his voice tremulous. "I know nothing of--"
Hurrus grabbed him by the throat. Throwing him up against the wall, he jammed his sword into the Plunderer's gut. Ramsut's eyes looked as if they would pop from his head. Hurrus shoved the steel in until he felt the gritty chink of the point digging into the mud brick wall behind. He yanked it out and let the Snake Man fall.
Silence fell over the clearing. Hurrus heard only the crunching of grit under his sandals, the crackling of a fire somewhere nearby, the moaning of the wind. Deon and Xandros relinquished their hold on the Snake Men and they scampered off terrified down the narrow lane, abandoning their horses.
Without a word, Hurrus mounted and rode out of the burning village. His twenty men followed him silently and at a distance, not daring to speak. Hurrus stopped and looked to the east. The wind blew against the side of his face. He could feel his long golden hair whipping against his neck. Plumes of black smoke and windblown dust obscured his view, but between gusts the plain stood in stark clarity.
He suddenly saw that the distant ridgeline was alive with movement. Rank upon rank of marching men appeared over the crest, their spear points glinting in the sun. As one rank descended, the next emerged in its place, thousands upon thousands of marching men, an endless army, the largest Hurrus had ever seen. He felt a thrill race through him, but not of fear.
"By the gods," Xandros said in an awed hush, before the wind blew up a cloud, covering the Sarian columns.
Turning his horse to face his men, Hurrus said, "Bring up the Corps of the Eagle Man. Tread lightly! The soil beneath our feet is hallowed ground, for it is soon to be soaked with our blood."
"Coronea!" Menleco gasped.
He had never seen the woman before, yet he knew at once who she was. Here was the living embodiment of Veronysia, the Huntress of legend, made flesh before him. Had she not been about to kill him, he would have found her beautiful.
"And here you are," Coronea said. "Leader of the demon men. How foolish of you to come out of the safety of your camp."
Menleco had fought his whole life, literally with spear and shield, fought in every land touched by the Middle Sea. He had fought with armor and blood no less than brains. He had pitted his blade against mighty warriors and his will and cunning against kings and princes and had emerged from every struggle stronger than when he had started. To die now in a dead-end chamber at the hands of some overzealous girl seemed to him absurd and unreal. It felt like a dream, one that left him marveling at its strangeness. He wished he had not dropped his dagger now. It lay at Ardonis' feet winking at him in the light of the crimson everflame as from the bottom of a deep well. He should have immediately hurled it at her, trading point for point and blood for blood. Now, unarmed, he would be put away like a dog.
"Kill me and my Shadow Riders will hunt you until your legs collapse from exhaustion." The walls were smooth and featureless. There was no way out but for the way blocked by the Huntress. She stood straight and tall, menacing him with a drawn bowstring. The wickedly barbed arrowhead was red with dancing everflame, already seeming to drip with blood.
"I would gladly give my life to kill you, as would hundreds more just like me."
"My ransom will be paid in gold," Menleco promised. In truth, there were more who would pay for his death than his life. But as long as she was talking, she was not loosing, and he was not dying.
"There is not gold enough to balance the suffering inflicted by you on my people. Even your wretched life is a miserly wage..."
She pulled back the final inch. Muscles straining, her face lost its beauty at that moment. Menleco could not watch. He closed his eyes. From the blackness of his coming death, he heard her cry out, then the sound of the arrow clattering against the stone wall just inches from his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw a figure wrestling the Huntress to the floor. She had dropped her bow and Menleco could see her reaching for the dagger at her belt.
"She has a blade!" he shouted.
The man wrestling her needed no warning. He raised his short sword and brought the pommel down on the top of her head, a savage blow that immediately sprouted red amid her golden curls.
She lay motionless on the floor. Vonos sprang to his feet, grinning ear to ear.
"What a she-wolf!" he gasped.
"You fool! What are you trying to do, get me killed?" Another inch and Menleco would have been wearing the Huntress' arrow in place of his right eye. He bent down, picked up his dagger and calmly resheathed it at his belt.
"Saving your life, more like," Vonos said with a smile. "No charge for that, but four more silvers for the Huntress."
Coronea's head was bleeding onto the floor. Menleco turned her onto her back. "If you haven't already killed her, that is."
"She's not dead." Vonos pulled a dirty cloth from beneath his tunic and put it under her head. He felt at her nostrils for breath and looked up at Menleco, satisfied that she still lived. "I didn't chase her in here only to kill her at half the rate. This one's worth four, and four I shall have."
"Chased her? I led her in here, you fool! What chance did she have in this labyrinth with that bow of hers? She was foolish to enter here."
"What chance? Better than average, I would say, given the circumstances I found her in."
Could not this deceitful little whelp say anything without that self-satisfied grin on his face? Menleco lunged at him and threw him up against the wall.
"You think you're clever, you little bastard? You lead my men into a trap and then try to claim bounties on top of it? How much did the Epirians pay you? Do you think you will leave here alive now?"
"Trap?" Vonos did not struggle, even when his head had slammed against the wall. He blinked in confusion. "You think I led you into a trap? How could it be a trap when your men have killed them all?"
Menleco's grip slackened. "Killed them all?"
Vonos angrily slapped Menleco's hands away. "Killed them all," he said with brutal finality. "Every last one of them. Six dead, one captured. Not just any captive, either, but the Huntress herself. By my reckoning, that's sixteen silver pieces for me. You agreed."
Back at the pass, Captain Raulon confirmed Vonos' claim.
"We lost five of our own," he said. In the moonlight, Menleco could see five horses with black-cloaked bodies draped over the saddles. "Our men were discovered before we had a chance to get into position. It wasn't the lad's fault," he added, answering Menleco's unasked question. "The Epirians were where he said they would be. What should we do with their dead?"
"Leave them lay," Menleco said. "When we ride through this pass at sunup, I want circling vultures to show us the way."
"There will be no missing this road then," Raulon predicted. He nodded to where Coronea lay at Vonos' feet. She was beginning to stir, slowly regaining consciousness. She uttered a little groan. "And who is this?"
"It is the one they call the Huntress," said Menleco.
"Ah!" Raulon exclaimed, looking down at her from his saddle. "Did she fill your heart with love, sir?"
"She almost filled his heart with more than that," Vonos quipped. "She almost filled it so much that it might have stopped beating altogether. Isn't that right, General?"
Coronea rode draped over the front of Raulon's saddle. By the time they reached the camp, she had regained full consciousness. She struggled at first but Raulon kept a strong hand on her back to prevent her rising. Outside Menleco's tent, he cheerfully smacked her buttocks before allowing her to dismount.
"Hate to disappoint you, Captain," Menleco said. "But this one is bound for the Irrylian spymaster."
"I could at least give her a memorable sendoff to cheer her on her way," Raulon said, less jesting than hopeful, Menleco thought.
Raulon jumped down from his mare and on Menleco's order bound Coronea's hands. The general had seen her eying their weapons and he wasn't about to give her the opportunity of taking up arms against them. He knew she would not again allow herself to be lulled into talking when she should be killing.
He approached Coronea and bowed deeply with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. "Welcome to the camp of the Shadow Riders, my lady. I'm sorry your compatriots could not be here to share this with you, but I'm told they are all dead."
She spat in his face. Menleco hardly flinched. He rubbed the dripping spittle from his eye with a corner of his cloak.
"If you were as quick with your bow as you are with your pretty little mouth, I would be dead now and you might still have a chance to live. As it is..." Menleco shook his head sadly. "Quite hopeless, I'm afraid."
Coronea stared at him fiercely and defiantly. When she spied Vonos, her expression changed to one of concern.
"Let the boy go," she snapped. Raulon tilted his head back and laughed. "You said all were killed..."
"All of your comrades were killed, Huntress," Menleco said, smiling when he saw the confusion spread across her face. "But this is not one of yours. He's one of mine."
Vonos' grin changed to a stern frown. "I must avenge my father," he said with theatrical vigor and then burst out laughing. "You believed every word out of my mouth because it's what you expected to hear. Who wouldn't want to take up your noble cause, eh? In truth, my father is an evil man and every day our paths do not cross, I count a good one. I'd impale the bastard myself, if I knew where he was." Vonos laughed again. Coronea stared at him with hard eyes. "I wonder what old Cleonander would say of my performance. Perhaps he would let me play the lead at his next opening."
"He would spill your guts all over the ground first," Coronea said, but the fire had gone out of her. She seemed filled with sadness and could not hold anyone's gaze.
A few officers were up and about, striding through the darkness among the tents, preparing to break camp. Menleco saw Coronea anxiously noticing their stares. "Let's take her inside. She will be safer there. I wouldn't want her to think that we are barbarians here."
Raulon grabbed her by the shoulders. "Do you care so much what I think of you?" Coronea asked.
"No," Menleco said upon reflection. "I suppose I don't." He ducked inside and the little group filed in behind him.
Lyssa was awake now. She sat at a table upon which stood a burning lamp. When the group entered, she stood and turned abruptly, as if she had been caught at some mischief. Menleco eyed the tabletop with suspicion. Lyssa watched him coldly.
"I didn't hear you come in, my lord," she said with unconvincing casualness.
A map of Prathia lay atop a jumble of papers. Menleco ignored her and lifted a corner of the parchment, but saw nothing amiss beneath. His papers would have no meaning to her. Perhaps she was writing love letters. He would have had Raulon search her person if he did not think she would enjoy it.
"Are you planning a trip, my dear?" Menleco asked.
"A trip?" she asked, puzzled.
He motioned toward the map. "You've been studying. I hope this does not mean you're leaving us?"
"Oh, that...the map...yes." She was a poor liar and always had been. Young ladies from royal households had not much use for lies. They found the world at their feet sure enough without them. "I was just looking at the road we would take into Prathia."
"And did you find our route satisfactory?"
She looked down and nodded.
Menleco narrowed his eyes. He lifted her chin with a bent finger and scrutinized her face. "Are you ill, Lyssa? You look...tired. Have you been sleeping well?"
"You know I have not," Lyssa snapped, her mask falling away. She pulled her face back from his hand. "Why do you persist in your cruelties? You know I am not happy here. I want only to go home."
"Lyssa, dear, please...We have guests."
She seemed to notice them for the first time. She looked at Vonos. His mind was as transparent to Lyssa as it was to Menleco. Not even a grin could hide his lustful musings. She looked away from him in a hurry. Her gaze, however, lingered when it found Raulon's face. The captain instantly lowered his eyes, perhaps remembering wisely that Menleco made no idle threats. Lyssa pursed her lips and Menleco thought she might cry. When she saw Coronea, however, she brightened immediately.
"This girl," she gasped, rushing to her. "Where did you find her? Look at her head! It is bleeding. Come, sit down, dear."
Lyssa guided Coronea into a chair where she began fretting over her bloody scalp. It occurred to Menleco at that moment that Lyssa had not had any contact with girls her own age--for years perhaps--and he saw at once that these two might have been sisters. The Huntress rivaled Lyssa in beauty, that was plain to see. But if sisters they were, they had long been lost to each other, for one padded through marble halls while the other slept on the hard dirt. Doubtless neither would have been able to comprehend the other's life. One committed murders daily; the other only dreamed of it.
"Don't think this is some village waif we found on the road, Lyssa," Menleco said with a chuckle. "This is the Huntress you have no doubt heard tell of. She is an Epirian killer. She would put an arrow through your heart where you stand if she could."
"Is this true?" Lyssa asked. "You are the Huntress?
"My enemies call me that. My name is Coronea.
"And you fight for Epiria?"
"I fight, my lady. Yes."
Lyssa let her fingers fall from Coronea's injured scalp. Her hands still bound behind her, Coronea sat rigidly upright. Lyssa seemed torn between sadness and anger. She regarded the bound Huntress with an expression of awe and wonder.
Finally, she looked past Coronea's unbrushed, blood-matted hair to Menleco. "So you will keep two of us captive now. Is that the way of it, my lord?"
Vonos burst out laughing. "Two captives? An unequal pair, if ever I saw them! A gilded cage for one, but I would suggest stout iron bars for the other."
"Don't get your hopes up, Lyssa," Menleco said amidst Vonos' guffawing laughter. "I did not bring her here for you to keep."
Vonos barked out another laugh.
"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Coronea spat. "Forgive me, Lyssa. I had an opportunity to end your suffering, and I failed."
"And I am tempted to drive a spear through your pretty breast, Huntress," Menleco said through clenched teeth. The lady was unbowed. It seemed to him they all were. "It would do Lyssa good to see that even a woman as beautiful as you would bleed red and spill her bowels at my whim."
"Perhaps it would do Lyssa more good to hear how you trembled under my bow, Menleco. Someday soon death will find you a quivering coward."
Menleco lunged toward Coronea and raised his hand, but stayed it at the last moment. Coronea had squeezed her eyes shut and she sat there awaiting the blow. Menleco lowered his fist, and began chuckling darkly. He stroked Coronea's face and she jerked her head away.
"Oh, no, I will not bruise your cheek, my dear, but will instead deliver you to the Irrylians unmarked. What do you suppose the Huntress is worth to them? I think they'll be most pleased. They were most appreciative of the last of your kind I delivered to them, and I don't even remember their names. The Huntress in the hands of Pylia should profit me greatly."
"Pylia?" Lyssa gasped. "You wouldn't..."
"Did I not mention that, Lyssa? I should have warned you not to become too attached to our new friend here, for she is bound for Pylia. Perhaps she will not speak so boldly in the witch's lair. Believe me, it is a dreadful place."
"You can't send her to the witch!" Lyssa shrieked. "You just can't. Keep her here. I will tend her..."
"Do not speak for me!" Coronea snapped. "I would sooner face the witch than submit to your cowardly imprisonment. You are no better than he is. You belong together."
Lyssa slapped her across the face, hard. The snap of flesh on flesh filled the tent like a thunderclap. "Go to the witch, then," she said, turning away, her voice full of anger and pain. "I will not save you."
Menleco chuckled again. "You see, Coronea, your tongue has cost you all your friends. And now, here you sit, quite alone."
"Quite alone, yes, but still valuable, if you catch my meaning," Vonos said, grinning. "We may not know what value the Irrylians place on her head, but to you she is worth four silvers, if you remember."
"Of course," Menleco said. "I had almost forgotten. Thank you for reminding me. Raulon, your cloak."
Raulon looked puzzled. "My cloak?"
"Yes," said Menleco impatiently. "Your cloak. Off with it. Hand it to me."
Reluctantly, Raulon removed his long black cloak and handed it to Menleco. The general spread it out on the floor of the tent.
"Now, you shall receive what you have coming to you. Stand on the cloak, please."
Vonos stepped onto the cloak. "Ah, this must be the Shadow Riders' way," he said in a tone that might have been mockery and might have been genuine admiration. Menleco had given up trying to distinguish what was real with the lad. "The way of the Shadow Riders," he repeated in an unmistakably awed tone. "That's sixteen silvers, remember."
Menleco stepped onto the cloak with him. "Would you like to be a Shadow Rider, Vonos, son of the hated bastard Umey?"
"I would consider it an honor, sir," Vonos said, his grin surpassing even its previous breadth. Did he really consider it an honor? Or was that mockery again in his smile? Menleco wondered briefly and then decided he did not really care anymore. It was a shame, too, because he was exactly the kind of boy Menleco was always on the lookout for. He might indeed have made a good Shadow Rider.
Vonos was all smiles as Menleco reached under his cloak and produced not a bag of silver but a shiny dagger. He plunged it to the hilt into Vonos' gut. The boys' eyes bulged and Menleco eased him down onto Raulon's spread cloak.
"This is the way of the Shadow Riders, Vonos." He gave the dagger a hard twist. "Nobody plays a double game with Menleco," he added, laying the boy down.
Lyssa screamed and Coronea watched impassively, her heart a stone. Menleco supposed she enjoyed it as much as he did. At least they had that to share before they would have to part ways.
"That's sixteen silver pieces I no longer have to pay. Captain, wrap the boy up in your cloak and get him out of here."
"My cloak is ruined."
"Better your cloak than my floor."
"The boy was a thing of evil," Coronea said.
"A more eloquent eulogy I have never heard, Huntress. Composed on the spot, too. Impressive. Must be this Cleonander fellow rubbing off on you." Raulon had folded his cloak over Vonos' body and was dragging the bloody parcel toward the door. He stopped and looked up when Menleco called to him. "Leave his body in the camp for the feral dogs. Then take fifty men and escort our lady here back to Irrylia, to the spymaster, Taler."
Raulon's face brightened. "Yes, sir," he said, and recommenced his dragging with a smile on his face.
When he returned, it was at the head of a column of fifty skull-faced riders and one empty mount for Coronea.
"Mount up, lady. We have days of riding ahead of us."
The sun was beginning to rise and the camp was in full bustle, men tearing down tents, hitching horses, filling packs. Soon they would all be on the road, Coronea and the skull-faced men north to Irrylia, Menleco and the rest of the Riders south to the town where Clautias was hiding, the way marked by circling vultures.
Seized by an impulse, Lyssa rushed to the door to get a last look at the Huntress.
"Coronea!" she called.
The captive warrior looked back over her shoulder, Shadow Riders all around her. Her face was almost lost in a sea of black cloaks.
"I envy you," Lyssa cried.
Coronea's eyes remained hard. "I pity you," she replied. "I pity you all."
Without the farsee stone, it looked like the Tygetian lines were opposed by fields of flowers: a stand of roses here, of sunflowers there, of indigos, purples and golds. The great Sarian army had spilled over the ridge and now filled the plain before them. There the soldiers stood in their ranks, richly adorned in brightly patterned tunics and quilted corselets, shields, headscarves, hats and helms of every hue and style imaginable. The Sarians were nothing if not flashy, Hurrus would give them that. The sun was as likely to flash glints of rubies and sapphires as steel across the brown plain.
A closer look, however, revealed thorns on these desert flowers. Sprouting above the bright petals was a thicket of sharpened spear points with burrs of arrows and bows, a league-long briar patch, intended to attract and ensnare.
"Ah, but here is the loveliest flower of all!" Hurrus crooned. This one sprouted from a golden chariot pulled by four white horses. He focused the stone on the unmistakable figure of Memnon, the Sarian god-king, riding the lower slopes behind his army, the royal head shaded by a parasol of purple silk. A hundred armored horsemen rode to either side of him. Sarian soldiers cheered him as he passed. Through the stone, Hurrus could see every detail of his face. A youngish-looking man, he nevertheless had a regal bearing and wore an arrogant expression. His oiled beard hung in tightly coiled ringlets from his chin and his hair was a glistening bed upon which rested a golden crown.
As he contemplated the god-king's face, Hurrus found himself muttering a poem in a harsh whisper.
"Do you know against what type of men you'll have to fight?
We who dine on sharpened swords,
And drink down blazing torches as our wine."
Xandros' deep voice snapped him from his reverie. "What is that from?"
Startled, Hurrus looked and found his friend sitting his horse beside him. He hadn't noticed him ride up. "It is from a poem Nadia taught me as a boy," he replied. "It speaks of Xarhux's men as they set out on their campaign into the Eastern Lands. Today it speaks of Hurrus' men." He gave Xandros a smile and slapped the stone down into his palm. "On this day, my friend, it speaks of us."
"The Sarian line outflanks our left by at least a quarter-league," Xandros observed, unconvinced.
"Ah, but we dine on sharpened swords, remember? Of whom can this be said more than you, Xandros?"
Xandros frowned. He had never been one for poetry. "I don't understand."
"Memnon outnumbers us on the left, it is true. But I have something on my left that he does not."
"What is that, my lord?"
"I have Xandros."
Hurrus rode away. The other thing he had on the left was Cunama. Xandros had filled it full of archers and slingers and then arrayed his talons behind it. Any Sarian attack on the left flank would break upon the village. Smoke still rose from its smoldering ruins. Hurrus rode behind the line of infantry. He could admire the soldiers in their bronze cuirasses and bronze-faced round shields, but he could not help noting the thinness of the ranks. It was even worse among Xandros' horse, a mix of heavy and light. For a moment, his attention became morbidly fixed on the last soldier in the line, the left of the left. What he saw was an unarmored man riding a bareback pony with a deep quiver full of javelins. The horse was jittery and the rider a Tygetian, a remnant of Tepes' command. Hurrus wondered if this man was all that stood between victory and defeat. Beyond him was nothing but an open plain across which stood rank upon rank of armored Sarian horsemen. You're going to need more javelins, Hurrus thought, tearing his eyes from the man, who, in his mind, he already counted as dead.
He turned away from the flank and came riding back to find Xandros following him a few paces behind. His tour of the left had unnerved him, but he would not reveal that to Xandros.
"Whatever I've had for lunch, whether swords or torches, I fear you might be overestimating the impact of one man," Xandros said.
"Just carry out the plan, Xandros. I do not overestimate your abilities. Perhaps it is your heart that should concern me."
"My heart would beat stronger to the tramping of another thousand marching feet, my lord. Stronger still to two."
"Would not all of ours? But there is not another thousand, Xandros, nor two. With these men - and no more - you will hold our left. We can expect no help. Kerraunus' corps will be attacking on the right and Bellog has placed Garon's reserve behind Kerraunus. There is nothing to our left, and nothing behind us. We hold on our own."
A mile to the south, Hurrus could see the white-clad lines of Kerraunus' Corps of the Snake Man. Behind them, deployed on rising ground, were Garon's troops, as garish as Sarians. Combined, the two corps comprised over twenty thousand men. Yet, even these were overmatched by Memnon's hordes. When Bellog saw the Sarians overlapping Kerraunus' right, he had moved Garon to cover his flank. This left Hurrus utterly on his own.
"You are to defend our left, Hurrus," Bellog had barked at him as he inspected the deployment. "And defend only."
He had become suspicious when he saw that Hurrus had placed two thousand armored lancers at the right of Hurrus' corps, wedged between his Silver Shields and Kerraunus' phalanx.
"That looks like a strike force to me," he had said. "On defense, it is a waste of good horsemen. Your left flank is where they belong."
"My cavalry is fine where it is," Hurrus replied. "You needn't worry about this flank, Bellog. To Kerraunus goes the honor of the attack. I will hold his left."
Bellog had merely narrowed his eyes and ridden away.
Xandros turned to observe the battle array off to the south. "Kerraunus may not be in much of a mood to support you now, anyway."
"Nor I him," said Hurrus with a smile.
"You mean to attack." Hurrus could not tell if Xandros was asking or telling.
"I mean to keep my options open."
Xandros furrowed his brow. "It is a great risk."
He knew Xandros was right. Ever since he had seen the size of the Sarian army, he had been assailed by doubts. All his life growing up in Myletos' court, he had studied the masters of war, had practiced with sword, spear and shield until these things were as mere appendages to him. He knew great victories were not won without great risk. But he also knew that a great risk resulting in failure was called foolishness. What could one learn from the words of poets and long-dead heroes, really? What did one know of war without fighting it?
"That is why I rely on great men," Hurrus said, instead of what was in his mind. "Harden your heart, Xandros. I need you."
In resignation, Xandros closed his eyes and bowed. "It will be as you say."
Deon rode up at that moment in a state of high excitement, primed for a fight. "The center stands ready, Prince!"
"My armored fist!" Hurrus cried when he saw him. "What of my Silver Shields?"
Deon put a hand to his ear. "Listen and you can hear them."
The three fell silent. Out of the clamor of thirty thousand men standing at arms, Hurrus could hear a deep rhythmic thumping, suffused with what sounded like an animal growl attempting human speech. His skin prickled when he heard the words. "Let them come! Let them come!" All of his doubts fled at that moment.
"By the gods!" he cried. "We can't let these men down! Xandros, when the Sarians march, continue to extend your line to the left. Thin your ranks as necessary. Roll your horsemen to the left, always to the left, raising great clouds. March your infantry behind them. Don't let the Sarians get a good look at them, but keep the flank flowing ever leftward. The god-king will follow you. So intent is he on outflanking us, he will follow you wherever you go. And, as the gods will it, he will thin his front to do so.
"Deon, you attack on my order, in echelon from right to left, Silver Shields in the van. When the Shields break the line, I will lead our horse into the breach. Now, Xandros, go tend to your men. Deon, accompany me to the front. I must see the Shields."
Hurrus and Deon rode rapidly to the front, weaving through the ranks of Hurrus' armored horsemen. As the men saw the prince, their fists instinctively thumped their breastplates in salute. Their horses snorted and pawed at the earth. The men held their long spears upright at their sides so Hurrus felt as though he were riding through a forest of spindly trees. He could see the men's faces through their visorless helms; a grim anxiety played on them all. Their countenances grew grimmer still when the sound of drums and trumpets exploded across the plain. By the time the two men reached the front, the Sarian army was already in motion - the fields of deadly flowers had begun to sway.
Far to the right, on Kerraunus' front, great clouds of dust spewed from Memnon's charging horse. The infantry followed. Even from this distance, Hurrus could see rank upon rank of pikes arcing toward the ground as foot soldiers leveled them for the attack. Kerraunus' men raced to meet them. Waves of sound swept the field like a raging wind - the clash of iron and bronze, the thundering of hooves and cries of dying men.
The Sarian right, facing Hurrus' corps, had been held until after the initial clash on Kerraunus' front. Then they began marching, step after implacable step, coming ever sharper into focus until it seemed as if Hurrus' men would have no hope but to be swept away by a great wall of advancing shields. Away on Xandros' left flank, Hurrus caught sight of the Sarian cavalry horde advancing at a trot.
The Silver Shields had fallen silent in the face of the enemy advance. When Hurrus rode out in front of them he could feel their eyes on him, burning hotly. Though the men followed him with their gazes, he knew that the sight of the Sarian host growing ever larger behind him dominated their vision.
He walked his horse before them, studying the faces of the men of the front rank. Their expressions were hidden inside their helms, only their eyes could be seen. He caught sight of Aryk of Irrylia in his usual place in the line. Hurrus stopped and leaned down to speak to him. He reached out his hand and each man grasped the other's wrist in a firm grip.
"Are you afraid, Aryk?" Hurrus asked. Drums thumped and trumpets blared behind him. Aryk's eyes were cold and hard, but he said nothing. Hurrus could feel him tighten his grip. "See the shields the enemy carries?" Aryk's gaze moved past Hurrus' face. He nodded, very slightly. "Our spears will punch right through them. Our shields" - Hurrus rapped Aryk's with his knuckle - "are faced with silver and bronze. Their weapons will glance right off of them. Fear nothing!"
Hurrus squeezed Aryk's shoulder and straightened to address the entire unit.
Rising into the sky from behind the phalanx, Hurrus saw the roiling dust cloud of the Sarian horse as they charged Xandros. An instant later, he heard the first clashes of battle. He had to shout to make himself heard. "Soon you will see the faces of the enemy, and you will see the shock and horror in their eyes as they learn what it is to fight the Silver Shields. Any of them who survive will boast to the end of their days that they fought men such as you, that they fought the Silver Shields and lived to tell of it. Today, the Shields will forge their legend!"
Cries of "Eagle Man! Eagle Man!" swept the phalanx as the men pumped their spears in the air. Gradually, starting with a single voice, the chant transformed itself into the now-familiar "Let them come! Let them come!" until even neighboring units had picked it up. Soon Hurrus' entire front was shouting "Let them come!" and banging their shields with the shafts of their spears, drowning out even the drums and trumpets of the advancing enemy.
Hurrus left Deon in command of the Shields and hurried back to the head of his cavalry brigade. Battle raged on both flanks. To his right, Kerraunus was fully engaged. The fighting seemed to ripple all along his line. Thickets of slender pikes rose out of the roiling dust and masses of horsemen disappeared over the horizon racing for the flank. On his left, the Sarians struck Xandros as with a blow from a powerful fist. Hurrus could hear the shrieking of the Sarian footmen as they leveled their pikes and a great crack when the shields crashed together. Only the Sarian center held back. Across the plain from Hurrus, the enemy line stood with improbable serenity. Memnon was content to attack the flanks of the army, just as Hurrus had supposed.
He rode rapidly to the rear to get better look at Xandros' command. Already, his line was beginning to buckle. His infantry bulged dangerously in the center as Memnon's spearmen crashed shield-to-shield into Xandros' phalanx. The depth of the Sarian line was double that of the Tygetian's, and Xandros' men lurched backward whenever they collided.
Yet the men held. Their long spears crashed through the weak Sarian shields to skewer the men behind them. The enemy masses retreated, spitting out heaps of dead in their wake. In places, Hurrus could see that parts of Xandros' line were held by a depth of but two men. Still, Xandros continued to strip his right to feed his left. Hurrus could see him as he galloped from one end of the line to the other, directing men into position. Armored horsemen charged with lances leveled only to vanish inside clouds of swirling dust as if they had charged into oblivion. Light cavalrymen swarmed to cover the empty flank, and Sarian men and horses alike collapsed under showers of plunging javelins.
But always, the Sarians kept coming as Memnon weakened his center to bolster his right. More and more men, fresh to battle, piled onto the flank, moving ever leftward, as Xandros rolled his line out to meet them.
There was such a great crashing and booming of noise now that no single object seemed to produce a sound of its own. Hurrus watched men silently hacked apart, saw the wounded soundlessly crying out as they were trampled underfoot by charging horsemen.
Still, Memnon held his center and Hurrus realized that he was trying to do to Hurrus what Hurrus was doing to him. The temptation to strip his right to reinforce Xandros was nearly irresistible. How long could Xandros hold? Was it even possible? Before, the line had merely grown dangerously thin; now, great gaps began to appear in it. Soon, the Sarians would find them and spill into Hurrus' rear.
The only thing that saved the flank was Cunama. The Sarians had gotten snagged on it and a gap had formed in their own line. Archers and javelineers pumped a murderous fire into the flanks of any Sarian trying to bypass the village. The enemy sent wave after wave of men in an attempt to clear it. Hurrus wondered if Xandros, perhaps, could exploit that somehow...
He had no time to think about it, for just at that moment he noticed that Kerraunus' infantry - those who had been deployed next to his armored cavalry - had vanished. It had been shifted to the right to assist in some unseen crisis. Kerraunus must be faltering. Untethered from the rest of the army, Hurrus really was on his own now, and he knew Memnon could wait him out. He must force him to commit.
He raced back to his cavalry wing and ordered an about-face. All two-thousand cavalrymen turned as one and Hurrus led them away from the front. A tremor rippled across the Silver Shields as they saw their flank uncovered. Had they been abandoned? Hurrus understood the risk of causing a general panic if he was seen to be retreating, but he must entice Memnon to attack. Deon will not let them run, he thought.
Once he had cleared the front, he wheeled the unit in an exaggerated, highly visible maneuver to his left. From Memnon's position, it must have looked like Hurrus had blinked. He was racing off to reinforce his beleaguered flank, leaving a yawning gap in his line. The god-king's plan was working to perfection.
Memnon unleashed his center just before Hurrus came wheeling back.
The Sarian infantry was on them almost instantly. Shrieking their war cry, they sprinted across the field and crashed into the Tygetian line. Memnon had indeed thinned his ranks, but, in order to extend his frontage, so had Hurrus. The Silver Shields alone retained their original depth. They were Hurrus' armored fist.
Hurrus' line of spearmen shuddered, but held.
He led his cavalry forward, back toward the yawning gap. His feint had worked perfectly. He had given Memnon just what he was waiting for. The god-king's infantry had bounced off the heavier Silver Shields. Dazed, the Sarians retreated a short distance to regroup. Hurrus could see that the Shields outnumbered them two-to-one.
"Attack!" he cried. "Attack now! Deon, attack!"
How could Deon possibly hear him? Damn it all! He had planned to be at Deon's side, not leading a feint to the rear. He was about to spur his horse forward when he found that Tepes had somehow located him in the chaos and ridden up alongside him in a state of great anxiety.
"Kerraunus' center has been breached!" Tepes cried, his voice cracking with emotion. His horse turned a complete circle and Tepes swiveled his head to keep Hurrus in his view.
"Out of my way!" Hurrus snapped. "Can't you see what is happening here?"
Tepes rode in front of Hurrus' horse and grabbed his reins. "Did you not hear me? Our center has fallen, I say! All is lost! Garon's corps is fully committed and Kerraunus is on the verge of collapse. Bellog orders every available man to the right, and that means you."
"By gods, you let go of my horse," Hurrus growled. He whipped his head around to the left. Xandros had refused his flank and his line had nearly doubled over onto itself. Sarians had found the gaps and began to spill through. Hurrus' heart plunged when he saw the last man on Xandros' left with the bloody tip of a Sarian spear protruding from his back. Two enemy horsemen swarmed around the spot where the doomed man had stood. Xandros himself, sword in hand, galloped to cut them off.
The Silver Shields surged forward with a bloodcurdling cry. Hurrus looked up with joy in his heart. Deon had heard him! The Shields crashed into the Sarian line, splintering it with a great crack like wood under an axe.
All of this was lost on Tepes. He was unaware of anything but his own panic. "We have no reserves!" he shrieked hysterically. "Shift your line to the right! Kerraunus wavers! All is lost, I tell you!"
Hurrus drew his sword and held it to Tepes' chest. He should just run him through now; there was no time to argue with him, but Hurrus would give the man a chance he did not deserve. "Ride with me to glory!" he shouted into Tepes' face.
Ignoring Hurrus' blade, Tepes yanked on his reins, as if he could propel him to the collapsing right. "Bellog orders--"
"Ride with me!" Hurrus shouted again. The Sarian infantry splintered by the attack had dissolved into a mass of panicked men as the Shields hewed into them. Now was the time! "Tepes! Ride with me! To glory!"
Tepes' yanked again, putting his whole body into it this time. Hurrus lifted his sword and brought it down with all the strength he could muster, lopping off Tepes' arm at the elbow. Hurrus' horse blinked at the spray of blood in its eyes. Tepes howled and tumbled to the ground.
"Charge!" Hurrus screamed.
As a single entity, Hurrus' two thousand horsemen surged forward, trampling Tepes where he lay.
Without orders, the cavalrymen adopted a wedge formation with Hurrus at the point. To their front was a disorganized mass of fleeing men. The horsemen struck them at full gallop, skewering them with their long spears, slashing at them with swords, riding them down where they stood. The world had turned red and was full of the screams of dying men.
Half of the horsemen turned right and slammed into the flank of a thick block of enemy footmen, hitting them by surprise. In the next instant, the formation was a bloody shambles. The men who survived the onslaught dropped their weapons and ran for their lives. The horsemen cut them down without mercy. A contagion of panic spread among all the Sarians. A cheer went up from the Tygetian spearmen. They rushed forward to the attack and the enemy line burst like an overfull bladder.
Hurrus led the other half to the left. His heart leapt at the sight of the Silver Shields advancing in a solid block through a field of carnage. Having laid waste to the first enemy, they wheeled to the left and crashed into the flank of the next. They impaled men on their spears and plowed the survivors into the ground with their shields. The enemy evaporated before them.
Hurrus reined up. Xandros was still under extreme pressure as enemy cavalry continued to swarm around his faltering flank. Hurrus was about to wheel in that direction when a flash of light caught his eye far to the right.
The golden chariot!
It had gotten trapped in the crush of panicked men and horses that filled the ridgeline in the Sarian rear. Hurrus could see Memnon frantically whipping the reins. The chariot lurched forward only to be blocked again by knots of his own terrified men. Memnon's cavalry escort charged and began slashing at them with swords. The men scattered like birds, leaving a clear path for the chariot to clatter through.
The god-king must not escape.
"Prince Hurrus!" one of his companions was shouting. "Your orders?"
The battle continued to rage on Xandros' flank. Freed from the clutter of men, Memnon's chariot rushed past the throng and dipped below the far side of the ridge. Hurrus was not the only one to see it go. Abandoned by their leader, the Sarian army fell into a general rout. All along the front, the Tygetian line surged forward. Hurrus wanted to pursue Memnon. He wanted that crown. By gods, he had earned it!
"Your orders, sir!"
The cavalry brigade was motionless. Never could he be closer to the total annihilation of an enemy. Would there ever be such an opportunity as this? Hurrus actually felt his body jerking in one direction and then the other. The god-king's crown on his own head...
"Prince--"
Hurrus winced. "Hi-ya!" Digging in his heels hard, he reined his horse to the left. "To Xandros!" he cried, raising his sword. The brigade followed on his heels.
Men who had been fighting from the battle's outset inside Cunama were the first to see him charge. A wild cheer rose from the embattled village and quickly spread to the spearmen of Xandros' front. Some of the units were down to a single line of men as they struggled to hold off the tide of Sarian attacks. Men actually wept when they saw Hurrus' horsemen racing to their rescue. Heartened, cries of "charge!" spread across the front. Ranks closed up on the gaps left by the wounded and solid lines of reenergized spearmen surged forward over the bodies of their dead.
Hurrus locked his gaze on a single Sarian cavalryman. He was part of a formed body of lancers advancing to the attack on Xandros' flank. Hearing hoof beats - perhaps one, then a dozen, then a thousand - he turned with a look of horror. Two spears pierced his chest before he could even open his mouth to scream. The formed body exploded in a shower of blood. Survivors scattered in every direction. Panic swept the Sarian lines. With a cry, Xandros' horsemen charged. By the time Hurrus had reached the flank, there was little left for him to do.
He turned back and rode across the victorious front. Soldiers raised their spears into the air and cheered as he passed. He found the Silver Shields kneeling on the bloody ground that would have been the Sarian rear - had there any longer been a Sarian front. When they saw him, they sprang to their feet, lifted their arms high, and roared ecstatically. Many of the men had removed their helmets and Hurrus could see their faces. He rode until he saw Aryk, ginning and cheering wildly. Then he drew his sword and held it high above his head.
"How does it feel to be men today?" he roared.
The Shields erupted in pandemonium. Hurrus gazed at them fiercely with his bloody sword raised high. "King Hurrus! King Hurrus! King Hurrus!" the men chanted as he passed.
Deon had ridden up alongside him. "No longer Eagle Man," he said with a smile. "Now it is King!" Then he frowned, and added, "Your face, Highness..."
Hurrus touched his cheek and his fingers came away bloody. "I wear the blood of my enemies," he said. "Where is Xandros?"
"My lord." He heard Xandros' deep voice behind him and turned. There was a weariness in his tone. "The flank held," he said.
"You should have attacked," Hurrus snapped.
Xandros' face fell. "Attacked?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard correctly. He blinked in bafflement. "I should have attacked who? Where?"
"At Cunama, you oaf! The Sarians had split their line at the village, just as I supposed they would. Two exposed flanks dangling right before your eyes--"
"Have you lost your senses?" Xandros eyes bulged and his face had grown red. "I had not the men to hold the ground I stood upon! And you expect me to have attacked?"
Deon walked his horse in between the two mounted men. He laid a hand on Xandros' shoulder. Xandros swatted it away and strained to see past him. He looked as if he would have leapt from his horse to reach Hurrus if he could have.
"It is what a great man would have done! And I need great men to lead this army, leaders who can turn defeat into victory and certain death into a chance to live. Listen to those men, Xandros. Listen to them! It is not for you they cheer."
"Damn you!" Xandros said between clenched teeth.
"Hold your tongue, or I will have your head as well as Memnon's. Deon, prepare the men to march."
Deon gave him a blank look.
"March?" Xandros spat in disbelief. "You really are mad if you think to make these men march now!"
Hurrus had heard enough. This was weakness and would not be tolerated. "No, it is you who are mad if you think I came out here to fight over yards of barren ground, if you think these men who lie slain around you died to claim this pile of dust. It is you who are mad! I fight for empires, Xandros, not for flanks and dirt. I fight for empires and the destruction of kings!" He laid the point of his sword at Xandros' deep chest. "Now, prepare your men to march. I will pursue this god-king to the gates of hell if I have to, and when I catch him, I will bathe in his blood.
"Do not make me spill yours."
They were six altogether, Gonatas and his five picked men. He had known them all since he was a boy. Three of them had been boys with him. The other two were ten years his senior, men of twenty on the day that the madness had seized Irrylia; men in their prime now, riding through the Demetrian countryside and into the heart of madness itself.
They all wore the mustard cloaks of Irrylian guardsmen, even the prince Gonatas, though he was entitled to the royal purple. In his mind, he had ceased being a prince the day his mother had taken her own life. The older men had known the queen in life and their hearts had been hardened by their love for her. The younger had been Gonatas' boon companions and would follow him anywhere. Now, they were among only a handful of men who knew who Gonatas truly was, not the heir to the throne of Irrylia, but the non-prince who had denounced both throne and father all on the same day, even though he would not become fully aware of it until years later.
Now, that year was upon them.
They pushed their horses hard along the road out of Lacecia. Once Clautias' name had spilled from Pylia's lips, Gonatas knew they had little time. She would bring riders to Clautias' door no less than she had brought the madness to Irrylia; and Clautias would no sooner survive the witch than had Demetrius' reason. Even without her hideous divinations, she had begun to regard Gonatas with hateful suspicion. How much worse when she finally prised his identity from Clautias' mind? All the waters of Epiria would run red with blood, that was certain, and the last of the brave men of Irrylia, the band of six riders included, would be snuffed out forever.
When the road turned west, it followed the course of the River Irius, whose waters ran wide and clear along the face of the Prathian mountains before emptying into the Middle Sea. Even though they could feel the dankness of the river at the base of its steep, wooded bluff, the road the six traveled was dry and dusty. Occasionally, it dipped into the timber and they rode through the canopy's chilly twilight, their horses' hooves splashing through puddles. But they would always emerge again into the bright, hot daylight of the Gyriecian summer, kicking up clouds of dust to coat their now mud-spattered cloaks.
Trotting out of one such leafy tunnel and reemerging into the blinding light of day, it seemed to Gonatas that the sun had stolen a march on him. Going in, he would have sworn the light had been at his back. Now, just minutes later, the sun seemed to shine directly overhead. Time was getting away from him. He heeled his horse, his mind racing. Hurry...Hurry...Hurry... All Gonatas could think about was whether they could reach Clautias in time to save him -- to save them all. It was more than just the lives of his friends at stake. It seemed to him that the fate of the entire world hinged on it. The slaughter he had witnessed at Lacecia was only the beginning of what he knew his mad king of a father would soon unleash on all of Gyriece.
Gonatas had never thought to become tied to the Epirian rebels. Even now, looking back, he seemed to have slid into it by accident. It started innocently enough when at court he would secretly cheer the rebels' victories while expressing outward rage. That had been a simple guilty pleasure. The more Demetrius was vexed by them, however, the bolder Gonatas became. One day, while leading a punitive column of mounted men into Epiria after a rebel raid, the leader Gorgeo was brought to him in chains. He had heard of this man, for who had not? He was the source of endless irritation to Demetrius and in Gonatas' mind, Gorgeo had attained an almost mythic stature. He prowled the Epirian countryside, striking Irrylian interests and then slipping through pursuers' fingers like a wisp of smoke.
Gorgeo in the flesh was a disappointment. He reminded Gonatas of a hungry dog who follows you with his eyes, just waiting for the chance to tear at your flesh. But it did not take long to detect the man's strength, his bravery and his dedication behind the gaunt frame.
"What is it you fight for?" Gonatas had asked him, perhaps too pointedly, he remembered thinking. He was not asking why Gorgeo fought. He was asking for Gorgeo to give Gonatas a reason to fight.
"For my homeland and for my people," Gorgeo responded.
Another disappointment. These were mere words. "But this is your homeland, all about you. And Epiria, from what I have seen, is full of Epirians, alive and well, most of them going about their own business. Do they ask you to fight for them?"
"I fight for their freedom, Prince. Something you wouldn't understand. I fight so we can live after a manner of our choosing, under our own rulers, and our own king whose blood flows in us. I fight so our people will no longer be pulled from their beds and forced to wear the mustard cloak of your murderous guardsmen, so we don't have to labor in our own fields only to have our fortunes stolen to support the mad king's lavish living--"
"Your own king?" Gonatas interrupted. He could see Gorgeo's passion rising as he spoke. Truth be told, the rebel leader's fervor made him uncomfortable, embarrassed somehow--the result of his own lavish living. What had he ever to be passionate about, but his own luxury? "Your king is long dead."
"Our king is Hurrus."
"Not Demetrius?"
"Demetrius is a madman," Gorgeo spat. "As well as the Queen of Snakes who controls him...They are ruled by demons, and Epiria is a cursed land under their shadow."
"To say that Demetrius is not your king...Some would have you killed for that."
"I fight so my people can speak the truth without fear of dying."
"Oh, dying is only part of it," Gonatas said. He paused to judge Gorgeo's reaction and saw only iron in his eyes. Perhaps that would change when he heard what Gonatas had to tell him next. "You know these men," --he vaguely indicated the camp outside of the tent walls surrounding them-- "these men will take you to this Queen of Snakes, as you call her. It was she who sent us to you. Did you know that? She Saw you, my friend. How else do you think we caught the ghost, Gorgeo? Certainly not by our own wits. It was by her Seeing."
The iron in Gorgeo's eye flashed fear. So he was human, after all.
"You called me 'Prince'. Don't think I did not catch the mockery in your tone. Let me tell you, Gorgeo, your mockery is well-placed, for I am no prince. I am a captive no less than you and no less than your people. Do you think I live after a manner of my own choosing? Do you think I enjoy living at the whim of a madman? When I hear tell that Gorgeo has burnt down a palace, that he has destroyed a bridge, a fire is lit in me." Gorgeo stood there, gaunt and haggard, tall, straight and rock-hard, his hands bound behind his back--and his eyes now awash in confusion. "And I will tell you something else. Pylia speaks your name, but she also speaks another." Curious, Gorgeo narrowed his eyes. "Oh, yes," Gonatas answered, "she speaks of your King Hurrus."
Gorgeo strained against his bonds. "What does she say?"
"It is not what she says, it is what she Sees...She Sees King Hurrus returning to Epiria in his eighteenth year."
Gorgeo beamed. "Gods be praised!" he cried. "The time is now! You may do with me as you will, sir, prince or no. Hurrus is coming!"
What Gonatas did not have the heart to tell him was that Demetrius had sent men to Tygetia to murder him. But what Gonatas did not understand was how a man could be killed if Pylia has Seen him alive, though, he would be the first to admit, neither did he understand the nature of her visions.
"I believe it, just as the witch has Seen it," he told Gorgeo. "But now I have a quandary of my own. I can't turn you over to Pylia, as is my charge. What I have just told you is now in your brain and she would find it there, to my great peril." Gorgeo fixed his eyes on a distant point, the iron glinting in them. He thinks I am to kill him. "It would be easier for me to have you killed while trying to escape. But then your blood would be on my hands, and, in truth, I want you to live. It will mean my life if you are caught again, however, and--an even greater truth--I want me to live. So you must promise that when you leave here, the Irrylians have seen the last of you. Do not let yourself be captured again."
Gorgeo nodded solemnly. He vanished that night.
When the war in Lacecia began, Gonatas became bolder still. He began entertaining night riders, giving them routes, timing and compositions of supply trains out of Myssene. Now, he really did have blood on his hands--and something else in his ear, tales of the Huntress. Surviving teamsters brought back stories not of the ghost, Gorgeo, but of a beautiful archer who darted out of woods and around rocky ridges to rain destruction on the hapless Irrylians. Many said she was no less than Veronysia herself and her appearance on earth was taken as an ill omen.
It was no ill omen to Gonatas. He took it as a gift from the gods. When he finally met her, he saw that she was beautiful. He could not take his eyes off her and later he wondered if he might have been confusing his passion for the cause with his passion for the girl.
They had met at one of the Epirian houses occupied by Clautias. Clautias himself came as a shock to Gonatas. The great leader, the man who had finally given direction to the Epirian resistance was a frail old crow pushing eighty summers.
"I stole Hurrus out of Epiria, bore him to sea in my own arms with packs of Demetrius' Bearded Men snapping at my heels," he told Gonatas at one of their many meetings since. "I was to tutor the boy in the disciplines of mathematics, astronomy, engineering, philosophy...I was to make a king of him, a king worthy of his father, the great Arrhus. I daresay, he would not even know me now. Perhaps Nadia has kept my memory alive in him." Clautias shrugged his bony shoulders. Gonatas found his mind as sharp as his body was frail, his eyes bright and fiery under his shaggy, white brow. "In the end, it was left to others to make a king of him. It is left to me to prepare a place for his return."
"Myletos is a wise man," Gonatas had assured him, noting that he was also a steadfast enemy of Demetrius.
Clautias raised a crooked finger. "Yes, but not all in Tygetia are enemies of Demetrius. There are influences in that land..." He left his thought unfinished, merely shaking his head and taking Gonatas aside. "I would not tell of this widely, but while I know the blood of the man, I do not know the man."
"You speak of Hurrus?"
"My faith is in the blood alone," Clautias had said, glowering from one eye, the other vanishing under his bristling brow.
Gonatas would leave such speculations to the old man, for at the moment he found he had less opinion of Hurrus than of Coronea. He recalled it fitting that his first exchange with her had been an argument. She was as prickly as she was beautiful.
"I am no prince," he found himself saying. She had put him on the defensive almost at once. He told her of his mother and of his desire to stop the spread of Demetrius' madness. "If I could draw Demetrius' blood from my veins, I would."
"You know nothing of blood," she had assured him. He found her naivete charming and infuriating at the same time.
"Danger lurks not only in the killing fields, my lady," Gonatas had countered. "Perhaps it is no easy task to loose your arrows at Demetrius' half-hearted conscripts, but you should not underestimate the danger to those who must work their treasons under the very noses of the king and his witch."
"Half-hearted?" Coronea sniffed, though Gonatas saw clearly through her charade. In her eyes swam a budding respect. If he was not mistaken, he might have seen something else swimming there, too. "There is nothing half-hearted about those who pursue us."
Gonatas took her hand and held it in both of his, suddenly overcome by her beauty. "Oh, sweet Coronea! There is nothing half about the tenderness that fills my heart. I feel it is near to bursting."
The Huntress whisked her hand away, as if in revulsion. But this charade was as transparent as her last. Her hand could not hide the blushing cheek nor the hint of a pleased smile that played upon her lips. Gonatas wanted to leap with happiness. He had found his cause. Drawn into open rebellion by hatred and fear, it was love that would keep him at it.
And it was all of those that spurred him on now.
Gonatas and his five companions bounced along the uneven river road, not daring to slow their pace. As they raced Shadow Riders to Clautias' door, it was the blinding sun that mocked them as it descended ever lower over the western road, easily outpacing them. Hatred, fear and love propelled Gonatas towards the mountains of Prathia, it was true, but fear was, admittedly, the strongest of the three. Demetrius will send more than Shadow Riders to my door, Gonatas thought. He would scour the land, Shadow Riders and Bearded Men alike, side by side. The witch would guide them, and Gonatas would have no rest, hunted till the end of his days.
As his mind was occupied by these thoughts, he suddenly became aware that riders had appeared to either side of him. He realized at once that he did not recognize them. They had come out of nowhere and in an instant Gonatas found his party engulfed by two dozen mounted men. They were armed with all manner of spears, bows, swords, javelins and darts, dangerous, rough-looking men. The leader of them wore a skin cap and foxskin boots. He rode out in front and at his signal the whole squadron wheeled as a flock of birds, sweeping Gonatas' men along with them. They rode across a narrow meadow. At the line of trees, they dismounted.
Gonatas took them for bandits.
"What silver we have is yours, gentlemen," he said. "We ask only that you allow us to be on our way. Silver is nothing to us. Time is life itself."
"Quiet!" the leader said. His men had already led their horses soundlessly into the timber. They seemed to melt into the treeline. "We're not robbing you, Prince. We're saving your miserable life. We must get you off this road at once. Hurry!"
Gonatas obeyed without question. The man's tone was not only urgent, but fearful. Inside the treeline, they laid down among the damp undergrowth. Gonatas did not feel threatened by the men. They had taken the horses deep under the cover of the wood. There they stood motionless, seeming scarcely to breathe. Gonatas and the bandit leader hid among ferns and bushes in the black shadows of the treeline where they had a good view of the road.
The leader raised a silencing hand, while he listened and watched intently. At first there was nothing. Dust devils swept across the road in a gust of wind. Gonatas detected something moving behind them, something low to the ground. Then out of the swirls of dust there gradually came into focus a great slithering snake. Gonatas started and the man laid a strong restraining hand on his shoulder. The snake was white as milk, as big around as a man's thigh and as long as two men laid head to foot. It moved down the middle of the road, its tongue flicking out from between its jaws, tasting the air as it looked in every direction.
Gonatas had never seen anything like it. But for the bandit gang, Gonatas' party would have stumbled upon the thing to who knows what unhappy end. Their horses would have been terrified by such a monster, no less than the men themselves.
"It is not natural," Gonatas muttered, so quietly the sound scarcely escaped his lips. But it only got worse.
As he watched, legs emerged from the snake's belly and instead of slithering forward, the thing began to walk. No sooner had it taken a step than arms sprouted from its sides and what had been the body of a snake had become the body of a walking snake man. Its hands balled into fists, the snake man walked carefully along the road, its tail leaving a crease in the dust behind it.
A shock of terror ran through Gonatas as his mind raced to make sense of what he was seeing: the milk white arms and legs of a man sprouting from an upright snake. It would take a step or two and then stop and look in every direction, its tongue tasting the air.
Then it was gone, obscured by a sudden gust of wind that sent swirls of dust rising across the road. Holding his breath, Gonatas waited, expecting to see the snake man emerge from the veil of dust. Instead, a troop of Irrylian Bearded Men, Demetrius' elite guard, burst out of the concealing screen. Where the snake man had stalked the road in utter silence, the Bearded Men rode past in a fury of thundering hooves. The brightly polished cheek pieces of their helmets, sculpted to resemble bearded men, covered their faces and made them look other than human, a troop of spear-wielding bronze men come to life.
They left nothing but silence and clouds of settling dust to mark their passage.
The leader of the bandits stood, relieved that the danger had passed. Gonatas knew who the men were now, not bandits but Epirian rebels, friends.
"You saved us from that...that thing," Gonatas said, still in a daze of disbelief. "We were but moments from it when you found us."
"Not only that thing, friend, but the Bearded Men as well. Either was death to you. Come now, this road is watched. You can travel it no longer."
"But I must thank you, sir," Gonatas said. "What is your name?"
"My name is unimportant," the man said as he began tramping through the undergrowth. "Whether I know your name or you mine is irrelevant. What matters is what Pylia knows, and she sends Sarlon's demons to See this road."
Gonatas tramped after him, struggling to keep up. The man did not look back as he walked.
"That thing was from Pylia?" Gonatas asked, stunned.
"She Sees through its eyes. You don't want that thing to look upon you. If we're lucky, it saw nothing."
"But why this road?"
"It is said that a traitor is to be found traveling it." Holding a branch aside, the man stopped and turned. He cocked an eyebrow at Gonatas. "Might that be you, now?"
"Some might call me traitor, yes." It was harder to say than Gonatas would have believed.
"Good," the leader said, turning and letting the leafy branch spring back into place behind him. "Then I have found the right man. Come now. We're going down. Bring your men."
Gonatas gathered up his companions and they followed the man to a trail that wound down the face of the bluff. They left their horses behind with the rest of the gang.
"You won't be needing them where you're going," the leader told them.
"But our mission is urgent," Gonatas said. "We have not a moment to lose."
"The way I'm taking you is faster than that road," the man said with a wink. "Especially considering how being dead might have slowed you down." Tufts of greasy hair spilled out from under his skin cap. His face creased and weather-beaten, Gonatas took the man for an old soldier. Not only did the idea of Gonatas' mortality seem to amuse him, but he looked like he could march up and down river bluffs all day.
The trail was narrow, steep, muddy and covered with rotting leaves. The air was wet and the light that filtered through the leafy canopy was tinged with green. In the gaps between branches, Gonatas could see blue sky in front of him and the river below. He told his companions what he had seen on the road and they became as eager to follow their guide as he was. When the old soldier got too far out in front of them, he stopped and waited for them to catch up. The Irrylians found themselves grasping vines and tree roots as they slid down the slippery trail. The smell of the wide river grew sharp as they neared it. By the time they could hear it lapping hollowly in the undercut banks of its muddy shoreline, they had reached their destination, though they were still fifty feet above the water.
The men stood on a wide shelf of exposed limestone. The dense growth of trees had fallen away and from where they stood, they could see unhindered all the way across the river. Sunlight danced over its sluggish current, sparkling like a multitude of darting silver fish. Their guide led them to a set of rough-hewn steps cut into the rock, leaf-covered and slick. The steps led up through a short tunnel of trees to a second shelf. There, cut into the bluff, was the entrance to a cave, wide enough for all the men to enter abreast.
Inside, they found a chained man and ten rebels, both men and women. The captive was secured to the rock wall by a single manacle around one ankle. His hands were free but it was easy to see that he was not going anywhere soon. He sat on the dirt floor with his knees drawn up, his forehead resting on them. He might have been sleeping. Some of the rebels stood around a little wooden table studying a parchment, while others were rolling some barrels and lugging crates to some steps leading out the opposite side of the entrance ledge.
Gonatas' man hailed them and all looked up from their work. The captive looked up too, in bleary eyed indifference at first and then with increasing interest.
"More to chain to your wall, you pigs?" The chained man stood and spat but only managed a thin string of spittle that wound up dangling from his chin. The force of his effort caused his damp hair to obscure his face before he brushed it back out of his eyes. No doubt he saw the Irrylian's mustard cloaks and took them for more of the Epirians' captives. "Don't let them bind you," he warned fiercely. "Your lives are forfeit the moment they put the irons on you. Run now, and die like men! Don't let yourselves be chained to this wall like dogs." He thrust his manacled foot forward in a savage kick, rattling his chain.
One of the Epirians stood and took a step towards the man. "Shut up, you! These men are no murderers. The wall is reserved for the likes o' you and you alone, you cutthroat bastard."
The chained man's expression changed suddenly. He cocked his head and regarded Gonatas and his companions carefully. He glanced at their escort, then down at their unbound hands and sheathed weapons and a light of understanding dawned in his eyes.
"You," he muttered breathlessly, his eyes narrowing and burning like coals. "By the gods, it is Prince Gonatas! The traitor on the road is Gonatas! You son of a whore!" He lunged toward the group. His chain rattled tautly, holding him fast. "Traitorous son of a whore!"
"Who is this man?" Gonatas asked. One of the Epirians at the table casually reached down and picked up a helmet. He tossed it to Gonatas. It was highly polished brass and shone like gold. A long sky-blue horsehair tassel sprouted from its crown. The captive was one of Demetrius' guardsmen.
"Not so fearsome in the flesh, are they?" the Epirian man said without looking up.
"The heir to the throne of Irrylia is the traitor! Who could have seen that?"
"I am heir to no throne," Gonatas snapped in a sudden rage. "That thing I saw up there on the road...That is Demetrius' heir now. I will not serve a madman--or his demons! Perhaps his slaves make no such distinctions." He hurled the helmet at the chained man's feet. It clanked on a stone and skittered across the floor, striking the wall.
The chained man's anger turned to despair. "Oh, I have seen too much," he cried, burying his face in his hands. "I will never leave here alive."
"You will receive only what a murderer deserves," the Epirian told him.
"But I have told you what you wanted to know." The captive lifted his face from his hands. His eyes were rimmed red. "A traitor would be found traveling the road. I told you. And so it is as Pylia has Seen it--and here he is. You have found him and he stands before you, alive and well. I will say nothing. I have done nothing more than my duty, my sworn duty, and yet you treat me like a criminal. It is you who are the criminals. Traitors and murderers, all of you! And you, Gonatas...Pylia will soon speak your name, and you will know what it is to be doomed and chained to a wall..."
Gonatas' old soldier spit on the ground. "Just kill him already," he growled and turned on his heel. Without another word, he tramped off into the arching trees and disappeared back up the bluff.
The Epirian man rolled up the parchment that had been laid out on the table and handed it to Gonatas. "This is the way to Clautias," he said. "I hope you like the water because you'll be traveling by boat. Come with me."
Gonatas' party followed the man down a long set of square-cut timber stairs set in the mud to the water below. There, they found a four-oared, single-masted skiff waiting for them.
"Between the wind and the current and the backs of your men, you'll reach Clautias in two days time." He held the boat steady for the men to board. It had been loaded with food and water. "We hear tell the Shadow Riders are traveling with footmen. They lumber into a camp and then the Riders range out from there, for days at a time. They move slowly, but once they have made camp within range of Clautias, they will strike fast. So stop for nothing. Your Irrylian cloaks should keep you safe. No one is looking for traitors on this river."
"Thank you, my friend," Gonatas said.
The Epirian pushed them off and Gonatas' men sat to their oars and began rowing out into the current. After a few strokes, they found a rhythm. Gonatas sat down at the tiller. Behind them, he saw nothing but a steep leafy bluff, no cave, no captive, no road upon which a traitor was said to be traveling. The snake man scoured an empty road, for the traitor plied the river now, and no one thought to look for him there.
They came upon the two dead men just after dawn. They had not made it far. The Sarians had left their bodies for the sandrunners and the scavengers huddled round them as though at a feeding trough. Of the one, Hurrus could see nothing but a pair of sandaled feet protruding from the mass of scaly, green-backed lizards. Of the other, he saw rather too much. He felt his stomach lurch.
"Deon..." Hurrus said.
Deon rode down the slope. One of the sandrunners popped its head above the others and stared at him, its big round yellow eyes as piercing as a bird's.
"A madness must have seized them," Xandros muttered.
"They were attempting to desert to the Sarians. To the Sarians." Hurrus said in disbelief.
"It is thirst that drives them."
Others had stolen away into the desert to die quietly. These had died anything but quietly. The Sarians had tortured them through most of the night. The entire camp had heard them screaming. After that, it had been the constant yipping and squawking of animals - sandrunners, foxes and hyenas. Some of the men said they were not desert beasts at all but the Sarians themselves, creeping up onto the dunes to imitate the creatures of the Eastern Desert, trying to unnerve the soldiers. Others said they were the jackal-headed minions of Hathor, companions of the dead. In either case, fatigue and fear could now be added to the list of the soldiers' woes.
Deon approached the creatures and began waving his arms. The sandrunners scattered, revealing bodies that had been stripped of flesh and meat to their bones. Hurrus sent five more men down to help Deon conceal the corpses. "I don't want the men to see them," he said. The sandrunners had not retreated far. Peering out from behind bushes and out of hollows in the ground, they watched the men dragging the bodies away. Sandrunners were their constant companions now. A man could not stagger off to relieve himself without flushing them from rocks and bristling shrubs.
"Some of our men would count these lucky," Xandros said. "For them, their torment is over."
"These two unfortunates were Tepes' men, not mine," Hurrus said.
"All men suffer," said Xandros.
Hurrus turned back. He had called a halt to the march and his men sat in exhaustion in the road. Horses grazed among the shrubs and grasses that sprouted on the hillsides. The previous day the army had only managed ten miles before collapsing under the blazing sun. The Sarians shot at them in rocky passes and spirited away stragglers and deserters, leaving them in the road for the men to see. The nights were full of ghosts.
Shimmering in the distance behind them stood the dual hills of the Horns of Hathor. The twin peaks marked the farthest any Tygetian army had ever marched into the Eastern Desert. Not even Xarhux had dared traverse it, leaving Tygetia instead by the coast road - and leaving the Eastern Desert to the Sarians. They had plagued Tygetia ever since.
The Horns also marked the last of the army's well-watered camps. Since leaving them, the men had suffered torments of heat and thirst such as Hurrus had not thought possible. The Sarians, however, were little better off. Stragglers continued to pour into his camps as they had from the first day, always with the same story.
"Memnon ahead..." they related to him in their pidgin mix of Tygetian, Sarian and the common tongue. They would point to the east and describe arcs with their hands: Memnon's army was just over the next rise. Always the next rise.
And what of its condition?
"Much sad...Much sad..."
Hurrus' heart would quicken. Twice he had deployed his van to shatter a rearguard Memnon had thrown up between them to buy himself time. Dispirited by defeat, the Sarian army could not hope to stand against him. When he caught up to it, a generation would pass before Saria could again threaten Tygetia. Hurrus drove his troops ever forward.
The Horns marked the dividing line, the line between water and dust, between ease and torment, between comfort and strife. Once he had marched through them, there was no going back. It was before the Horns that Bellog's man had found him.
"The general commands you to halt," the messenger had said as he strode into Hurrus' tent that night as if he owned it.
"And who might you be?" Hurrus had asked, looking up from his papers and maps. Xandros and Deon stood at each of his shoulders and the rest of his companion body surrounded him in full regalia of war.
"I have ridden hard after you with General Bellog's orders--"
"Orders?" Hurrus laid down a parchment and approached the man with arms outstretched, flashing him a disbelieving smile. "You interrupt a war council of a victorious army with such a trifle as Bellog's orders? And to what does he order me now, defeat?"
Hurrus' companions laughed, but Bellog's man found no humor in it. "A trifle?" the messenger sputtered indignantly.
"The last order I heard out of Bellog was for me to defend my position. Would he like me to go back and hold it now?" More laughter.
"He sent Tepes to you..."
"The lad was out of his depth. Now, if you will excuse us."
"The general orders you back to Tygetia--"
"Orders me? If it were up to Bellog, we would be defending the gates of Archentethe against a Sarian horde bolstered by victory, and not pursuing them to their destruction."
"Still..."
"Orders me? By gods, you go tell your master that he no longer commands this army. I do!" Hurrus grabbed the man by his collar and propelled him towards the tent flap. "Tell him I might have a little desert province for him to rule when I'm done here, but he is finished in this army." Hurrus gave the man a final shove and kicked him in the ass as he flew out of the tent.
The men had howled with laughter. Of course, that was before the Horns, when laughter was still possible.
"We should not have crossed the Horns," Xandros had said two nights later. His face was caked with dust. He spoke with a thick dry tongue and cracked lips.
Hurrus sat slumped in his chair. "Do you smell that?"
Xandros sniffed. "The men are cooking--"
"--their own horses, I know. I pretend not to notice. On the other side of the Horns, any man committing such a crime would be flogged."
"The men must live," Xandros said. "When the wagons are empty..."
His voice trailed off. Hurrus stood and moved to his desk where he kept a little box. He opened it and withdrew a jewel-encrusted dagger. It was worth more than Xandros would earn in a year.
"I want you to have it," Hurrus said. "One of my Shields took it off a Sarian officer. He presented it to me, but it is yours. Gods know, you killed enough of them, many with your own hands. Don't think I do not know that."
Xandros held it under the light of the burning lamp, turning it. "What on earth would I do with this? Were I to wear it in my belt, I would look like a Sarian whoremaster."
Hurrus turned. "Xandros, I need you," he said.
"Then let us turn back."
Hurrus clenched his fists. "It is the old Xandros I need."
"And I need the old Hurrus," Xandros said. "The one who cared about his men more than some petty god-king."
"My men have tasted their first battle, Xandros. What would you have me tell them when they stand upon the same blood-soaked ground to face this Memnon a second time? What answer would you have for them when they weep at the funeral pyres of their fallen comrades and wonder to what profit their brothers have died? When they see the crown of Memnon sitting atop my head, they will know."
"Know what? That you are the king of the sandrunners?"
"I don't believe my ears. Xandros, what has happened to you? What glory has ever been won through caution and fear?"
"Cautious I am, yes, with the lives of men. Need I remind you that the funeral pyres we light now are for those lost not to glorious battle, but to want and savagery. What is to be gained out here in this wasteland? Xarhux conquered the world, but even he did not bother with this place. Let us leave this desolation to the Sarians, as Xarhux did."
"I leave nothing to my enemies," Hurrus said. "Nothing."
"I fear it may be you who ends with nothing, Prince."
"I will be left with men who have been tested beyond human endurance."
"Those who survive, yes."
"Those who survive will be the greatest soldiers of this age, Xandros. They will give me the world."
"The world now, is it? I thought you only meant to have Epiria."
"Epiria I shall have, my old friend, but I will only enter it with the blood of my enemies smeared on my face, marching at the head of an army that will make even Gyriecians tremble."
Xandros smiled. "Perhaps it is only their leader that will make men tremble," he said, laying a hand on Hurrus' shoulder. He sighed. "Hurrus, I am your brother and you will find me always at your side. But this..." He held up the pretty Sarian dagger and thrust it into the tabletop where it stuck fast, the lamplight dancing in its jewels. "I have a feeling I won't be needing a bloodless blade such as this."
Hurrus reflected that his real brother had tried to kill him. Perhaps he had brothers enough already.
When Deon and his squad had cleared the corpses from the road, Hurrus ordered the advance to resume. The men picked themselves up wearily and trudged on. During the march, a group of half-naked Sarian bowmen wandered into their column. They threw down their quivers and prostrated themselves at the feet of dying men, trading a chance to kill for a chance to live. In exchange, some of the Tygetians sat down at the side of the road to rest and could not be made to move again.
Gain some, lose some.
The dark lumps of the men left behind could be seen for miles as sandrunners closed in around them.
By midday, the army arrived at the site of an abandoned Sarian encampment. A ripple of excitement spread along the column. Dry grasses sprouted from the hillsides and little clumps of trees and shrubs filled the valleys. The camp had been centered on a small village. Not only were there signs of water about, but a well stood in a clearing surrounded by a cluster of white brick and mud dwellings, long vacant.
The men at the head of the column dashed at once towards the well, their feet kicking up sand as they ran. Hurrus watched from a distance, not daring to hope. One of the men leaned over the well and drew back sharply as if struck by an invisible fist. He sank to his knees and pounded the ground. Another bent over and looked into the shaft. He came walking back, slump-shouldered. "It is poisoned," he cried. The despair in his voice pierced the men's hearts as sharply as any Sarian arrow.
As Hurrus rode close, he caught the scent of putrescence emanating from the well.
Other men had run off in every direction to sprawl in the shade of tree or house. Men were desperately digging in the gullies, using helmets and shields, spears and swords.
"It is a fresh camp," Deon reported after inspecting the still-warm ashes of a fire. Hurrus nodded and both men turned when they heard a shout from one of the defiles. By the time they arrived, the cry of joy had changed to an anguished sob.
The man they found there was one of the Silver Shields. He had dug a little hole beside a harsh gray shrub. His hand-dug well amounted to little more than a damp spot in the sand. He had teased perhaps a saucer-full of gritty water from it and it now pooled in the crown of his helmet. When he saw Hurrus, he offered the helmet as if it were a precious chalice.
"For you, King," the lad said. His lips were cracked and dust clung to the fuzz that grew on his cheeks. Though only in his eighteenth year himself, Hurrus felt a fatherly tenderness for the boy. The entire army had stopped to watch them. "It is all there is," the boy said. Hurrus could see that his eyes would have welled with tears had he any in him. "You drink it, King."
Hurrus knelt on one knee and took the helmet. A tiny disk of water swirled inside. He handed it back. "I am no king," he said, "and the water is for you to drink, son."
After that, the men found water spread throughout the campsite, in little saucer-full packets as the boy had.
When the army had rested, they moved on. That night a wind began to blow across the desert, and when Hurrus finally called a halt, the Sarians lit fires upwind of them and the smoke blew across their camp, increasing their misery.
"We can't take much more of this," Deon said. They were standing outside Hurrus' tent, he and Hurrus and Xandros. The wisps of smoke from the Sarian fires drifted among the tents like ghost ships. A full moon had risen above the desert. "We should attack them at once."
Hurrus turned his back and paced a few steps.
"You can't be considering this, Hurrus," Xandros complained.
"We have the light of the moon, Highness," Deon said. "The Sarian main body can't be more than a single march ahead of us. We must not let this opportunity pass." He balled his fist and cast a defiant look at Xandros.
"The men cannot be pushed any further," Xandros said.
"Pushed?" Deon exclaimed. "The men would march over a cliff if it meant an end to this torment. Highness, you order these men into columns and they will not only march at the enemy, they will run at them!"
"And how many dead will they leave scattered along this road behind them?"
"It is a little late to start worrying about the dead, don't you think, Xandros?"
Xandros glared at Deon hotly, but the sound of hoofbeats preempted his answer. The men turned and saw a rider sweeping around a line of tents. He reined up alongside them, an officer of the light horse Hurrus had sent out before nightfall. He uncoiled a scarf from around his face.
"The Sarian camp is less than three leagues ahead of us," the rider said, still huffing from his hard ride. "We could reach them by dawn, easily."
Deon spread his hands. "We can end this tonight."
Hurrus turned back, rubbing his chin.
"You can't be serious," Xandros said.
"The Sarians are in no fighting mood, my lord," the officer of light horse reported. "We have scattered them like sandrunners wherever we have found them."
Deon stared at Hurrus solicitously and grinned when Hurrus asked the officer, "Can you prevent Sarian eyes from seeing us?"
"Give me a hundred men and I will gouge the eyes from their heads. I will scour the country clean."
"And give me the Shields and I will drive a hole through their heart!"
"You will have your chance, Deon. Prepare your men. Xandros, one final push is all I ask of them."
Deon clapped Hurrus on the back and hastened away to his men. Xandros bowed his head without a word and stalked off.
The men's crimson cloaks were black in the moonlight as Hurrus rode at the head of the cavalry column. His heavy horse had been reduced to half the size of the formation that had won the battle on the plain. With so many dead horses, many of its former troopers marched as infantry. Ill-armed as footmen, but veterans now, Hurrus reflected. His entire army, in fact, untested boys a week ago, now marched with the grim faces of hardened men, fearing neither death nor want, having endured it all. To a man, he knew they required no more speeches and reassurances. They wanted only to get on with the business of killing so they could get back to the business of living.
As Hurrus had ordered, the men marched quietly. The only sounds were the clattering of arms on armor and the occasional nickering of horses. The men had been roused from their beds. Still exhausted, many simply fell asleep in their tracks. Hurrus glanced at the men lying at the side of the road as he passed, never letting on that he saw them. Some, he knew, would awaken and catch up to them later; others, he knew, would not.
The outriders had cleared their path. No more were they troubled by the blowing smoke of Sarian fires, nor the arrows and darts of murderous outliers. So thoroughly had the light horse blinded the enemy that when Hurrus rode up the ridge overlooking the Sarian camp, he found them still snug in their tents. It was almost dawn. A pink glow rose above a distant line of barren hills.
The camp was quiet, unguarded and unfortified. It was the camp of an army on the run, and Hurrus had caught it.
"Is Memnon with them?" he wondered aloud, but there was little doubt.
"Either that or they've captured a giant," Deon said, pointing out the grand pavilion at the center of the encampment. "I should live half so well."
"You will piss inside the king's pavilion before this morning is through," Hurrus said.
"If I could piss, I would drink it," said Deon.
"You'll be drinking plenty soon enough." Hurrus surveyed the camp through the farsee stone. His eye lit upon the camp's stores, in particular several wagons loaded with large ceramic jars.
Deon had a look. "Water, do you think?"
"Beyond a certainty," Hurrus said. "Make sure the men get the word."
Deon signaled to one of his officers. He scrambled down the slope and began spreading the word.
"By gods, I pity these Sarians!" said Deon.
"Shall we deploy the troops?" Xandros asked.
"There is no time," said Hurrus. "The dawn will break above those hills in a moment, the Sarians will begin to stir and we'll have the sun shining directly into our eyes."
He looked to his right and saw the vanguard of his army kneeling on the ground underneath the ridge - kneeling this time not in exhaustion but in readiness to spring. The glint of silver caught his eye and he looked to find rank upon rank of spread-wing eagles glaring at him through the shadows. The Silver Shields were ready. He scanned the men's faces without realizing he was doing so. He was looking for Aryk. He remembered asking him if he were a brave man and Aryk could not say for certain, only that he longed to be. Hurrus was satisfied that he had gotten his answer. They all had.
"I am in no mood to fight a battle today," Hurrus said. "I mean only to murder these men in their beds. On my signal, gentlemen."
Deon snapped his head forward and his helmet fell down from his forehead, covering his face. He gripped his spear in one hand and slid down the slope to take his place among the Shields. Hurrus hurried down to the base of the hill where his companion body waited with his horse. He mounted and turned to the twenty.
"Make for Memnon," Hurrus told his mounted companions, "the large tent in the middle of the camp. Stop for nothing. Xandros, I want you by my side. We will charge around the base of this hill."
All the men wore visorless helms, breastplates and greaves. Each carried a long spear with a sword sheathed at his belt. Hurrus remembered the day they had trained with wooden swords in his yard under Nadia's farseeing eye. What would she say if she could see them now? These men's fathers had ridden with Xarhux, it is true. But someday, Mama, someday it will be said that these are the men who had ridden with Hurrus!
Hurrus raised his spear over his head. Catching Deon's eye, he brought it down forcefully. Deon sprang to his feet and cried out to his men. Hurrus watched as the footmen rose with a rattle of arms and began swarming over the crest, rank after rank.
He waited for the infantry to get underway, and then uttered a cry of his own. "Hi-ya!" Setting spurs to his horse, he raced around the edge of the hill with the twenty fast on his heels. Xandros rode hard at his side, holding his spear in a hand outstretched from his shoulder. There was no man in the army who could strike greater terror in an enemy than Xandros. His taut lips surrounded by his sandy beard, the big man gritted his teeth as he charged. Hurrus could easily imagine the terror one would feel at having such a man bearing down on him and he felt comforted knowing he was at his side.
The infantry spilled down the slope and sprinted across an empty field towards the unwary camp. Silver shields intermingled with bronze, no thought given to formation or timing. It was less an attack than a mindless dash, bloody spears pointing the way to water and safety and life. The men did not even bother crying out. They charged silently. Twisting fingers of smoke rose from the camp as if it were the dawn of any morning, and the first Sarians to realize that it was not found spear points embedded in their breasts and swords slashing down on their heads.
The camp erupted with screaming and cries of panic, a wall of sound that seemed to form a tangible barrier between a world of peace and one of bloody carnage. Hurrus' horsemen plunged through it as through a flaming hoop. Half-dressed men sprang out of their tents and raced for their weapons only to be brained senseless by driving walls of shields and skewered by spear and sword.
Leaping over piles of equipment and smoldering cookfires, Hurrus' companions flew past the initial line of tents and stormed into the camp itself. Men gaped in horror and rolled away from their crashing hooves. Some found weapons, and Xandros lost his spear in the breast of the first man who stabbed at him with a long lance. The spear shaft sprang from his fingers when it struck and he left the man laying on his back with what looked like a bloody sapling sprouting from his chest. He drew his sword and the companions galloped on.
Ahead, a knot of Sarian footmen formed a five-man shield wall as they attempted to block the passage to the great pavilion, protecting their king. Unarmored and barefoot, as foolish as they were brave, the companions crashed through them with slashing hooves and thrusting spears, the men's wicker shields bursting into chaff.
A group of mounted men had assembled in the clearing at the front of the pavilion, facing outward. Hurrus saw that they were armed with swords. Others on foot led horses through them into the clearing and men dashed from the tent and leaped into the waiting saddles. One of the them was the god-king himself.
Hurrus and Xandros reined up while the companions slammed into the perimeter horsemen. Their longer spears knocked men from their mounts. Others of the Sarians ducked the charge and slashed at their assailants, their blades ringing off of bronze plate. The fight quickly devolved into a swirling melee. Through the rising dust, Hurrus caught a glimpse of Memnon with half-a-dozen of his own companions galloping away. Hurrus spurred his horse after them.
"Hurrus! Come back! You cannot go alone!"
He could hear Xandros shouting after him, but he was too close now to stop. The king was within his grasp. Men had died for this opportunity and Hurrus would not let him slip away. Xandros spat a hearty curse - and no one could curse with more pure passion than Xandros - and whipped his reins to race after his prince.
Just as Hurrus knew he would.
Panicked men streamed out of the back of the camp, creating a clogging glut of bodies. Memnon's party paused to organize them. With raised swords, Memnon's mounted companions, loyal officers of the army, threatened and shamed them until they turned and dashed back into the now burning camp for their weapons. Other Sarian footmen, already armed, began forming a line under the encouragement of their king. Smoke from innumerable burning tents poured across the field where the men stood. Memnon took refuge behind them. Hurrus wheeled to outflank the growing line and raced headlong for the mounted king.
One of his companions was the first to see him bursting out of the smoke, a heavy-set man with long beastly hair and colorful robe. He was armed with a javelin and when he saw Hurrus, he reared back and threw. It flew on a straight line at Hurrus. For one black instant, he seemed to be riding right into it, its point growing ever larger until it seemed to fill his vision. At the last moment, he swerved aside and the sharp tip plowed a bloody furrow in his shoulder and lodged harmlessly in the ground behind him. He winced from the pain, but kept going, driving his spear deep into the man's fat belly, the force of the thrust vaulting the dead man over the back of his horse. The Sarian footmen cried out - in anguish and outrage, in excitement and even admiration. The enemy knew who assailed them now. They saw his golden hair flowing out from under his helmet and even through their strange accents, Hurrus could hear them shouting his name in amazement.
Memnon was next. Surely the king would face him now, man to man. He had no choice. The Sarians knew who had come to kill their king. If Memnon fled, he would lose his army. If he turned to fight, he would lose his life.
He chose to fight, for as Hurrus wheeled his horse, he felt a blow to his chest that nearly sent him flying from his saddle. The breastplate saved him. He bent double and tugged on the reins, whirling just in time to miss a second, killing blow. It was Memnon himself. For the first time, Hurrus saw his face up close. It was a grimacing mask of fury. Muscles in his neck stood out like cords of rope and his teeth were bared and clenched to the point of cracking. He had never seen such fire in the eyes of a mortal man. His coiled black beard bounced under his chin and jewels dangled from his ears. In the instant that it took for the gems to flash in the rising sun, Hurrus marveled at the vanity of a man who would take the time to don them when he was about to die.
Either that or he had slept in them.
The thought bolstered Hurrus. He marveled, not at Memnon's vanity now, but at the fact that he felt like laughing, even with a crease in his armor that might have killed him. He straightened and easily dodged another of Memnon's blows. He came out of it grinning.
"Do you know against what type of man you fight?" Hurrus bellowed at him in Gyriecian.
Memnon's face fell. A drop of sweat dampened his brow, but he brightened suddenly. His teeth flashed a blinding white amid the blackness of his oiled beard.
"I fight a dead man," he answered back in the same tongue.
Memnon whirled away, and Hurrus jerked his head around just in time to see a blade falling upon him. He tried to twist out of its path, but it came down squarely on the top of his head, shearing his helmet and slicing open his scalp to the bone. Hurrus' horse danced away from his attacker and when Hurrus opened his eyes, the landscape was tinged with the red of blood. His eyes stung and he could barely keep them open. His head felt like a burning torch. He wiped at his eyes and saw a man riding towards him, his sword upraised. He could not move fast enough. By the gods, he could not! We who dine on sharpened swords... He knew that it was to be his last thought.
In the next instant, the man's sword arm was flying apart from his body, tumbling through the air in a shower of blood, the sword still in the grip of the dead hand. The Sarian fell away and Xandros appeared in his place. He had cleaved the man's arm clean from his shoulder. The blood still dripped from his blade when he grasped Hurrus and lifted him upright in his saddle.
"My lord..." he began, but to his side Hurrus spied a darting phantom.
"Memnon!"
Hurrus immediately spurred his horse, once again unheeding of Xandros' cries and curses.
He could no longer feel his head. He wiped his eyes clear with one hand while holding his spear with the other. Memnon, riding alone, peered over his shoulder. His expression had lost all trace of arrogance, his vanity useless to him on this dusty plain. Hurrus had the angle on him. Hopelessly out-horsed, Memnon tried to turn away, but the move only slowed him. And what is the god-king's final thought? As Hurrus raced ever closer, he felt himself laughing.
"And drink down blazing torches as our wine!" he screamed, just as he thrust his spear into the god-king's back, the point exploding out of his chest.
Memnon crashed to the ground, spitted like a honeyed pig.
Hurrus reined up and turned back, his eyes suddenly swimming. He felt as if he had just been loosed from strangling bonds. His head spun. He lurched forward and grasped his horse's neck to prevent himself from falling. He could scarcely hold his head up. A blurred figure approached. His grip began to slacken. "Catch me, Xandros," he gasped, just before the world went black.
Clautias read from a scroll while Asander watched him with a mixture of anticipation, wonder and fear. A servant had given him a broad shallow cup filled with wine. "There is no reason why we can't act like civilized men," Clautias had assured him.
Xanthippus had no doubt they could all act like civilized men, but he wondered how long they could keep it up.
Couches covered in fine fabric lined the room. Servants stood nearby and out a window, Xanthippus could see hillsides covered with groves of twisted black trees and rock-studded pastures full of sheep. White-capped mountains loomed beyond. If it hadn't been for the armed men standing at the door and the look of fear in Asander's eye, they might have been a party come together for wine and fashionable conversation.
As it was, there was too much feeling of doom to make the illusion stick. Gorgeo's presence didn't help. Standing alongside the armed guards, he appeared even harder and gaunter in the elegant setting, for he himself was about as elegant as a hunk of iron slag. Xanthippus was quite sure his ass had never touched a couch, however ratty or fine, and he did not look about to sit upon one now. His eyes flashed anger and several times during the interrogation, he opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue at the last moment, no doubt much to Asander's great relief.
Along the side wall, Nydeon sat beside Xanthippus, impatiently drumming his fingers on his knee. Every few seconds, Thalen glanced down at them, each time with greater annoyance.
"Do you have to do that?" he asked in a low tone.
Xanthippus knew the boy feared being questioned by the old man, though Clautias himself seemed a harmless and reasonable inquisitor. More likely, it was Gorgeo he feared, a man with enough anger in him for all of them.
"I don't have to," Nydeon said, "but I am. Unless you have a harp for me to play while I sit here..."
"They don't have enough armed men," Xanthippus chimed in suddenly. He had been studying the guards and he had noticed that even the servants were armed. They wore ornate daggers at their belts, swirled pommels and sharply curved blades within jewel-encrusted scabbards. It was probable that they had never seen a drop of blood. "Two guards at the door, these servants--whom I would count as less than one man each--and Gorgeo, who, in fact, I would count as two. Still, it is not enough."
"There are more men out in the hall," Nydeon said. "And on the grounds beyond."
"I am not concerned with what is beyond this room. That is for later consideration."
Nydeon rolled his eyes. "'Later consideration'," he scoffed. "Like the instant we walk through that door. Is that what you mean by 'later'?"
"What are you men planning?" Thalen scooted in close to them.
"See the anger in Gorgeo's eyes?" Thalen peered at him and nodded. "If that should spread to these others, we might find ourselves in a fix."
"You won't," Thalen said bitterly. "You're our slaves, remember?"
"We're not leaving here slaves," Xanthippus said. "Real or imagined. But it is your Asander I'm concerned about. He saved our lives. From the looks of things, we might have to save his."
Clautias set aside the scroll he was reading and sat up. The old man wore his snow-white robe draped over his left arm and wrapped under his right, leaving his chest bare. His breastbone and ribs were plain to see under his skin and his knees projected in bony relief through the fine fabric. Though he sat, he held his gnarled old walking stick in his right hand, thunking it on the floor while he spoke. His thunking seemed random and did not follow the cadence of his speech.
"We have no Pylia here," he said, "so I will simply ask questions in the old-fashioned way: What were you doing in Tygetia?"
"I've told you already," Asander said, shooting pleading glances at the old man and Gorgeo alike. "I was there to procure Myletos' help in Demetrius' war with Sethaly."
"And did you procure this help?" Clautias asked.
"You know as well as I do that Myletos and Demetrius are enemies."
"Then why go to Tygetia, only to find out what you already know?"
Asander knit his brow, sighing. "It was the occasion of Prince Hurrus' wedding." At the mention of Hurrus Gorgeo stiffened, and Asander continued in a loud voice as if he expected Gorgeo to interrupt. "Even Demetrius recognizes good manners. My mission was purely--"
"This man was sent to kill Hurrus." Gorgeo stepped forward, as if bursting from restraints, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "It was also his eighteenth birthday, was it not, Asander?"
Asander nodded. He looked like a defeated man.
"And what has your witch Seen of Hurrus' eighteenth year? Tell me!"
Clautias raised a hand. "Gorgeo, please. I am asking the questions."
Gorgeo paid him no heed. "What better time to send an assassin in the guise of a peaceful emissary, a foreign minister who had been the mad king's bloody right hand? Isn't that the truth of it, Asander?"
Asander shot to his feet. "No, it is not!" he cried. Again, his eyes darted to both Gorgeo and Clautias, not sure which he ultimately needed to convince. "I am no lackey to Demetrius. You have me wrong. Your man Cleonander has poisoned your mind against me. I hate Demetrius! I hate him, I tell you!"
Gorgeo scowled, his teeth clenched behind curling lips. He drew his sword. "Now you claim to hate him, only to save your own skin! Let me kill him now," he snarled, clenching his right hand for a disemboweling thrust. Xanthippus could see that he was on the verge of losing control.
"Gorgeo!" Clautias roared. "Put your sword away. There will be no killing here."
"You could have killed me back in the pine wood," Asander said, "and saved us all the trouble--and saved yourselves the loss of your men and the capture of your bravest warrior, Coronea." Word had come to them the day following the catastrophe at the pass. An outrider had arrived at sunset, breathlessly reporting the capture of Coronea. Half the band wanted to rescue her, but Gorgeo demanded they push on for Clautias with their prisoners. It was what Coronea would have wanted, he had said. She had made her sacrifice with full knowledge. "And for what?" Asander went on. "Just to bring me here to kill me in this room? Is that why Coronea will now face Pylia? Just so you could kill me?"
"Shut your mouth," Gorgeo warned.
"Even for all of my cowardice, I would have gone to her, as most of your men begged you to do. What great cause is there that is worth the tortures that await that brave girl? It is you who are the coward, Gorgeo, preferring to put a blade into an innocent man rather than fighting Demetrius on his own ground. Coronea was willing, but look at you, surrounded by your fine couches and pillows! Do you think there are pillows where Coronea is going?"
"Shut up, damn you!"
Mad with rage, Gorgeo lunged at him. Asander had to dance aside to miss the blade. His foot caught the leg of the couch he had been sitting on and he fell to the floor, his blue robe spilling out around him. Xanthippus sprang to his feet. He rushed across the room to the fallen Asander. Gorgeo drew back in surprise.
Xanthippus stared at him, matching his gaze, iron for iron.
"One move and in the space of a heartbeat I will disarm you and gut you with your own sword," Xanthippus warned him.
Gorgeo scoffed, his lips curling, not in a snarl this time, but a smile. "The loyal slave comes to rescue his master, is that it?"
"You speak brave, my friend, but I notice you do not move against me. Were I in your place, I would have struck already. You hold your ground, though, because you know what I say is true." Gorgeo's smile faded. Xanthippus noticed him lick his lips, undoubtedly finding his mouth suddenly gone dry. "The bravest of the Epirian warriors, the Huntress, had the truth of it. I am no slave to these Irrylians, but a member of the Prathian Guard. If you still want to raise that sword, I invite you to do so now."
The guards at the door had stepped forward and they stood poised to intervene. "At your word," one of them said. Gorgeo held up his hand, silencing him.
Xanthippus went on. "I have undergone training in every weapon you can think of, and I am expert at subduing every form of armed man with my bare hands. I have led men in battle and I have been led, unerringly following orders that would cause your little band to blanch, Gorgeo. You think I fear Shadow Riders? Not since I was a boy in Serusi do they strike terror in my heart. You would not find me running from them as you do."
"Idle boasts!" the guard said, leveling his spear. "Prathian or no, there is just one of him."
"Behind me is Nydeon, my blood brother. He knows what I am about to say before I think of saying it, and he knows what I will do before I think of doing it. I will tell you right now, nothing happens to Asander that does not also happen to me and Nydeon...and Thalen."
"I am not afraid of this braggart," the guard declared hotly. He rushed around the edge of a couch and thrust his spear toward the Prathian's midsection. Xanthippus found it a simple matter to sidestep the attack. He grabbed the spear and twirled, yanking it from the guard's grasp, at the same time breaking the man's nose with his elbow. With a cry, the guard sprawled face first on the floor, his blood spattering the couches. If he thought his compatriot had his back, he would have been disappointed to see Xanthippus level his spear against him before he had even thought of making a move. Xanthippus glanced over his shoulder to see Nydeon with two jewel-encrusted daggers. One he held at a servant-guard's throat, the other he tossed to Thalen who with a determined scowl easily held the other servant at bay.
"As you can see, Gorgeo, you now face armed men," Xanthippus said.
Leaning heavily on his staff, Clautias rose to his feet. "Enough of this!" he cried, his voice booming impossibly from within his sunken chest. Everyone stopped at the sound of it. The guard lay on the floor groaning, face down in an expanding pool of blood. "Put away your weapons. All of you! There is to be no killing here. Gorgeo!"
Gorgeo would not relinquish his sword. He stood as if ready to spring even after Xanthippus had swung his spear around to point at Gorgeo's chest. He would skewer him if he had to, though it was not his wish. He had come to respect the Epirians and he saw Gorgeo as a stalwart fighter, if perhaps at times dangerously fanatical. Here was one man who would not die peacefully in his bed. Whether or not he would die with an Epirian spear point in his chest in the next few seconds was an open question.
Just then, a man in a mustard-colored cloak burst into the room. He wore leather armor and carried a helmet with a long sky-blue tassel under his arm. He was followed by five armed men, Irrylians all. Their sandals clattered on the marble floor and their leather creaked. They looked to be fresh from a battlefield, and the six of them together sounded like a marching army.
Gorgeo immediately drew back, letting his sword fall to his side. "Do my eyes deceive me? It is Prince Gonatas!"
"Stand aside," Gonatas cried, striding past Gorgeo. Noticing Xanthippus' menacing spear point, his companions came to a sudden halt and drew their swords.
"Put your weapons away," Clautias demanded. "Prathian, we bear you no malice. Lower your spear."
Xanthippus stepped back and lowered his spear, not quite menacing anyone.
Barely audible, he heard a voice gasp, "Gonatas!" He turned to see Asander, who had been sitting on the floor, suddenly clamber to his feet. He stared dumbfounded at the man called Gonatas. Xanthippus merely felt confused. Irrylian soldiers facing Epirian rebels, and yet it was against the Prathian that they drew swords.
"Hail, Gonatas," Clautias said, raising a withered hand in greeting.
Gonatas fell to one knee and bowed his head. He rose again just as quickly. "Oh, I prayed I was not too late," he said, grasping the folds of the old man's robes. "Clautias, my friend, you must leave here at once. Pylia has Seen you and Taler sends Shadow Riders to this very place!"
"Pylia has Seen me?" Clautias exclaimed in horror. "She has spoken my name?"
"Your name, yes, and she has Seen this house. We have traveled fast from Lacecia. My father's conquest of Gyriece has begun. He has ordered me to bring you to him, to find you before Menleco. The gods have blessed my travels and I have reached you in time. But Menleco comes. This house is known to him!"
"We discovered the Shadow Riders' camp on our way here," Gorgeo disclosed, stepping forward. "We thought they were pursuing us. Coronea sacrificed a squad of men to slow them, allowing us to escape. But I see now that they were making their way here, as were we. They could be right behind us."
Gonatas snapped his head around. "What is this of Coronea?"
"We must make haste!" Clautias cried. He turned and scooped up his scroll from the couch. He looked around frantically as if to find other incriminating documents he might seize.
Gonatas peered intently at Gorgeo. "What do you mean 'sacrificed'? What has happened to Coronea?"
"Her men were killed and she herself was captured by the Shadow Riders," Gorgeo said. "They have dispatched a troop to take her to Irrylia, Myssene as I understand it."
"She goes to Pylia, then!" Gonatas said, his voice tinged with a rising panic. "SHE GOES TO PYLIA! By the gods, we cannot let this stand!" He turned and began striding rapidly across the room, back the way he had come, ignoring Clautias who shouted after him. "I will go to her. As far as anyone knows, I am still a prince of Irrylia. I can stop this."
Asander stepped forward boldly, elbowing Xanthippus aside. "Prince Gonatas!" he cried. "Wait!"
Gonatas stopped in his tracks, looking back and catching Asander's eye.
"Let me come with you," Asander pleaded.
Gonatas squinted across the room at him. "Is that you, Asander? I did not see you there. You are in league with Clautias?" A hint of a smile began to play on his lips.
"Not in league with," Asander said, "but in the custody of. I am his prisoner."
"He is Demetrius' bloody right hand," Gorgeo spat, "fresh from his mission to assassinate our king."
"'Bloody right hand'?" Gonatas said in disbelief. "Not Asander. You have him wrong, Gorgeo."
"Gorgeo would have me dead already."
"No, no...Asander may serve a mad king, but he is an honorable man. He does his sworn duty and nothing more."
"The duty imposed on him by a madman!"
"If it please your highness, I perform my duty to the mad king not out of honor, as you suggest, but because in my heart I am but a coward," Asander said. "But I have been a coward long enough. I stood by when Arrhus was killed. It is just as Cleonander said, every word of it true. Now, I see you here, Prince, and I hear of Coronea's courage, and it fills me with shame." Asander sagged for only an instant before straightening again. He stood to his full height, his chin held high and firm. "As far as anyone knows, I am still Demetrius' foreign minister. I can help you stop this. I will help you stop Demetrius. Let me come with you."
"He will murder you in your sleep," Gorgeo warned gravely, "and run off to report us all to his king."
"Do not 'highness' me, Asander," Gonatas said, ignoring Gorgeo. "Do you see me draped in the royal purple? I am no prince but a common soldier of the Epirian rebellion, as you can see. But I will play 'prince' one last time, and you, Asander, foreign minister of Irrylia, will come with me. You say you are a coward, but it is no coward who would choose to ride with doomed men. Come with me and we shall ride to our doom together!"
A light twinkled in Gonatas' eye as a smile spread across his handsome face. He looked every bit the prince to Xanthippus and the effect of his charm on Asander had him grinning from ear to ear.
"You think this wise?" Clautias asked. "If you are discovered--"
"I have no choice," Gonatas replied. "I will not leave Coronea to that witch. We will have to ride hard to catch them. Come, men. We ride for Myssene."
After they had left, Xanthippus turned to Gorgeo with a smile. His enemies were evaporating before his eyes.
"I believe I once heard you say that good fortune does not light your path, and yet in your darkest moment you have found allies where you supposed only enemies lurked. Without cooler heads and this poor man's spear"--the guard was now sitting up, holding his face in his hands, one of the disarmed servants attending him--"you might have killed us all."
"What allies? You are no friend to Epiria," Gorgeo said.
"I have come to respect the bravery of your people, Gorgeo, and I understand that your cause is just." Xanthippus paused, taking a breath. He would tell them the truth. If they wanted to kill him, he supposed they were welcome to try. He was not a condemned man, nor was he anyone's captive. "You almost had the truth of it, Gorgeo. But it was not Asander who was sent to kill your Hurrus, it was I. I traveled to Tygetia to kill Hurrus, it is true. But I come back to Prathia to kill Menleco."
"I knew it!" Gorgeo exclaimed. "It is just as I said!" The hiss of steel on steel filled the room as he once again unsheathed his sword, his eyes aflame.
"Put away your weapon!" Clautias said. "The Prathian has the courage to tell us the truth. Let us hear him out."
"I knew nothing of Epiria and Demetrius and kings and witches, and I cared even less. But even in Tygetia, I began to suspect that Hurrus was an innocent man, not deserving of an assassin's blade."
"He was the only man we encountered there who was not," Nydeon added from the back of the room. He came forward and stood by Xanthippus' side.
"I can see the truth of it now," Xanthippus went on, turning to Clautias. "We accompany Asander and Gorgeo's band because Menleco would have had us die in Tygetia and we needed to come to Prathia to find him. Now, we find that he comes to us."
"So Hurrus is still alive?" Clautias asked.
Xanthippus nodded.
"But he is in danger," Clautias mused. "I will go Tygetia to see him."
"The man may be in less danger than you think. As I have heard it, Hurrus raises an army in Tygetia," Xanthippus said. "Clautias, you do not need more places to hide. What you need is an army. And you, Gorgeo, you need to be out in the field fighting. Would you not prefer that to these pretty couches and scrolls? There are no battles to be won here. We will kill Menleco. He travels with the Prathian foot. I know them well. They are no friends of Shadow Riders. I will command these foot for you, Clautias. You need an army. I will bring you an army. I will kill Menleco and I will bring you his army. And when Hurrus comes, I will fight at his side."
"The Prathians fight at the beck and call of Demetrius," Gorgeo said. "Why should we believe you?"
"Menleco fights for silver," said Xanthippus. "My Prathians will fight for honor."
Gorgeo scoffed. "I see no honorable Prathians here. I see two men, dressed as slaves. All this grand talk of armies, and yet it is but two men I see."
"And now more out that window," Nydeon exclaimed. He pointed and Xanthippus saw appear on the far hillside a troop of dark riders, scattering a flock of sheep as they rode through them. They were too far to see in much detail, but Xanthippus was certain they were Menleco's men, Shadow Riders.
"They are here!" Clautias said. "Quickly, let us be away. We have not the strength to oppose them."
"But where do we go?" Gorgeo asked. "Even now, they fill the hillside!"
Clautias hobbled to the center of the room, his walking stick thumping on the floor. He stopped and knocked his stick against a couch. The couch was set upon a finely embroidered carpet depicting octolusks among mermaids.
"Push aside this couch and pull up the rug," Clautias cried. Gorgeo rushed to his side and did as Clautias commanded. Set in the floor under the rug he found a wooden door.
"Open it and let us get inside," Clautias said. "There is a tunnel that will take us to safety."
Gorgeo bent down and heaved on the door. It rose but a finger's breadth before falling back into place with a rattle of its metal fittings.
"Hurry!" Clautias said.
Gorgeo hefted it again, using all his strength. He looked back over his shoulder in anguish. "It is stuck! Locked from the inside, I think." He tried two more times to open the door.
"Help him," Clautias called to the guards and servants.
Through the window, Xanthippus could see clearly now the skull masks of the Riders, could hear the pounding of the hoofbeats. Their long black cloaks billowed behind them as they rode. As he watched, a skull face appeared in the window. Xanthippus saw the man catch sight of them through his black eyeholes. He called out to his companions and vanished from sight, rushing for the door.
Clautias saw him too. "They are upon us. Hurry! "
"We will hold them off," Xanthippus cried. "Nydeon, arm yourself. And you, Thalen! You're with us."
Xanthippus saw that Nydeon still had his dagger. Then he looked back and saw that Thalen had not relinquished his either. He stood in confusion for just an instant and then rushed forward to join the Prathians. The boy would earn his captain's cloak today.
Three men heaved on the trapdoor as one and it opened with a wrenching crack of wood and metal. All three tumbled backward.
One of the guards rushed to the edge of the opening and plunged down the ladder without hesitation. Gorgeo scrambled to his feet and took hold of Clautias by an elbow. The old man gingerly placed a foot on the top rung. The guard's hands appeared at his feet, assisting him from below, while Gorgeo cast anxious glances towards the door. Then Clautias disappeared into the hole as the guard took firm hold of him and whisked him down.
The servants were next, followed by the guard with the broken nose. Gorgeo ushered them all down, muttering encouragements to hurry them on. Finally, there was no one left but Gorgeo himself. He started down and was halfway through when he saw the first of the Shadow Riders burst into the room. He froze. He looked as if he believed Death itself had found him. His face wore an expression of both fear and uncertainty. The Riders did that to men, even to iron men like Gorgeo. But Xanthippus saw behind the fear and he knew what Gorgeo wanted--he wanted to climb out of that hole and fight them. Xanthippus could not allow it.
"Go!" he shouted, the fury in his voice alone forcing Gorgeo down the remaining rungs of the ladder. He disappeared into the hole. The last Xanthippus saw of him was his hand pulling the door shut, leaving the three to face the Shadow Riders alone.
Hurrus woke to the sound of creaking wagon wheels. He lay flat on his back and when he raised his head, pain seared his scalp. Blood rushed in his ears, sounding like a thousand singing cicadas. When he touched his head, he found that it had been thoroughly bandaged. Groaning, he managed to raise himself onto an elbow...and pain shot through his left shoulder. He fell back with a grimace. It also had been bandaged and he could not raise his arm. The fat man's javelin. He remembered the sword gash to his head well enough, but he had forgotten about the damned javelin. He wished he could kill the fat man all over again.
When he opened his eyes, he saw half-a-dozen black figures peering down at him. Gradually, the faces of his companions came into focus.
"Get me out of this damned wagon," he said, raising himself up. "Who put me in here?"
"You are injured, Highness," one of the men said.
Hurrus felt strong hands grasping each of his arms, pulling him up. "Highness? Does this look like a crown to you?" He gingerly ran a hand over his bandaged head and was relieved when his fingers came away dry. Apparently, the bleeding had stopped. He remembered torrents of blood blurring his vision.
Then he saw that the man who had spoken was Deon. He had taken to calling him 'highness' ever since the Silver Shields had cheered their 'king' at the battle on the plain. When the sound first rang in his ears, he could have been made to believe it. Now, he preferred the playful tone of Deon's first utterance of the word to the seriousness he had adopted since. King of nothing! Hurrus was hardly even a general now. He wondered how many men remained in his Corps of the Eagle Man, but was afraid to know the truth.
Deon pulled a water skin from around his neck and used it to wet Hurrus' lips. He drank greedily. Deon pulled the skin away.
"Not so fast," he warned.
"It is the god-king's water," Hurrus said as a simple statement of fact, remembering. He felt sluggish and stupid, still not in complete control of his faculties.
"He won't be needing it where he is," Deon said, grinning. "He sips from Hathor's cup now. A bitter brew, as I understand it."
"Where are we?"
"Almost back on Tygetian soil, Highness. If you turn, you'll see the Horns directly ahead of us."
"You won't mind if I don't..." Hurrus groaned. He laid his arm around Deon's shoulders. "Help me onto my horse. I will ride through the Horns. I won't be transported home like a heap of dried meat."
Deon called for Hurrus' horse and helped him from the wagon and into the saddle. Hurrus felt himself wavering, but Deon held him steady.
"But we are home already," he said when he was sure Hurrus would not fall. "We have been home ever since you killed the god-king. All around us is now Tygetian soil...if only Myletos wills it. He has but to march here and claim it. By gods, Hurrus, you have accomplished what no man has ever dared. Even Xarhux dared not attempt it!"
"The cost is high, I fear," Hurrus said. He winced. The cicadas howled in his ears. He felt Deon's steadying hand on his good shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Horns, shimmering behind a translucent veil of heat. His army sat in the road ahead, a long column that disappeared over a dusty ridge. Behind him, another column of footmen sat with their scarlet cloaks thrown over their heads to shield them from the sun. A talon of cavalry brought up the rear. Behind them, there was nothing but endless desert. He wondered how far the column extended on the far side of the dusty ridge. He saw the Silver Shields and quickly tried to count them in their rows. He reached 150, when he stopped in despair. He hoped there were more that he could not see.
"But the profit is great, Highness! When we march through the Horns, I would not be surprised to find a Tygetian throng awaiting us. We will tread on rose petals all the way back to Archentethe!"
Rose petals! It was blood that lined their path, not flowers, the blood of his own men. The only throng that awaited him were the ghosts of the slain.
"Hurrus, I am happy to find you ahorse!"
It was Xandros. He had ridden up to them from the front of the column. But for his lips and the creases that clawed the corners of his eyes, his face was ashen with dust. How many times had Hurrus gazed upon that face? Molded from laughter and vigorous living, Hurrus detected no joy in it now. Though smiling, he looked tired and old. He reached into a saddlebag.
"I saved this for you." He produced an ornate crown, a narrow band of gold topped with pointed crests like ocean waves set with opals, rubies and sapphires. The last time Hurrus had seen it was through the farsee stone, a lifetime ago. "Memnon's. I thought you would like to have it."
It felt heavy in his hand. He remembered the god-king's bodyguard hacking a path through their own men so Memnon could escape the rout of his army in his golden chariot. It had sat atop his head then, a witness to the man's unmatched wickedness. With the hand of his good arm, Hurrus turned it and the jewels blazed in the sun. How could a thing of such great beauty be the cause of such great evil? Hurrus became dizzy and lost his balance, but Deon caught him. It was because he could not grasp the reins with his left hand and he gripped the crown in his right.
"How many men do I have left?" Xandros would know and he would not hide it from him, but Xandros did not respond. Hurrus looked back toward the resting horsemen of the rearguard, and then ahead to the dusty ridge, beyond which stood the distant Horns of Hathor. "I can see the tail of the column, and I see my Shields on the road ahead. Xandros, how far does our column extend beyond that ridge?"
"Do not excite yourself, Highness," Deon said, grasping him with both hands. Hurrus shook him away roughly. Xandros' blank look and tight lips angered him. The cicadas whirred.
"Xandros, I command you to tell me! How far--"
"Three thousand," Xandros blurted out all at once. "The Corps of the Eagle Man is but three thousand."
The number struck Hurrus like a fist. He fell forward, his left shoulder slamming into his horse's neck and sending a searing flame down his arm. Deon grabbed him around the waist.
"You have destroyed the Sarians, Hurrus." Hurrus could hear Xandros speaking from the end of a long dark tunnel. "They did not know their god-king had fallen, and they formed a solid wall against us, but the Silver Shields broke them."
"You should have seen them, Highness!" Deon cried. "By gods, what men!"
"They tried to form up again," Xandros went on, "but this time, instead of raining javelins down on their heads, we threw them the head of their king. When they saw who it was, they flung their weapons aside and ran. Some of them, gripped by madness, fled into the waterless wastes. Others threw themselves at our feet. We took no prisoners."
"Three thousand!" Hurrus sat doubled over on his horse. The pain in his head and shoulder were nothing to the cold hard lump he felt in his gut. If he could cut it out with a knife, he would. "I have brought us to ruin!"
"Highness," Deon said, "let's get you back into the wagon..."
Hurrus could feel him tugging on him. "No!" Ignoring the pain, Hurrus lurched upright, wrenching his body from Deon's grasp. He turned and flung he king's crown at Xandros. It struck him mid-chest, startling his horse. Xandros scarcely blinked. The crown bounced to the ground. "Melt it down! Do what you will with it. I'll not have that thing on my head." He coaxed his horse forward. Deon stood aside for him. "I must go see for myself."
Hurrus could hear Deon calling him back as he rode away, but he would not be shielded from hard truths. He wanted to look over the ridge and see his army for himself.
As he walked his horse along the road, the men who were not too exhausted stood, thumping their chests in salute or calling out his name. He was amazed to see their spirit.
"Eagle Man..." he heard someone gasp in awe. From another: "King Hurrus!"
He acknowledged them by raising his right hand, trying not to let on that it was beyond his power to raise his left. He sat as straight as the pain allowed, but he could feel himself leaning to favor his hurt shoulder. He knew his bandaged head added nothing to his stature. He bobbed stiffly in the saddle, no doubt resembling less a king than a corpse riding among them.
He found the Silver Shields and followed the line of them up to the crest of the ridge. When he looked over, he saw a pathetically short column of soldiers extending down the other side. As with the rearguard, the thin column was dwarfed by the immensity of the desert. It was beyond incredible that this tiny force had not simply disappeared into the desert, never to be heard of again, swallowed by sand. That it had marched into the maw of the wasteland and destroyed an enemy besides defied understanding.
But Hurrus had to know the cost. The cost to himself was plain. Does a descendant of the gods bleed from a gash in his head and wince at the wound of a fat man's javelin? What god would claim such a progeny?
Hurrus turned away from the ridge and rode along the line of his Shields. He knew where to find the men in their marching columns as well as their battle arrays. He looked to the place of the front rank, but the face he looked for was not there. In the middle of the column, he saw the lad who had offered him water, looking less of a boy now. Hurrus realized that he did not know his name. He rode back to the head of the column.
"Where is Aryk?" he asked when he had found an officer.
The officer looked puzzled.
"Aryk," Hurrus repeated with an urgency he did not intend. He looked from face to face. "Of Irrylia. His father fought with Xarhux through the Eastern Lands...The Painted Men..."
The officer's face fell, but he did not look away. "Aryk did not make it, Prince," he said solemnly.
"Did not make it?"
"He fell in our final charge to break the Sarian line--"
"He fell..." Hurrus repeated stupidly. It was not that he did not believe it. Rather, he felt as if he did not understand the words themselves. "He fell..."
"He fought bravely, my lord, as did all of the Shields. I can attest to that. There is not a coward among them. I am proud--"
"Where is his body?" Hurrus asked.
The officer blinked.
"His body!" Hurrus snapped, slapping his right palm down on the officer's shoulder and grabbing a handful of his cloak. "Aryk's body! Where is it? I would take it to Gyriece with me, and bury it in Irrylian soil!"
All the soldiers of the column were watching him now. Even those who had been too exhausted to speak raised their weary heads. The officer laid a hand atop Hurrus' grasping fist. "Prince," he said in a quiet, consoling tone, "we burnt his body on a pyre, along with the rest of our dead. You must know that we could not possibly transport them across the desert..."
Hurrus relaxed his grip. He cast a glance at the men watching him from the side of the road. They looked away when his eyes found them. "Of course you could not," he said with a sigh. He gave the man's shoulder a pat before turning away.
"Men die in war," said the officer.
More than men die in war, Hurrus thought. "Prepare to march," he said in as commanding a tone as he could muster. "We can still make the Horns before nightfall."
Behind him, he could hear the officer shouting his orders and the rustling of the men climbing to their feet. Within moments, the entire column was in motion again, marching towards the Horns and Tygetia and home.
Hurrus rode with Deon and Xandros at the head of the army. After three hours, he could feel the ground rising towards the pass between the two landmark hills; and after two more, the sun had dipped behind the northern prominence and they rode the rest of the way comfortably in the shadow of the twin peaks.
Hurrus noticed that as the men entered the shade, they began to smile. They had been watching the Horns for mile after weary mile and had no doubt begun to view them as home itself, as comfort and safety, an end to their ordeal. Hurrus felt his own spirits buoyed under their shadow. Water lay beyond the Horns and when the three men surmounted the crest of the road they saw a brown landscape dotted with spiky shrubs and even pockets of dense green growth and trees. The soldiers' thoughts had already moved beyond water as the leading files belted out choice stanzas of Tygetian drinking songs amid howls of laughter. The victorious army was coming home.
But Hurrus noticed something else that awaited them on the dusty plain apart from the promise of water and cultivated fields and warm baths. It looked to him like a promise of more blood and anguish. It looked to him like an army.
He turned to the twenty of his companion body. "Call a halt," he said. He could not keep a tremor of alarm out of his voice and he spoke in a rising crescendo. "Silence the men."
One of the officers rode down the backside of the rise and the men's voices fell silent. With a crack of black wings, a roost of birds took flight from the crags above them. Hurrus did not want the men to march over the crest and see what he thought he saw. Do not let it be, he prayed vaguely to no one. His hand was shaking when he bent down to reach into his saddlebag. He felt the whirring in his head again. He closed his eyes and in the darkness, the world pitched and lurched. Xandros caught him before he fell.
"The stone," Hurrus said, as Xandros righted him in his saddle. The wind blew a veil of dust across the plain. "I must have my stone."
A moment later, Xandros handed him the farsee stone. Hurrus held it in his right hand, shifting it back and forth before his eye until the object of his observation came into sharp focus. He saw a spearman with a shield, and another beside him, and then another, and then a dozen more. He moved the stone to the right and saw block after block of spearmen, eight deep, filling the plain. He did not need the stone to see the masses of horsemen guarding their flanks.
He handed the crystal to Deon. "There is your Tygetian throng, Deon," Hurrus snapped. Blood rushed to his face. The cicadas whirred in his ears. "You look and tell me if they're throwing rose petals. You look and tell me what you see!"
"I don't need the stone to see," Xandros said, a murderous lilt to his voice. "That is the Corps of the Snake Man."
Deon looked them over. "They oppose us?" His voice was disbelieving.
"They stand astride the road in battle array. It is no homecoming," Xandros said.
Kerraunus' troops. Hurrus could see it now, the white headscarves, the gold-trimmed white cloaks and leather cuirasses, the bronze-faced shields each painted with the image of the rearing cobra. They stood like a mirage on the dusty plain, a phantom line of white surf, offering not an illusion of succor but death. Given equal numbers, Hurrus would not have feared them, but--
"How many men, Deon?" Hurrus asked.
Deon surveyed the field, making quick calculations. "Perhaps ten thousand," he said in a dead tone.
"Xandros?"
"We cannot hope to oppose them, my lord," Xandros said. "Those are ten thousand fresh men down there. Even if the numbers did not daunt us, we cannot ask these men to fight again."
A sharp pain traced a line of fire across Hurrus' scalp. He grasped his bandaged head and his fingers came away moist with blood. His wound had opened again.
"We will proceed onto the plain--"
"You cannot be serious--" Xandros interjected.
Hurrus whirled and grasped a fistful of Xandros' tunic. "I will ride at the head of my army, Xandros, as is my right. We will march in the full sight of the enemy like men - straight into the maw of the snake, if we have to." He released him with a parting shove.
"You will deploy our three against Kerraunus' ten?" Xandros asked in disgust. "You will ask these men to fight a hopeless battle, after all they've been through?"
"After all they've been through, I do not have to ask them to fight, any more than I have to ask them to die. They will do what they must. Would you have them return to Tygetia in chains, Xandros?"
"I would have them return at all," Xandros said. "I will grant you the dead require no chains to bind them."
From the plain below, they heard the blast of a war horn.
"They have seen us," Deon said. "Look!"
He passed the stone to Hurrus. The line of spearmen parted and a chariot surrounded by a company of horsemen passed through the gap. A white flag of truce fluttered above them.
"It is Kerraunus and his Snake Men," Hurrus said. He adjusted the stone and every detail of Kerraunus' Tygetian face came into focus. He felt as if he were viewing Memnon all over again. Bare-chested and wearing his formal blue war crown over a braided wig, Kerraunus looked every bit the god-king, a Tygetian prince of old. He elevated his chin regally as he guided his chariot, his jaw set firm. Surrounding him was his usual gang of murderous thugs...minus Ramsut the Plunderer.
"He rides out to parlay," Xandros said. "We should hear him."
"Oh, we'll hear him," said Hurrus. "He rides out with his twenty to offer us chains. We will meet him with our three thousand. We will see what chains he has to bind us."
Hurrus turned and called for his helmet. "I will not have Kerraunus see my wound," he said. He fit his helmet over his bandages, hiding them from view, and rode stiffly down the slope onto the plain, holding his left arm tight to his side to lessen the pain of the jostling ride. Xandros, Deon and his twenty companions rode at his side, the column of three thousand following behind.
Kerraunus and his party had stopped halfway to the Horns and sat waiting. Hurrus held up his hand and the tramping of his army ceased. He and his companions rode forward.
"Kerraunus suggested we murder Memnon to avoid a battle," Deon whispered close to Hurrus' ear. "I say we murder Kerraunus and avoid this fight."
"It may be the only way," Xandros said in Hurrus' other ear.
Hurrus made no response. He looked over his brother's party. He knew some of them by name, in particular the little man named Nefer who sat his horse at Kerraunus' right hand sneering. He was a viler specimen than even Ramsut had been. He also recognized his Gyriecian lackey, Samos. All twenty were well armed with swords and daggers and looked as if they had probably given Kerraunus the same advice Hurrus had just received from his men. Only Kerraunus wore a pleasant mien, but Hurrus knew not even the warmest of smiles could conceal his brother's cold heart. Murder hung in the air between the two groups of men.
"Tales of your exploits have preceded you out of the desert, Brother," Kerraunus said. "It seems you killed a god-king only to become one yourself."
Hurrus gave him a puzzled look.
"Oh, even out here in these gods-forsaken wastes little happens that escapes my gaze. You'll excuse me if I don't bow, King. King of what, though? That is what I wonder."
"Your army stands astride the road leading into Tygetia," Hurrus said. "Do you mean to oppose my march?"
"Your march? Oh, you mean of this little half-starved group that accompanies you?" He craned his neck to see behind Hurrus. "I didn't see it back there. Where are the rest of your men?"
"Stand aside, Kerraunus. I will allow you to remove your army from our path--"
"You will 'allow' me," Kerraunus repeated with a laugh. "You will allow me? Oh, Brother...I do not mean to oppose you. That implies some sort of struggle. No, I mean to destroy you. Unless, of course, you surrender your little army to me."
"Surrender?" Deon sputtered, straining forward. Half a dozen Snake Men reached for their swords. Hurrus laid a restraining hand on Deon's arm.
"I am offering to take your outlaw band back into the fold," Kerraunus said. Deon's outburst seemed to please him. He loved the threat of blood so near at hand. "I'm guessing your men would welcome it, to have peace and comfort after what you have forced them to endure." Kerraunus scrutinized Hurrus' face. "You are bleeding, brother."
Hurrus felt a drop of blood trickling down his forehead. He wiped it away with a finger, leaving a red smear on his brow. "My men will die for me," Hurrus said.
"As most assuredly they will," Kerraunus added. "You should at least let me give them the option. Fight me or join me. Let it be their choice. I'm sure they would not want their fates to be left to this hothead right hand of yours." He indicated Deon. "I can see in his eyes that he would like to murder me where I stand. Perhaps you have changed your mind and now prefer assassination to war."
"I will fight you, if I must, Kerraunus," Hurrus said. "But I would rather you stand aside and let us pass in peace."
"That I cannot do," said Kerraunus. "Now that Garon is dead, I cannot allow you to re-enter Tygetia with your army."
"Garon is dead?"
"You didn't know? He fell in the fighting on our flank. Tragic. Perhaps you would have known had you come to our aid as Tepes ordered you. Perhaps you might even have prevented it. Who knows? But I understand you were busy..."
"So that's what this is about," Hurrus said. "Is Bellog with you?"
"Bellog..." Kerraunus laughed. "As always, Bellog is with the victor, Brother. He waits to see who that is before committing himself..."
"And Myletos?"
"When this day is through, there will be but one army in Tygetia - the army of the Snake Man - and Myletos will have but one heir."
"Myletos will never call you heir."
Kerraunus gave his horses a swat with the chariot's reins. "I give you an hour to deploy your troops, Hurrus," he said, his chariot turning sharply. "I would offer you a chance at single combat, but I see you are not fit for it. The god-king business is not as easy as it looks, is it?"
Kerraunus laughed and his men reined their horses to follow him back to their lines. One of them, riding close to Deon, gave him a sharp crack in the ribs with a spear shaft as he passed. Deon's sword rasped from its scabbard and split the shaft in two before the snake-man had a chance to withdraw it. Startled by the speed of the attack, Kerraunus' man found himself in the next instant straining cross-eyed against the point of Deon's naked blade kissing his throat.
"That is your spine next time, snake-man," Deon hissed. The snake-man's companions whipped out their swords and circled back. Xandros and the companions drew theirs' as well.
"That is enough," Hurrus said. "We do not need to kill them now."
Deon swiped his sword away from the man's throat, missing his windpipe, but laying open the flesh under his chin. Blood spilled down the front of his snow-white tunic. Deon quickly pointed his sword at one and then another of the approaching snake-men.
"Who wants to be next?"
None of them did.
An hour later, Hurrus saw just how meager was his force. When he had swept across the flanks of the Sarian army, he had done so at the head of two thousand cavalry. He was lucky to have three hundred left. His infantry, the ranks thinned as much as he dared, would be swallowed by the sheer breadth of Kerraunus' line. Bravery meant nothing in the face of such odds.
"Perhaps we can stall until nightfall," Xandros said, "and escape under the cover of darkness."
Hurrus' men stood grim-faced in their ranks. He could hardly bare to look upon them. The ground rumbled with the sound of Kerraunus' men banging their weapons on their shields, a rhythmic pounding like the thunder of an approaching storm. Hurrus' men could do nothing but stand in silence amidst the fearsome roar. Their own war cries in return would be as the tinkling of a tin drum.
Hurrus considered Xandros' words, then he looked his old friend in the eye. "Xandros..." But no more words were forthcoming.
"The men will fight bravely, Prince," Xandros said.
Hurrus nodded. He rode to the Silver Shields and dismounted. Of all the men in the army, the Shields were his. His head swimming, he leaned against his horse until he regained command of his balance, then he approached the men.
They stood in their usual formation, sixteen men across. Hurrus walked up to the first man and held out his hand. The Shieldman took it and they clasped one another wrist-to-wrist. He moved on to the next man. They clasped wrists, and then he moved to the next, and then the next.
The fifth man in line would not let go. Their eyes locked. "Let the bastards come," he said in a deep rasp amid the war thunder of Kerraunus' host.
Hurrus nodded. "Let them come." The man released him and Hurrus moved on, shaking each hand in turn.
"On to Epiria," the fifteenth man said. He was the only one of them who had managed a smile and his grin filled his face. For a fleeting instant, Hurrus almost believed it was still possible. Then he remembered that it was not even possible for him to re-enter his own country.
The sixteenth man was Deon and he nodded to the south. "Do you see something, Hurrus?"
Between the upraised spears of his infantrymen, Hurrus saw it. Columns of dust rose into the sky, the wind arcing them to the west where they merged into a single ominous cloud. At the base of the swirling columns, he could make out black shapes. Galloping horses. Thousands of them.
"It is cavalry," Deon said with a quaver in his voice. "By the gods, Kerraunus means to destroy us utterly."
Hurrus turned at once and walked quickly back to his horse, calling for Xandros. It cannot be this easy to kill us. He would take as many of his enemy with him. It was Bellog, he was sure of it. The man had chosen, but only when the carcass already lay dead on the ground. He would see to it that Bellog would take no joy in destroying him.
"We must refuse our flank," he said when Xandros rode near.
Xandros gazed across the empty plain at the approaching horsemen. When he looked back again to Hurrus, his eyes were ablaze. "Kerraunus gives us an hour to deploy," he spat. "An hour for him to march his horse onto our flank! We cannot resist this. It is madness, Hurrus. Kerraunus' army will advance on us any moment. We will be crushed between them."
"Refuse our flank, Xandros! I order you! We will meet these horsemen with Gyriecian spear points. If we must die, we will die with the Snake Man's blood on our spears! By gods, we will!"
"Let us call another parlay, while we still have a chance. When Kerraunus comes out to meet us again, I will throttle him with my own hands..."
"Refuse our flank, damn you!"
A few moments later, Hurrus heard Xandros bellowing commands and soon the left flank angled away from the main line like a broken limb, bristling with spears. Hurrus fished in his saddlebag and brought out his farsee stone. What he saw puzzled him. The horsemen were dressed all in blue. Their headscarves were of a traditional Tygetian style, blue with yellow stripes. He saw curved swords at their belts, glinting in the setting sun. He took them for some kind of desert raiders. He called for Xandros.
"Who are these men?" he asked, handing Xandros the stone. "They are not Bellog's. Nor are they snake-men."
"Mejadym," Xandros said. He handed the stone back, laying it softly in Hurrus' palm. "They fight for Tygetia. Kerraunus controls them."
"Is all of Tygetia against me? What a fool I have been."
"Hurrus," Xandros began. Then, seeing something on the plain, he said, "Look..."
The legion of horsemen had halted a quarter-mile from Hurrus' line. Out of the mass rode three men alone. The man in the center wore a beard that fell to the middle of his chest. Led by Xandros, Hurrus' companions rode forward and intercepted them before the three men could approach the prince.
"Let their leader pass," Hurrus said.
The man with the beard rode through the cordon and leapt off his horse. In his hand was a bright yellowwood staff.
"Gods be praised!" he cried. "We are not too late." Planting the staff in the ground before him, he fell to one knee and bowed his head. "Prince Hurrus, it is told you are a true son of Kunuum. Therefore, I am your servant. Tygetia lives in you. Therefore, I pledge the Mejadym to you." The bearded man stood. Hurrus caught a flash of dazzling white teeth amid a bush of black whiskers. He looked strong as a bull. "My five thousand horse are yours to command, sire. My name is Jorem."
Hurrus felt a bolt of lightning race down his spine. "You will fight by our side against Kerraunus' men?"
"Sire, I would strike that Snake Man down with my own hand..."
Suddenly, Hurrus could not feel the pain in his head or the blood trickling over his brow or the ache in his shoulder. "Then align your men on our flank and together we will lop the head from this army of snakes! Xandros!"
It was not until the Mejadym horse was in position and he had told his men that they were no longer three thousand but eight that he realized the enemy had ceased the thumping of their weapons. Looking across the plain, he saw that the mere sight of the strengthened host caused their lines to waver. Men jostled one another as those in front turned away only to be thrust forward again by those in the rear. Incensed officers rode along the lines haranguing the irresolute with their vicious tongues and lashing the cowardly with their even more vicious bullwhips. Their lines did not settle until the horrifying rumble reached their ears from across the plain. Then they stood silently in fear.
Hurrus himself had begun to tremble, for his men now slammed their own weapons against their shields in a pounding crescendo backed by voices that might have reached all the way to Archentethe itself, voices full of anger, hatred and a murderous thirst to avenge what had been threatened them.
"Let them come! Let the come! Let them come!" the men cried out in unison though only three thousand of them knew what it meant. The sound crossed the plain like a wave that threatened to topple the enemy line.
Hurrus could not even hear his own voice when he shouted, "Silver Shields, you are my hammer!" His words had become meaningless. There was nothing he could say that his army did not already know - and what they knew was that now they would be killing instead of dying and when they began to march forward, the Corps of the Snake Man knew it too...
...and they began to run.
"Your uncle's not here today," Xanthippus said. "Do you think you can manage?"
"Fuck you, Prathian!" Thalen snapped.
The dagger in his right hand, the young Irrylian captain stood in a fighting crouch, shifting his feet deftly. He was a coiled sinew. Xanthippus was relieved to see no sign of fear or weakness in the lad. He did not bother looking to where Nydeon stood to his right. The Shadow Rider opposing him Xanthippus counted dead already.
Three Shadow Riders had entered the room. When they saw the men, they unsheathed their swords and began to fan out across the space slowly, carefully. Even though they had seen Gorgeo disappear into the trapdoor, they did not rush madly into the room as Xanthippus had expected. Instead, they warily took the measure of the men confronting them. They moved ponderously, their heavy leather boots resounding overloud on the marble floor. Xanthippus could vaguely make out human eyes inside the iron skull sockets of the black faceplates--cold, blue, killer's eyes. Their blades flashed silver against their raven cloaks. Unlike the ornate daggers wielded by both Nydeon and Thalen, the Riders' blades knew what it was to drip warm blood. Xanthippus lowered his spear and kept it pointed at the center Rider's chest as he circled cunningly.
"Was that Clautias we spied escaping down that hole?" one of the Riders asked, his voice muffled under the mask. "For he is the man we seek. Show him to us and your lives will be spared."
None of the three responded.
"We know these men," another of the Riders said suddenly. "But it is impossible! Can it be that the Shadow Riders are confronted by ghosts?"
"Not by ghosts, but by dead men," the center Rider said. "Brothers Xanthippus and Nydeon, sent to their deaths by Menleco, and yet here they stand before us in the flesh."
Xanthippus lunged, thrusting his spear at the gut of the Rider who had just spoken. At the last second, the skull-faced man twisted and turned the point aside with his sword. It glanced off the Rider's leather armor. Xanthippus drew back, poised for a counterthrust.
"Ah, I forgot who I was fighting, and it near cost me my life," the Rider said. Xanthippus could see confident humor flash in the man's shadowy eyes. "The vaunted Prathian Guard are men of few words. Dangerous men of action they are, though they be mere cupbearers to the Shadow Riders. It is a pity to have to kill your own serving boys, but General Menleco meant you dead--and dead he shall have you!"
Lunging, the Rider delivered an overhand slash intended to cleave Xanthippus' head from his shoulders. The Prathian slipped out from under the killing blow and with a backhanded jab delivered a sharp punch to the Rider's face with the blunt end of his spear. Xanthippus felt the shaft shudder with the impact on the iron plate. The Rider's head snapped back and he staggered in a daze. Xanthippus leapt towards him, plunging his spear once again into the Rider's armor. Failing to penetrate fully, the iron spear point merely tickled the flesh. The man swung his sword wildly, blindly, rending only air. Pulling the spear from leather, Xanthippus swept the point in a blur across the Rider's face, loosing a bloody shower before it. The Rider's sword hit the floor just before he did, clanging like a bell where the Rider thudded like a ham, the one clean as the day it was forged, the other spilling blood from a throat rent wide open.
He turned immediately to his left and saw Thalen artfully dodging blow after blow of the Shadow Rider's sword. Breathing hard, his assailant paused, the effort of killing the Irrylian perhaps more than he had bargained for.
"Thalen!" Xanthippus called. The young captain looked and Xanthippus tossed him the spear. That little dagger would merely get him killed. He let it fall to the floor. He took up the longer weapon and his eyes flashed malice as he crouched, facing the Rider. The Rider met his gaze for just a second. Then he turned and bolted for the door. Thalen caught him between the shoulder blades. He drove the spear home with a powerful thrust until the Rider lay motionless on the floor.
"Your uncle was more than a patron of the arts," Xanthippus said.
"He was a patron of the arts of war," Thalen replied. He set his foot on the dead Rider's back and pulled the spear free.
"Now, you have fought a real 'Prathian battle'," said Xanthippus, and Thalen grinned in return.
"Quickly! Into their garb," Nydeon called from the other side of the room. He was already pulling off the armor, boots and cloak of the dead Shadow Rider who had faced him. Xanthippus did not know the manner of the fight, but he could see that it had not lasted long. Cupbearers, indeed!
"Yes!" Xanthippus saw at once Nydeon's plan. He was thinking beyond the door before they burst through it. That was the beauty of having Nydeon by his side, forever considering later before later became now. It was a talent Xanthippus himself would someday like to possess.
Through the window, they could see more Shadow Riders, some on foot, some on horseback, swarming all over the grounds. They could hear the sounds of battle and cries of merciless death. It would be mere moments before more of them came upon this room.
They dragged the bodies behind some couches where Nydeon and Xanthippus could don the garb of the Riders under concealment.
"Not you, Thalen," Nydeon said. "We need you as you are."
After they had stripped two of the bodies, they threw all three into the trapdoor. Then, dressed as Riders in all but helms, they replaced the carpet over the door and slid the couch back on top of it. Xanthippus fit the Shadow Rider's helmet over his head, instantly becoming a fearsome reaper.
"How do I look?" he asked.
"Good enough for a bellyful of cold steel," Nydeon replied. "And I?"
Xanthippus had no time to reply, for the door burst open at that moment and in rushed a further gang of Shadow Riders, nearly catching Nydeon bareheaded as he slipped the helmet into place.
"Ye, gods!" one of the skull-headed Riders exclaimed, looking about the room and seeing smears of fresh blood. "What has happened here?"
Xanthippus grabbed Thalen by the scruff of his cloak and yanked him roughly towards himself. "This one's a fighter," he said, affecting a harsh tone. The yank had swept Thalen off his feet and his face slammed into Xanthippus' bloody leather corselet.
"Damn you!" he gasped, under his breath.
"From the looks of you two, a fighter from hell, I'd say!" said another with a laugh. "Hand your prisoner over to us. You two should go get your wounds tended."
Nydeon looked down at his black garb, shiny with blood. "It's nothing," he said, brushing at his breast as if he could whisk away bloodstains as though they were breadcrumbs. "A little blood. It looks worse than it is."
"This is our prisoner," Xanthippus said, yanking on Thalen's cloak again. "He goes nowhere. Certainly not with the gang o' you."
The Shadow Rider held his hands up in a warding gesture. "We meant no harm, brother," he said. "Clearly, you have a debt to collect from this little bastard. Far be it from me to stand in your way."
"Well, you are standing in my way." Xanthippus moved toward the group at the door, dragging Thalen along with him. "Now stand aside. I'm taking this one to Menleco."
The group parted and the men began moving past them.
"Does he know anything of this man Clautias?" one of the Riders asked.
"I'm not his damned inquisitor!" Xanthippus snapped. "Now, out of my way!"
Outside, Xanthippus took a deep breath.
"Dammit, Prathian!" Thalen snapped, once they found themselves alone in the yard of the house. "You near broke my neck!"
"Try to look like a prisoner, at least," Xanthippus said. "You'll get more than a broken neck if we're found out. I wish I had something to bind your hands," he added, reflectively.
Nearby, he found three horses tethered to a post. He assumed they had belonged to the dead Shadow Riders. Rummaging through a saddlebag, he found a length of twine.
"Put your hands together," he ordered.
Thalen complied, and while Xanthippus bound him, he said, "You'll not allow me to fall into their hands, will you? You must promise me."
Xanthippus cinched the knot tight, and Thalen winced. "It has to be convincing," he explained, finishing off the knot.
"Apology accepted," Thalen said with a scowl.
Xanthippus smiled inside his mask. "Don't worry. You'll not fall into their evil hands. I will stake Nydeon's life on it."
Thalen gave him a sidelong glance.
"Whenever the outcome is questionable, I find it is my life at stake," Nydeon said. "Don't worry yourself, Captain. No harm will befall you."
"None that will not also befall us," Xanthippus added.
The landscape before them was a riot of activity. Shadow Riders moved to and fro. Some were mounted with prisoners in tow. Some were on foot carrying bundles of booty. An outbuilding had been set ablaze and it burned fiercely, the flames reaching to the darkening sky. Most of the prisoners looked like servants, slaves, workers and farmhands. All had been left to the tender mercies of the invaders, knowing that Menleco would get little from them. The dead--soldiers and any others who had resisted--lay in a growing heap in the center of a field. Dismounted Riders dragged them by their heels and threw them onto the pile.
"Do you hate the Shadow Riders as much as I do?" Xanthippus asked, watching them.
"I wouldn't say I hated anything as much as you do," Nydeon replied. "But, yes, I hate them passionately. What Guardsman does not?"
"But are you not all Prathians?" Thalen asked.
"There are Prathians, and then there are Prathians," Xanthippus said. "The Riders believe they are a race apart. You heard the dead man in the house. 'Cupbearers', he called us. 'Serving boys'. That is the Shadow Riders' way. They are Menleco's nobility."
"Though they be no more than scum, like us," Nydeon said.
"Like that lad in the burned-out village, I remember when I thought they were demons. As a boy, I robbed one of them by mistake, not knowing he was a Rider. They pursued me through the streets of Serusi. Torch-wielding spirits, galloping bone-men on great black chargers chasing me through the night-dark streets. By the gods, I had never known such fear -- and have never since."
"Did they catch you?" Thalen asked.
"Oh, yes...The Shadow Riders are true bastards, Thalen. Worse than demons. They took me to their camp and it was there later that I found out they were but men. My fear turned to such anger--as I was prone to in those days."
"Anger?"
Xanthippus chuckled. "Yes...Anger." He felt far away, lifetimes in the past. "They had frightened me so, and then to find out that they were but men. They had fooled me."
"They are fearsome to behold," Thalen said. "To a child, even more so, I suppose."
"My childhood was long past by then. Truth be told, they disappointed me. I dearly wanted to believe in something beyond men -- even something far worse than men, although at the time I could conceive of nothing lower. I have despised them ever since."
"So what did you do?"
"I killed one of them. What I will perhaps endure from a demon, I will not tolerate from a man."
"And you survived?"
"Menleco called for me and I was taken to him. It was the stake or cross for me, I feared. Instead, Menleco took me into the Prathian School. He cared nothing for his dead man, not when he had a new killer to groom."
"And now you will kill him," Thalen said.
"Now, I must," Xanthippus replied.
Menleco's camp was an hour's ride away. Xanthippus and Nydeon took two of the dead Shadow Riders' horses while Thalen rode the third, bound between them. They fell in with a column of Riders escorting prisoners to Menleco, each reckoned at a silver per head. The prisoners rode two to a horse and their captors rode alongside them, jubilant. It was what the Riders lived for--plunder, ransom and blood--though Xanthippus doubted Menleco would greet this modest haul with much enthusiasm.
"You are the most valuable captive the Riders have taken today," Xanthippus remarked to Thalen as they rode. "An Irrylian traitor conspiring with Clautias should fetch...What do you think, Nydeon?"
"When Menleco sees the worthlessness of these others, perhaps even a gold!" Nydeon said.
"Do you hear that, Captain? A gold piece for us!"
"I'd give you a gold piece myself if I thought you had a plan for getting us out of this alive," Thalen sneered.
Xanthippus waved a hand dismissively. "If anything should go awry, you simply claim fealty to this Irrylian god-king of yours--"
"Demetrius," Thalen supplied.
"Yes, whatever you call him. Just say that you've been wrongly detained. Menleco would not dare harm you. You are an Irrylian captain of some guard-or-other, are you not?"
"Of course..."
"So, you see, you bear little risk. No one's word but ours calls you traitor."
"And once we're found out, our word won't be worth much," Nydeon added.
"Well," Thalen sighed, "as long as you have a plan beyond delivering me bound into the hands of the enemy..."
"Now, I didn't exactly say that," Xanthippus said.
It was almost dark by the time they arrived at the camp. Columns of smoke rose from innumerable cook fires and Xanthippus saw dark figures of the Prathian foot huddled around them. Other men walked among the tents or stood sentinel along the rampart of dirt piled up inside the shallow perimeter trench. Masked and further concealed by the gloaming, it was impossible to distinguish one Shadow Rider from another. The three rode at the tail of the column as the first of the returning Riders trotted two-abreast across the causeway that led into the camp. No cheers greeted them. The guards merely stood aside and let them pass. As the tail of the column approached, Xanthippus could hear the tone but not the content of the Riders' cutting remarks. The guards cursed them under their breaths.
Xanthippus held up a hand and the three horses shuffled to a halt.
"Move along, Riders," the guard called up to them, waving them on. "You are clear to enter."
Xanthippus looked down on a man pushing forty or more dressed in the black of the Prathian Guard. Even inside the elongated cheek-and nosepieces of his black-lacquered helmet, Xanthippus could see familiar crow's feet in the corners of the man's blue eyes. The helm bore a snow white officer's crest which accounted for his authoritative bearing, even though his expression was of one who was about to die of boredom.
Xanthippus extended his leg, showing the officer his dirty boot. "Footman, my boot has become soiled. Lick it clean for me, would you?"
The officer slapped the boot away. "Piss off!" he barked. "Shadow Rider you may be, but I'll not endure that. Move along out of here, you bloody bonehead."
"It is only horseshit," Xanthippus went on. "Surely, you have grown accustomed to the taste of it by now...Myrtilus."
The guard narrowed his eyes, squinting up at the anonymous Rider. A smile played tentatively at the corners of his mouth. "I recognize that voice," he said.
"Perhaps this will help," Xanthippus lifted his helmet.
"Xanthippus!" Myrtilus cried, when he saw his old friend's face. "Can it be?"
"And Nydeon," Nydeon called out, exposing his own face.
Grinning broadly, Myrtilus held out his hands and Xanthippus grasped them in both of his. "Xanthippus and Nydeon! I scarce believe my eyes! Returned to us from the dead!"
"The dead? No. I merely rode to hell's gates and had a look inside," Xanthippus said. "I must tell you, I prefer the land of the living. But if I am here to stay, I am going to need your help, my old friend."
"The help of Myrtilus you shall have!" the officer said. "Even if you have become Shadow Riders..."
Both men replaced their helmets. "We cannot let ourselves be known," Xanthippus said. He explained how they came to be dressed as Riders. "We suspect Menleco thinks us dead."
Myrtilus' face grew grave. "The rumor here was that he sent you to your deaths."
"It is just as we thought, then!"
"He jealously guards his lady," Myrtilus explained. "She is his obsession, and the talk is that he feared she loved you."
Xanthippus felt a sinking of his spirit. "He would have me killed for that?"
"The Guard has made plans to overthrow him. Between his lady and his love for his Shadow Riders, we fear him mad."
"His lady?" Xanthippus asked.
"The lady Lyssa," Myrtilus replied.
"She is here with him?" Xanthippus felt his pulse begin to race.
"Isn't she always?"
"The day of Menleco's downfall is at hand, my friend," Xanthippus said. "For we come here to kill him. The lady shall be set free at last."
"Kill him?" Myrtilus cried in unguarded astonishment. He gazed around warily and went on in a lower tone. "It is suicide," he declared in a hissing whisper. "You don't just walk into the camp of the Shadow Riders, kill Menleco and walk out again. Now, it is you I fear mad!"
"What would you have me do?" Xanthippus asked. "What would Myrtilus do? I ask you."
"You live, man! Is that not enough? Go away from here and count yourself lucky to have survived."
"And never show my face to my countrymen again? Is that how you would have it? The man would have us dead, Myrtilus. Now, we will have him dead. You say the Guard plans to overthrow him. If not today, when, I ask?"
Myrtilus nervously chewed his lower lip, lost in anxious thought. Finally, he sighed deeply. "Just minutes ago," he said in resignation, "I was day-dreaming of my supper. Now, I find myself preparing for battle and endless strife."
"Such is life, Myrtilus," Xanthippus said. "We sup in peace as happy slaves, or we fight to live as Prathians once more. I have met many brave fighters in these last days. There is coming a time of struggle. It will be foist upon us whether we wish it or not. I say we get started now."
Myrtilus sighed again. "Damn you, Xanthippus," he said after a pause. "What would you have me do?"
Even as the Eagle Man's horse swept around what had been the enemy flank, Hurrus could hear the great crack of the Silver Shields slamming into the Snake Man's line. They had attacked an island of order amid churning chaos. But for the center, the enemy line had all but disintegrated. As the eagles rushed them, the snakes turned and fled in panic, entangling themselves in one another's legs and tumbling over the wreckage of their discarded arms and armor. The eagle men hacked them apart and pinioned them to the ground where they had fallen. Only the men of the snake's center had leveled their pikes and braced their shields. With a savage rush and a cry, the Silver Shields shattered them utterly. A red mist of blood filled the air where the two lines met. All organized resistance crumbled. The Shields tramped over the bodies of the dead.
Xandros had cut down the first of Kerraunus' companion body, some nameless brigand who had put up a brave show only to turn tail and flee at the last moment. Xandros had nearly sliced the top of his head off. The rest of Hurrus' horsemen cleaved into the mounted snakes, toppling some and scattering the rest to the four winds. Hurrus did not ride at the point of the wedge this time, but he rode - by gods, he rode! - exhorting his men and letting them see him. The exhausted horsemen, knowing of his wounds, drew strength from his presence and they hacked their way into the heart of the snake without ceasing.
Across the tangle of panicked horses and men, Hurrus spied the blue-clad Mejadym cavalrymen shrieking and waving their curved swords like a legion of desert harpies.
Hurrus' men would meet them in the center. They would meet at Kerraunus.
If they could catch him.
He rumbled westward in his chariot surrounded by what was left of his companion body, the Mejadym converging from the left, Hurrus' horsemen from the right. Whip in hand, Kerraunus lashed his horses savagely as he bounced over the rocky terrain, casting desperate glances over his shoulder. Occasionally, his companions would peel off to slow the pursuit, flashing steel across the faces of the galloping horses. One of the snake-men slashed at Xandros, but he turned it aside with a slashing blade of his own. The snake-man flew past him without slowing. He charged deep into the mass of riders, throwing the pursuit into disarray, aiming at Hurrus himself.
Hurrus saw him coming. The man had locked his gaze on him. Hurrus recognized him, for he was one of Kerraunus' trained killers, a man named Ramma. He lifted his sword high. "For Ramsut!" he cried. He swung his blade and Hurrus ducked under the blow. Without the use of his left arm, he felt himself lurch over the side of his horse. Only by grasping its mane did he manage stay in the saddle. His helmet flew from his head and went skittering across the rocky ground.
Ramma had flown past him, and when Hurrus looked back, he saw one of his companions driving a spear into Ramma's heart as he lay writhing in the dust. His charge into the Eagle Man's pursuit had been a suicide ride.
Hurrus heard a roar from ahead. The remainder of Kerraunus' bodyguards had wheeled back to engage the pursuit, while a Mejadym raced in from the side and slashed at the chariot's horses before being driven off by snake-men. The horses bucked and darted. The chariot bucked with them, rocking on one wheel at a time, out of control. Striking a stone, the chariot hurtled through the air, throwing Kerraunus over the side. The cab crashed to the ground. Kerraunus clung to the frame, his feet skidding through the dirt. Finally, the chariot toppled over and Kerraunus tumbled from it, rolling in the dust.
He sprang to his feet. His blue war crown and wig were gone and he stood in a fighting crouch, unarmed and bareheaded. His bodyguard charged into the maelstrom of advancing horsemen, holding them at bay at least for a moment.
One of the Mejadym had dismounted and he came rushing towards Kerraunus, twirling a yellowwood staff. Both man and staff moved as a blur. He swung at Kerraunus, but Kerraunus whirled clear of the whooshing yellowwood. Hurrus saw then that it was the bearded man who had claimed fealty to him, the leader of the Mejadym: Jorem. Kerraunus recognized him too at that moment and scrambled to the wreck of his chariot. Jorem grinned after him, twirling his deadly staff.
"You are mine, Snake Man," he called with such menace in his voice that a shiver passed down Hurrus' spine. He was transfixed: the Mejadym squaring off against the Snake Man. It was like something out of a Tygetian dream. Jorem was obviously a formidable fighter. He knew he would not awaken until he saw his brother killed.
Kerraunus leaned into the wreckage and grabbed desperately at something inside. Jorem approached him confidently, step by step, twirling his staff in nimble fingers. Kerraunus swung his arm free of the chariot and Hurrus could see that his hand held a coiled whip. It was not until Kerraunus swung around that Hurrus realized his mistake. It was not a Tygetian dream, but a Tygetian nightmare.
The face that whirled out of the cab of the chariot was that of a snake.
Jorem stopped dead in his tracks, nearly dropping his yellowwood staff. Kerraunus' head had become that of a pure white snake. The thing hissed from its gaping mouth, its huge fangs dripping poison. As they watched, the glistening head began to grow from his shoulders, flaring its hood as it got bigger. Soon Kerraunus' chest had become white with glistening scales and his back became the body of a snake, the tail flicking the dust behind him. By the time it had reached its full height, the thing stood ten feet tall. It uncoiled the whip and snapped it with a great crack in the dust at Jorem's feet. He jumped back in terror. The two-legged, two-armed snake lumbered after him.
Jorem held his staff in front of him, pointing it at the snake as if it were a spear. Snake-Kerraunus snapped his whip. It tongued around the yellowwood shaft and the creature whisked it from Jorem's hands. He fell and crawled backwards on his elbows. One of his Mejadym companions bolted toward the snake with a thrusting spear. In a blur, the snake snapped at him and impaled the man on fangs so thick he was nearly torn in half. The snake released him just as quickly and the thing wore the man's blood dripping from its jaws. It cracked the whip again at Jorem's feet as his heels dug at the earth.
"How would you like the feel of this whip on your back, Jorem?" the thing asked in a hissing sham of Kerraunus' voice. "Is this what the Sarians did to you?" The whip snapped across Jorem's chest, leaving a red stripe behind.
The horsemen of each side were stunned into paralysis. Men who held weapons at one another's throats just moments before stood with mouths agape, none believing his eyes. Hurrus had rolled onto his knees, but his head spun. The vision of a giant white snake cracking a whip shimmered before him. It could not be real.
Jorem cried out in pain and torment. He rolled in the dust as the whip cracked down on the ground beside him. He sprang to his feet and drew his sword.
"You are a master of illusion!" he cried.
"That red stripe on your chest is an illusion? Tell me: How many stripes can a man endure before the world goes black, Jorem?" The whip lashed completely around his torso, spinning him to the ground. Jorem screamed. "Does this remind you of anything?" The snake cracked the whip in the air. "Did the Sarians laugh while they whipped you?" Another crack, this time across his back. Jorem began whimpering, curled into a ball.
A Mejadym crept towards the snake from the side. The snake snapped at him. The man ducked under the fangs, slamming into the ground. He scurried away before the snake could strike again. Other men rushed forward, one throwing a javelin that bounced harmlessly off the thing's hide. Men brandished swords at it, shouting now, trying to distract it.
"How many lashes, Jorem?" Sssnap across Jorem's back. "Did you count them?" Sssnap!
Jorem covered his face. "Be gone!" he shrieked. "Leave me! I can't! I can't!"
One of the eagle-men rushed up behind the creature and plunged a spear into its tail. The tail whipped around and knocked him from his feet. Hissing, the thing snapped and a fang pierced the man's gut. The snake lifted its head and the man's body hung limply from its jaws. Two of the Mejadym rushed to Jorem's side and began dragging him away. Other men awoke from the horror and heeled their horses, circling around behind the beast, sizing the thing up. How to kill it? But no one dared to ride into range of its snapping jaws.
None but one.
The men watched in shock as this man rode straight at the snake, galloping hard. He was riding into certain death. No one seemed to notice that he trailed a spare horse. Then Hurrus saw that it was the mean little snake-man, Nefer. He reined up under the snake, tiny beneath the towering serpent.
"Stop him!" Hurrus cried. Heads turned and regarded him dumbly. The horror of the snake had the men disbelieving their eyes and ears. "He means to escape!"
But it was not a snake that leapt into the saddle of the empty horse, it was but a flesh and blood man. It was Kerraunus.
Did anyone see the transformation? It seemed to Hurrus that a man simply jumped onto the horse from where an instant ago a giant white snake had stood.
Kerraunus and Nefer raced to the horizon. The eagle-men were too shocked to give chase. Other snake-men tore off after them.
In truth, there was not a man in the field that day who was not happy to see them go.
Xanthippus and Nydeon paused at the mouth of the clearing. Menleco's great pavilion, a tent the size of a palace, stood at one end, while the newly arrived troop of Shadow Riders with their prisoners congregated at the other. A large cookfire burned between them. A handful of black figures turned a spitted carcass slowly over the flames. The dancing blaze, along with the light of a dozen torches planted in the ground, gave a ghastly air to the skull-faced Riders. Their frozen death's-head grins seemed to shift and stir as if alive. If Xanthippus had indeed peeked inside the gates of hell as he had claimed to Myrtilus, he was certain that this was what he would have seen.
He had no doubt that he would have also spied Menleco there as certainly as he did now, for even in the darkness there was no mistaking him. Though aged well past his prime, his power was still clear to see, not only in his build, but also in his bearing. He strode boldly before the Riders, his authority over them seeming obvious and unquestioned. Xanthippus could not hear his words, but it was clear to see that he was in no happy mood. He stomped from one end of the line of Riders to the other, the firelight glaring as red on his bald pate as Xanthippus imagined the rage in his face.
After a moment, Menleco turned and stalked off across the clearing. His guards straightened when they saw him coming. He disappeared into his tent. The Riders he had left behind shuffled aimlessly for an awkward minute. Then they dispersed into the dark avenues among their own tents, happy to be out from under the gaze of Menleco's fury.
Xanthippus waited a minute to allow the Riders a chance to clear out.
"Remember, Thalen," he said behind his skull-faced mask, "you are an Irrylian traitor. Try to act like one."
Thalen stood between the men with his wrists bound together at his waist. He had been watching the assembled Riders in terror, looking every bit as if he were peering into the underworld. Xanthippus now saw doubt flash in his eyes. He thought to murmur some small reassurances to him, but before he had a chance to speak, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw a bareheaded man dressed all in black grinning at him. He held a Rider's helm under one arm. The other he had wrapped amiably around Xanthippus' shoulders.
"You boys have arrived late to the party," he said, slapping Xanthippus on the back. "I don't blame you. I wish I had stayed here and watched too, instead of getting my ass chewed. The old man was in rare form today."
Xanthippus tried to step away from the man's encircling arm, but he held him fast. He felt like a coiled sinew himself now. His impulse was to shove the grinning oaf aside and be on his way, but he was a Rider now, a brother of the skull.
"And what was it vexing the general?" Xanthippus asked, stupidly, he feared.
The man scoffed a little laugh and rapped a knuckle on Xanthippus' helm, as if to see if any intelligence lurked within. Xanthippus could conceive of nothing more irritating than that little gesture. "Because no one brought him the man Clautias. What else? Ardonis smiled when he sent Menleco to us unarmed, or there certainly would have been bloodshed."
Xanthippus did not reply. The Rider took a step back and regarded both of their masked faces with a frown. "I don't believe I know you two fellows," he said. "You don't have to wear those helmets in camp, you know."
"Can't you see we have a captive here?" Xanthippus said. "Stand aside." Grabbing Thalen with one hand by the scruff of his neck, Xanthippus shoved the man away with a sweep of his other. The man stumbled but made no move to stop them.
"A captive?" He laughed as the trio walked off into the clearing without him. "If he's not Clautias, you might want to wait 'til morning," the Rider chortled after them.
When they were out of earshot, Thalen complained. "I wish you would stop doing that!"
"Shut up," Xanthippus said. He looked past him to Nydeon. "I hate these damned Riders."
Nydeon reached over and rapped on Xanthippus' helmeted forehead.
"The next man to touch my head dies," Xanthippus said, much to Nydeon's amusement.
The outer wall of Menleco's tent seemed an imposing edifice, though it was mere canvas. Once they entered, there was a chance they would not be leaving again. Nearby, the group of black figures was still working around the fire. Xanthippus could see their faces now, the firelight dancing over their features, could hear the crackling flames. A whole city of tents surrounded the clearing. A single shout from either of the guards at Menleco's door would bring a hundred armed men running. Xanthippus had been close to death before, but rarely had he marched toward it so knowingly when it would have been an easy matter simply to walk away.
One of the guards stepped forward from the general's door and barred their way before they had approached to within ten feet of the tent. Helmetless and holding a spear across his chest, he was dressed all in black in the manner of the Prathian Guard, not unlike the Shadow Riders themselves.
"Where do you think you're going?" he challenged them as they approached.
Xanthippus saw at once the baleful look in the lad's eyes. He was used to that hateful glare from the young men of the guard. The kid was no doubt some cutthroat hellion, whisked out of a hangman's noose by one of Menleco's recruiters. There was as much loathing in him as there was arrogance in the Riders.
"You dare stand against the Riders?" Xanthippus asked.
"I stand against all who approach Menleco's tent," the guard said. He looked at both the Shadow Riders and then suspiciously at Thalen. "What business have you here?"
"Shadow Riders' business," Xanthippus said. "Why don't you lie down at my feet so I can wipe my boots on your cloak?"
Even in the gloom, Xanthippus could see the lad's face redden. "I don't care if you are a Rider," he snarled. "I'll run you through where you stand."
"As you can see, I'm not standing. I'm walking." Xanthippus shoved him out of the way and strode past him. "I have an appointment to see Menleco."
Before he had gone a step, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder, turning him. The guard held his spear in a thrusting position now. Xanthippus grabbed the shaft in his gloved hand and pulled the lad in close to his face.
"Are you going to stop me?" he hissed.
The guard struggled for an instant but could not break Xanthippus' grip. "I might," he said manfully.
It was so like something Xanthippus himself would have said that he burst out laughing.
"You are Prathian Guard?" he asked.
The lad nodded, holding Xanthippus' gaze, though there was a hint of confusion swimming behind the look.
"You went through the Prathian School?"
Again, he nodded.
With a little shove, Xanthippus let go of the spear, pushing the guard backward. "And Menleco has no more use for you than to guard his little palace here? Guard it from what? Field mice?"
"Perhaps I guard it from Shadow Riders, like you," the young Guardsman said. He had regained himself, leveling his spear at Xanthippus. But he did not seem likely to use it now.
"I know your master is in a foul mood tonight," Xanthippus said. "But what I have for him will cheer him up. You wait and see."
"This Irrylian?" the guard asked uncertainly.
"The Irrylian - and then some, my friend."
"You don't sound like a Shadow Rider."
"I know," Xanthippus said. "I sound like you."
The boy's face broke into a smile. "Go on in," he said. "Who am I to stand in the way of the Riders?"
The three men walked past him. Before entering, Xanthippus looked back. "Just be sure you don't kill us when we come out again," he said. Then he ducked his head and entered Menleco's tent.
Inside, it looked as if they had caught Menleco in the middle of something. His lady, Lyssa, sat where she had fallen. Her gown pooled on the floor around her. When Menleco heard the men enter, he whirled on them in fury. Xanthippus saw he was gripping his heavy leather gloves in his right hand. On Lyssa's cheek was a mark of blistering red, suspiciously glove-shaped. In her eyes flared anger, sadness, pain...and when she saw the men, hope.
Xanthippus was glad for his mask; for he knew at that moment, his face would have betrayed him, even if it were not known to all in the room. There she sat where Menleco had struck her down, the most beautiful woman in Prathia, the royal beauty. As Menleco's right hand, Xanthippus had grown accustomed to seeing her in his presence. She was unforgettable, not only for her comeliness, but because she was the unhappiest lady he had ever laid eyes on.
One day in a fit of despair, she had whisked Menleco's dagger from his belt and held it to her own breast.
"I would sooner die," Xanthippus remembered her saying, "than spend another day with you!"
Xanthippus could not believe what he was seeing play out before his eyes. He felt embarrassed and horrified. Not that anyone could tell. He had become proficient at keeping his thoughts from his face. He stood at Menleco's right hand as if he had no opinion of a lady about to take her own life.
Menleco had only laughed. "You have not the courage to plunge that blade into your heart. Go ahead! I'm waiting. Do it!"
He lunged toward her as if he would thrust the knife in himself. "Do it!" he cried, just inches from her face.
She screwed her eyes shut as her muscles tensed. Her hands jerked and her breast sprouted red. "No!" Xanthippus cried out, unable to control himself any longer. His voice seemed to break the spell that had fallen over her. She let the dagger fall and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs. Tendrils of blood spilled from the flesh wound on her milk-white breast.
If not for his voice, Xanthippus was certain she would have gone through with it.
Menleco bent down and retrieved his dagger from the floor. He wiped away a spot of blood from the blade and sheathed it at his belt. "I didn't think so," he said. "Your heart is too precious for the blade. Your heart that you give freely to others," he added, "but withhold from me."
She looked up from her hands, her eyes streaming. "How could anyone love you? You are ugly and cruel."
"Oh, you're just trying to flatter me now."
"I have given my heart to another, and you should let me go," Lyssa pleaded with him.
Xanthippus knew that that was the wrong thing to say, and he winced. He was certain that had shown on his face. But Menleco could not have noticed it, for his own face went suddenly red with rage. Xanthippus had never seen a fury emerge in someone so quickly.
"Who is this you speak of?" he raged, reaching again for his dagger. "Tell me - or this blade will find your heart. Not by your hand, but by mine!"
"It is him!" she pointed at Xanthippus. Menleco's mouth hung open in shock as she rushed to Xanthippus' side and grasped his arm in both of her hands. "It is Xanthippus I love."
Xanthippus remembered wondering at the time if there was not a grain of truth in what she said. He knew that there would be more than a grain of truth in his reciprocation of it. Menleco had stolen her. She was his wife only because he called her that. Stolen from Areus, King of Prathia, a man who feared Menleco, feared his Riders and his Guard... Gods help him; he had to wonder.
Looking back now, he wondered if that had been his death sentence, sent to die in the Tygetian desert, an assassin's blade in his hand - and another in his throat.
He found his eyes scanning her breast to see if the blade had left a mark where it had pierced her flesh. Sure enough, there it was, a little raised welt over her heart. He felt it was something they shared from that day a lifetime ago, though Xanthippus' scar was on his heart, not over it, and could not be seen with human eyes.
"What are you men doing in here?" Menleco shouted at them. Having just struck Lyssa to the floor, his eyes bulged in fury as he whirled to face the Riders and their captive.
"We bring you a prisoner," Xanthippus said, recovering himself quickly. He had not expected to find Lyssa here. Her presence changed everything. Could he commit murder before her eyes?
Menleco calmed himself almost immediately. He straightened and flashed a mocking smile. "A prisoner? I see that this one is not Clautias, either," he observed. "What is he, then? Food-taster? Stable boy? What?"
"Irrylian traitor..." Xanthippus began, but stopped when he realized Menleco had sauntered around behind them. Xanthippus wondered what he intended, but none of the three dared look. Lyssa had regained her feet. She stood rubbing her bruised cheek, her eyes glued to Thalen's face.
"Yes, 'Irrylian traitor'... Go on..." Menleco urged at their backs.
"We found him colluding with the Epirians..." Xanthippus continued uncertainly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Menleco lifting Thalen's mustard cloak, peering beneath it.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Menleco said, cutting Xanthippus' rehearsed statement short. "I wasn't listening. I was just looking to see if Clautias might be hiding back here behind this worthless fellow you have brought me. You see, the Irrylians hired the Shadow Riders - that's us - to capture this man Clautias. You may have heard. They told us where to find him, even. And yet," - he came sauntering around from behind them and, still holding his gloves in one hand, lifted Thalen's chin with them to get a better look at his face - "and yet my Riders bring me worthless trash such as this..." In disgust, he gave Thalen's chin a hard shove. He turned his back on them and walked a few steps towards Lyssa.
Now, Xanthippus thought. He could feel the weight of the dead Shadow Rider's unfamiliar sword hanging on his belt. The first time he unsheathed it would be to drive it through Menleco's guts. Yet, something stayed his hand. Menleco's life was his. But he found that he did not want him to die so soon.
"Perhaps the general fears the Irrylians," Xanthippus said. He caught a glimpse of Nydeon's skull face turning towards him in shock.
Menleco spun on his heel. "If your wits and your blade were as sharp as your tongue, Rider, it is Clautias who would be standing before me. Instead, you bring me some harmless boy the Irrylians would no doubt not even recognize were I foolish enough to bring him to them. If your blade were as sharp as your tongue, perhaps you might have captured the Huntress. Yet, that was a task left to me alone. I suppose I will have to capture Clautias myself, too."
"Maybe the boy is one of your lady's suitors and that is why we bring him to you," Xanthippus said. He could feel a rage building in him. "See how she looks at him? Perhaps the general wants to have this boy killed, to prevent his lady loving him."
Menleco narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?" he asked. "How dare you speak this way--?"
"I can't take anymore of this killing!" Lyssa cried out. "I suppose you're going to kill this boy, too."
Menleco turned and struck her again with his gloves, knocking her to the floor. Xanthippus' hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he resisted drawing it.
"Does this captive mean something to you?" Menleco growled at Lyssa where she lay on the floor. "Is he known to you?"
"Of course not!" Lyssa cried. "I have never seen him before. The black Rider tells tales..."
"Isn't that what the general does?" Xanthippus went on, his blood rising. "He kills off those whom his lady loves? He sends them off to die, no matter how nobly they have served him. There is only one captive in this room, and that is the lady Lyssa herself. Perhaps we will take her with us when we leave here."
"Lift your helm, Rider, and let me see your face!" Menleco cried. Xanthippus made no move but to put his hand back on the hilt of his sword. Menleco's face deepened several shades of red and the cords in his neck strained as though they would burst from his flesh. "Lift it, or, by the gods, I will lop your head from your shoulders and remove the thing myself!"
"You can try," Xanthippus said. He saw Lyssa staring at him, her eyes searching his masked face. Even through her pain, he could see her hope and fear. He had no wish to torture her further. He wanted to whisk off his mask and make himself known to both of them. Then, with the look of shock still on Menleco's face, he wanted to plunge his sword into one side of him and out the other ...
From outside the tent, he heard angry voices, a scuffle, and then a single sharp crack. The young guard spilled into the tent, falling backwards through the door. Stepping over the prostrate guard, three men strode in purposefully. They made their way fearlessly to Menleco, shoving the Riders out of their path. All three of them wore blue and yellow headscarves and carried yellowwood staffs, short swords sheathed at their belts.
"Blue men!" Xanthippus gasped under his breath. "Nydeon, do you see this?"
Nydeon nodded.
"Blue men? Who are blue men?" Thalen asked, becoming fearful. "Cut me loose," he whispered frantically. "Damn you, cut me loose!"
"Your men have failed," the leader of the Mejadym said with a thick Tygetian accent. He poked Menleco in the chest with the tip of his yellowwood, causing the general to stumble backward. Xanthippus was intrigued to see the look of fear in Menleco's eyes. He had forgotten all about his Riders. Before entering Tygetia, Xanthippus had never heard of the Mejadym, but clearly, Menleco had. He did not seem surprised to see them, and he knew them well enough to fear them.
"What do you mean?" he asked. In his terror, he seemed not to notice the tip of the yellowwood right under his chin. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Your men, your Prathians, have failed in their mission. That's what I mean. Prince Hurrus lives, you fool! He lives!"
"That is not possible," Menleco said. "Surely you are mistaken."
"The only mistake is yours, Menleco, if you think we are going to let this pass." The blue man resumed poking him in the chest with his yellowwood. "The barbarians you sent cut a swath of murder through Tygetia, to be certain. Yet they touched not a hair of Hurrus' head. It was the Mejadym who suffered at their hands, and the Mejadym alone. This will not be tolerated--"
"But surely you killed the Prathians, did you not? Is that not compensation enough for whatever crimes they committed against your people?"
"They escaped by sea in the company of an Irrylian."
Menleco's eyes went wide. "Escaped? Escaped to where?"
"To Gyriece. Where else? They were last known to be traveling with the Epirian band of Gorgeo--"
"By the gods, no! Lyssa, collect our things! We're leaving! We're leaving at once!"
Menleco shoved the yellowwood aside and began scampering around in circles. He grabbed some papers from his desk and began rolling them up quickly. His eyes darted from one side of the tent to the other, landing finally on Lyssa who had not budged an inch.
"Lyssa!" he called. "Hurry! We must not tarry, for he is coming here. I know he is."
"I hope he is," she said coldly. "And when Xanthippus comes, I hope he kills you."
Menleco froze and as Xanthippus watched his face, he thought it seemed as if a flame had been suddenly snuffed out. For an instant, Menleco was an old man, defeated and afraid. His plan had failed so spectacularly that Xanthippus almost felt sorry for him. Not only had he failed to kill the man he so feared, but that man stood in the very room with him and he did not even know it. If the man he had so wanted dead was not Xanthippus himself, he might have felt pity for him.
Lyssa, on the other hand, smiled in pleasant reverie and Xanthippus thought his heart might break. "Xanthippus lives..." she mused softly. Had he ever seen her smile before? The beauty of it lit up the room.
"The Prathian is the least of your problems, General," the Mejadym man said. "We will be back and I'm afraid things will not go well for you."
The three blue men turned to leave.
"Oh, but it is you who are in for a tough time, my friends," Menleco snapped. "For you will not leave the camp of the Shadow Riders alive. Seize these men!"
No one moved. The blue men kept walking. Menleco looked about in confusion.
He rushed up to Xanthippus and Nydeon, pointing at the blue men and shouting into their masked faces. "Seize them! I command you!" He grabbed them and tried to fling them bodily towards the Mejadym. Then he dashed to where the guard stood sullenly near the door, an angry knot on his forehead where his skull had met a yellowwood staff. "Seize them, I say!" But not even the young Prathian Guardsman would move for him now. He came back to his Shadow Riders and cursed them at the top of his lungs.
Xanthippus slowly removed his helmet. Menleco fell silent, gaping in horror as the familiar face gradually came into view.
Xanthippus caught Lyssa's eye.
And for only the second time in his life, he saw her smile.
"How many of us did she kill?"
The man held the spout of the wineskin over his mouth and squeezed. The next snatched it from his hand and the stream pissed all over him. He swallowed, sputtering, and flailed at the thief, toppling him backwards off his log. The other men howled with laughter.
"She did in five of us."
"Five! That oughtta be worth a fair bit of retribution. What say you, Raulon?"
"Retribute all you like," the man named Raulon said. "Just keep your pants on while you do it."
Another round of laughter filled the clearing.
Gonatas counted fifty men altogether, ten each around five fires. Gonatas and Asander peered at them from the shadows of the treeline. Their faces were ruddy with firelight and strong drink. Their skull-faced helms grinned at their feet. Though he could not see her, Gonatas knew of whom they spoke: Coronea. After two days of hard riding, he had found her.
"She almost did in Menleco, the way I hear it," one of the Riders said.
"Oh, I would have loved to've seen that!"
"He begged for his life, is the talk."
"Better not be the talk around him. That's a good way to get a dagger shoved up your ass."
"I'd like to shove something in the Huntress."
The men hooted as they passed wineskins freely. There was not a sober man among them. Gonatas only hoped he was not too late. He motioned and Asander followed him as he crept through the bushes around the perimeter of the clearing, looking for her. They froze when one of the Riders, with his back to them, turned and peered in their direction, attracted by the sound of a rustling leaf. Satisfied it was nothing, he spat into the darkness and went back to his merriment.
Then Gonatas saw her. She was sitting on the ground near the man called Raulon, her hands bound behind her back. He moved until he could see her face. Gonatas had fallen in love only once in his life and that was the first time he had laid eyes on Coronea. He could see now that it had been no fluke.
She kept her eyes glued to the ground, seeming not to hear the banter around her. Shadow Riders are cowardly killers. Gonatas had always thought so. Taler hired them at the behest of the witch to sow terror in the hearts of the rebellious Epirians. He was not surprised that Coronea had dropped five of their number. If he were to judge by the look of it, he would have said it was the Huntress who had sown the terror. For even surrounded by fifty Riders, they dared not unbind her hands.
"I wonder if the Ghost has his way with her."
"I bet she keeps the whole crew happy."
"Well, what about this crew?" one of the Riders bellowed above the rest. He set aside his wineskin and stood. "Do we not deserve a little happiness, too?"
"Yes! Why should the Epirians have all the fun?" asked another.
Heedless of their fellows' yelling and chortling, the two slavering dogs began to weave their way toward Coronea, their eyes glazed over with lust and drink. Gonatas tensed. Besides Asander, he had his five men with him, but he had left them by the road holding the horses. Still, there were fifty of them. His rank alone would have to see them through, but he was not at all sure if even a prince of Irrylia could stare down fifty drunken Shadow Riders.
His hand moved to the hilt of his sword when the man named Raulon stood and pulled Coronea to her feet. He clutched her arm and, with his free hand, knocked one of the approaching Riders flat on his back. Coronea stared at her feet, her honey-colored hair concealing her face. Gonatas relaxed his grip.
"You fellows find your own," Raulon snapped. "This one's mine. Menleco gave her to me."
"Fuck you, Raulon," one of the Riders shouted back, standing. "Who are you to tell us--?"
Raulon whirled. "No, fuck you," he said. "I'm the one has to tolerate that bald-headed prick day and night, I might as well get some satisfaction out of it."
"Menleco's lady is not enough for you, Raulon?"
Raulon spat on the ground. "You touch Menleco's lady and see what happens to you!" He yanked on Coronea's arm and jerked her towards the trees that lined the clearing. He must have been a ranking officer of some sort, Gonatas thought, for the other men watched him go, however grudgingly, without further protest.
He got her to the edge of the firelight when she swung around and with a deft kick knocked his legs out from under him. Raulon's face still wore a look of surprise when her foot connected with his nose, bloodying it. She turned to flee, but while he screamed in pain, he swiped at her and caught her heel. She slammed to the ground and lay with her face pressed to the damp grass, her hands behind her back and her feet digging for purchase. A pang pierced Gonatas' heart. It was all he could do to stay his hand. The men howled with laughter. Raulon grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet.
"You'll wish you hadn't done that," he said.
She spit in his face. "I wish I had done more."
"Oh, you will now." Blood smeared his nose and mouth and now a wad of saliva oozed down his cheek. Amid gales of laughter, he pulled her by the arm towards the woods.
Gonatas and Asander shadowed him. When he disappeared into the trees, the two men, crouching and silent, darted in after him. Raulon made no attempt to conceal his tread and he crashed through low leafy branches and underbrush. The Irrylians followed him by sound for a few yards and then found him in a small clearing, lit only by the moon.
They watched as Raulon pushed Coronea to the ground. Without arms to break her fall, she toppled over onto her side. Raulon dropped to his knees and began pulling up her tunic.
Gonatas leapt out of the shadows and delivered a sharp kick to his chest. An instant later, Raulon lay on his back staring at a blade quivering under his nose. Asander rushed forward and, kneeling, helped Coronea to her feet. "Not a word," he said. She recognized him and stared at him with a puzzled look. "I am not the man you take me for," Asander added in a whisper.
When she saw Gonatas, her eyes lit up.
"What is this?" Raulon asked. "Who dares assault a Shadow Rider?"
"A man who believes there is too much evil in the world," said Gonatas. "Now, stand, but hold your tongue or I will cut it out and feed it to you."
Raulon frowned defiantly, but said not a word. He rose cautiously, never taking his eye from the blade.
Once on his feet, Raulon flashed an arrogant little smile. "You'd better be fast with that sword, chum. A word from me and you'll have fifty men falling on you."
Gonatas could hear them laughing and shouting on the other side of the trees. Some of the men were yelling for Raulon, giddily urging him to hurry.
"So if you're here to rob me," Raulon went on, "you better make it quick. I'll give you a five-count. If you're here to have a go with the girl, you'll have to wait your turn."
Gonatas drove his fist into the man's stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
"Bow when you speak to a prince of Irrylia," Gonatas said.
Bent double with his arms crossed over his gut, Raulon lifted his head. He peered out from under his creased brow. "Prince?"
Two men crashed through the underbrush. Laughing at first, they saw Gonatas' blade and sobered instantly. Gonatas whirled on them.
"You look...less a prince to me than...one man...against fifty," Raulon gasped haltingly with a sneering smile.
"Make that two," said Asander, stepping forward.
Raulon straightened and coughed when he tried to laugh. "Forgive me. I failed to count...the high lord there."
His companions had drawn daggers and they stood flashing them at the edge of the clearing.
"I used to gut pigs like you for breakfast," Asander said, taking another step.
"If I am your...idea of breakfast...remind me, then, never...to dine with you."
Gonatas held up his hand, silencing both men. "I am Prince Gonatas of Irrylia," he said in as regal a tone as he could muster. His opportunity was gone. He should have just run Raulon through and made off with Coronea, losing the drunken Shadow Riders in the night. He did not know these men. He would rather Menleco had been with them. Menleco he knew; greed ran him. These men were brutes and ruffians of the first order. Who knew what controlled them? "The crown will not tolerate this sort of villainy on its soil."
Raulon coughed a chuckle. "Are we thinking of the same crown? You did say Irrylia... didn't you?"
Gonatas was relieved to see that the men had stood down. The two at the edge of the clearing had lowered their blades and Raulon made no move for his. Gonatas had to seem in command - Prince of Irrylia, son of Demetrius, heir to the throne.
"The girl belongs to the crown. I am taking possession of her."
With a deep inhalation, Raulon regained his breath. "That's where I draw the line, Prince." He brushed Asander aside and grasped Coronea by the arm. "I can see by your garb that you may be who you say you are, though your face means nothing to me. But you should know that we are not Irrylian, and the Huntress is our captive."
"The Huntress!" Gonatas feigned surprise.
"A captive of the Shadow Riders, sir, bound for the spymaster Taler, by order of General Menleco. There is payment due for this one, Prince, and she does not leave my side."
Gonatas sheathed his sword, smiling. "Then we are bound for the same destination, friend. I mistook you for common bandits. But you are Prathians, Shadow Riders, no less. I will fetch my men and we will share your camp. On the morrow, I shall escort you to the palace at Myssene and introduce you to my father, King Demetrius and his queen, Pylia. No more than a day's ride from where we stand, I shouldn't think."
Raulon blanched. "Pylia? But we are ordered to report t-to Taler. T-to the spymaster," Raulon stammered.
"Ah, but Taler is Pylia's man," Gonatas explained brightly. "If Taler requests the Huntress, it is Pylia who wants her - and she wants her intact." Gonatas approached Raulon and wedged himself between him and Coronea. He put his arm around his shoulders, keenly aware of the feel of Coronea at his side. "Raulon was it?"
Raulon nodded.
"Very good. Raulon it is then. You see, Raulon, Pylia will want the girl unscarred, unhurt and untouched. Do you understand me?" Raulon nodded again. "After you deliver her, she is going to root around inside that pretty little head of hers and she will uncover everything within. Believe me, you would just as soon not have your name in there. At least, not in any bad way."
His words, though intended only to frighten the Rider captain, sent chills through him, for every syllable he spoke was true. Saving her from the attentions of rapacious thugs was one thing, but once delivered into Taler's hands nothing short of open bloodshed would get her back. The simple fact was he could not allow her to enter Pylia's presence. If he failed to orchestrate her escape, he must then begin to contemplate the unthinkable.
"I want nothing to do with the witch," Raulon said. So simply stated, so redolent with meaning,
"In a way, you're lucky I came along when I did. Asander! Go fetch our men. We're bedding down with the Riders tonight."
So fearful had Raulon become that he did not notice when Gonatas began to shiver.
He did not sleep well that night. Perhaps he did not sleep at all. From what he could tell, Coronea did not either. Only once did he have an opportunity to talk to her, when Raulon wandered into the bush to relieve himself. The camp was full of snoring men.
He crept to where Coronea lay on the cold ground. He found her eyes wide open. When she saw him, she gave a start.
"Shh!" He covered her mouth with his hand. "We will arrive tomorrow. I will get you out of here before then. Do not fear."
She shook her head, freeing her lips to speak. "Don't let me be taken to the witch. You must kill me, if you have to."
"It will not come to that."
"Gonatas--" They froze. One of the Riders laying beside the glowing embers of the burnt out fire, turned onto his side and groaned. When he began snoring again, Coronea went on, "You must promise me."
"I tell you, it will not come to that."
Her expression softened and he sensed that she wanted to say something more. He leaned in close.
"Gonatas--"
"Say nothing!" Raulon was coming. Gonatas turned quickly and crept back to his place and lay down. He closed his eyes wondering what it was she had been going to say.
He must have fallen asleep sometime before the dawn, for he was awakened abruptly by the soft skitch of an arrow striking a patch of sandy soil close by. His eyes snapped open to find a quivering shaft protruding from the ground just inches from his head. He rolled away from it as if it were a snake. He heard howls of pain and alarm as the entire camp came awake around him. The sun was up. Gonatas could see more arrows slicing through the air from the woods. One struck a Rider in the shoulder. With a growl like a bear, he fell writhing to the ground. Gonatas flung himself behind a log. A shaft followed him, splintering bark and burying itself in the meat of the wood. He inspected the fletching. Epirians! The time drew near, he knew, and the rebels grew bold. Less than a day's ride outside of Myssene itself, he would never have expected an attack. The Shadow Riders certainly hadn't either. They had not even set out pickets. He could not think of a better way to rouse them from their drunken slumber. If Epirian arrows did not seek him as eagerly as they sought Riders, he would have stood and cheered. As it was, he kept his head down behind the log.
He turned and found Asander right beside him.
"Where is Coronea?" he asked.
"Raulon has her."
Gonatas peered out and saw Raulon in a running crouch with Coronea scampering along beside him. He clutched her by the arm. Her hands remained bound. Both were exposed to fire and arrows flew past them. Riders were running in every direction. Raulon was shouting, rousing his men to attack. He found a man lying on his side behind a large stone and grabbed his shoulder, exhorting him to rise. Instead of jumping to his feet, however, the man's head lolled lifelessly to one side. Raulon tipped him over onto his back and saw a shaft protruding from his chest. Raulon and Coronea scurried on.
Gonatas started to rise, but Asander pulled him back down.
"It is by sheer luck that they have not been hit yet," he said. "Your death will profit her nothing."
As if to emphasize his point, another arrow whacked the log in front of his face, sending splinters of bark into Asander's eyes. He ducked down, wincing.
Gonatas wondered if the attackers knew who she was and could recognize her amid the confusion. At the very least, could they see that her hands were bound? Surely, they would focus their aim at the black cloaks and leave the woman alone.
Raulon was hit. An arrow grazed his calf and he fell rolling on the ground, clutching at the wound. Gonatas' heart leapt when he saw Coronea wrench herself from his grasp and dash back toward the dead man, free of Raulon at last. Gonatas felt helpless as he watched her. She threw herself beside the corpse. Turning her back to it, she began frantically working her hands behind her. Gonatas saw a flash of metal and knew at once what she was doing. She had found the dead man's exposed dagger in his belt and was sawing through the leather straps that bound her hands. In a moment, she was free. She grabbed the dagger and from behind the stone began looking for a way out.
Gonatas saw there was an opening to the south from where no arrow flew. Most of the action had moved in the opposite direction as the Riders rushed the woods and streamed towards their horses. She would have to bolt, however, for where she crouched was still a killing ground. The woods were full of shouting and screaming.
Gonatas stood. "Look to your left!" he cried. "Quickly! Fly, Coronea, fly!"
He saw her look at him and then dart out from behind the rock just as an arrow flew past his face. Asander pulled him down.
"Fool! Do you want to die?"
Once behind the log, he lost sight of her. When he looked again, she was gone. He scanned the ground, fearing he would find her lying there in a heap, but he saw no sign of her.
"She made it!"
After a few minutes, the arrows ceased and the woods grew still. Shadow Riders walked among the dead and tended the wounded. Gonatas and Asander rose and saw Raulon removing a belt from one of the dead Riders. When he saw them coming, he straightened with a painful hitch that favored his wounded calf.
"You lost her, you lackwit fool!" Gonatas cried. In fact, he wanted to laugh. How odd it seemed to play the officious little prince. It was an act that no longer came natural to him and he was surprised Raulon did not immediately see through his farce. He felt nothing for the half-dozen dead he counted scattered among the smoking embers of the Riders' cookfires. It was all he could do to keep himself from dancing among the corpses.
Raulon inspected the blade of the dead man's sword before replacing it in its scabbard. He tossed the belt into a little pile he had started. "Don't be so certain, Prince. Few escape the Riders."
He went back to poking among the dead when black-cloaked Shadow Riders began filtering out of the trees. One of them was dragging the body of a young Epirian in a rough-spun cloak. The boy's head bounced over the uneven ground and the cloak had gotten all wadded up around his shoulders. Moments later, another Rider appeared leading a horse with one of the rebels draped over the saddle.
"Farm boys, mostly," the Rider announced. "Brave enough to snipe at us from ambush, maybe, but they don't stand up well under cold steel. We're bringing in more of 'em."
"Leave 'em lay!" Raulon snapped back. "We have our own dead to tend to. Any sign of the Huntress?"
The Rider halted and pulled the corpse from the saddle. It fell at his feet like a sack of grain. "I thought she was with you."
"She was with me. She ran off when I got hit in the leg."
"You let her get away?"
"I got hit in the leg!" Raulon snarled. He stopped what he was doing and looked up. "Instead of standing there with that stupid smirk on your face, you might go out and find her. You'll not think it funny when Menleco--"
"Here's one we got alive," yet another Rider called. He emerged from the woods pushing a lean, rough man before him. Older than the previous boys, this rebel moved grudgingly, only stepping forward when the Rider shoved him. Gonatas noticed there was a leaf caught in his hair. He felt bad for the man, but at least it wasn't Coronea.
"And yet another still!" A loud voice barked triumphantly from the other end of the clearing. Gonatas looked towards it and his heart sank. This time it was Coronea. Asander laid a hand on Gonatas' shoulder and Gonatas made a stone of his face.
"See there, Prince," Raulon shouted in what passed for good humor among so many corpses. "Not such a lackwit fool, after all, am I?"
Two men escorted Coronea into the clearing. She did not say a word and, like Gonatas, her face was a stone. Her hands were not bound, but each Rider held a naked blade under her chin as they walked her into the camp. She had doubtlessly not been an easy capture and Gonatas could see that the Riders would take no further chances with her.
What's more, he saw that the Riders were in a murderous mood now that they had living enemies to menace. Two of them had walked up to the rough-looking captive. They seemed to tower over him in their black cloaks. One grasped the man's throat and began squeezing, his teeth clenched.
"Tell this one what we do to those who kill Shadow Riders."
Gonatas thought the Rider was going to strangle him where he stood, but he relaxed his grip and shoved him aside. The Epirian fell to one knee, coughing and gasping for breath.
"We've got two for Pylia now," the Rider said.
"Did you hear that, you little bastard? It's the Irrylian witch for you!"
The Rider kicked the man and he toppled over into the grass.
"And what of the Huntress?" another asked. "How much more do we have to take from this bitch?"
"She needs to learn some respect."
Her two grinning escorts halted, each clutching an arm, their swords crossed at her throat. Coronea stood bravely, chin raised above the sharp steel. Two more Riders approached her. Who knew what they meant to do? Gonatas had had enough of this.
"Raulon!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Control your men, or I swear to you, it will be three for Pylia!"
The force of his explosion stopped the Riders dead in their tracks. They looked from Raulon to Gonatas and back again.
"I believe the Prince is in love," Raulon said lightly.
Movement from the other end of the clearing caught everyone's eye. The Epirian captive had used the distraction of Gonatas' outburst to bolt for the woods. He did not get more than a few steps before he found Riders blocking his path. He darted one way and then the other like a trapped animal, but there was nowhere to run. Riders surrounded him in every direction. One of them laughed. The Epirian looked at him and then at the others. He pulled a concealed dagger from his foxskin boot and plunged the blade deep into his own bowels. He grimaced in pain, but managed to give the blade a twist before he fell to the ground.
The Riders gazed at him in shock. Coronea uttered a cry of anguish. Her guards let their swords drop and she rushed to the dead man, turning him over onto his back. One of the Riders grabbed her and another bent over the corpse.
"Leave him!" Raulon cried, in bitterness now. "It's a fit enough end for the likes o' him. C'mon, you bastards. Let's get the Huntress to Myssene and collect our fee. I tell you, I was happier when she was lost."
Xanthippus flung his helmet aside. Silence had fallen over the group.
"Hello, General Menleco," he said in a quiet voice.
Menleco took a step backwards, and then another. "Xanthippus," he muttered in disbelief. He staggered back like a blind man feeling his way with arms outstretched.
"You remember me. How nice to know my memory lives beyond the grave."
Xanthippus stepped forward.
"I knew they weren't Shadow Riders!" the guard exclaimed. "I just knew it!"
Thalen began cursing and swearing to be loosed from his bonds, while Lyssa cried out, "It is Xanthippus! He has come!"
Retreating step by step, the back of Menleco's legs finally pressed up against a table and he could back away no further. His blind-man's hands worked the tabletop, shuffling aside papers. A sword belt lay in a tangled heap just out of his reach. As he felt for it, he smiled broadly.
"And Nydeon, too, I see," he exclaimed, feigning happiness now, his fingers working behind him. "So you both have returned. How wonderful!"
Xanthippus slowly drew his sword, a long cavalry saber. As it hissed from its sheath, Menleco's smile wavered. The light of happiness in his eyes was replaced by a look of terror until he was smiling toothily with his mouth only. The man was an accomplished liar, but this performance was disappointingly unconvincing.
Xanthippus raised the point of the saber to rest on the roll of the aging general's double chin. "I don't believe you are happy to see us. I believe you wanted me dead."
"Dead? No, that is not true." Menleco's hands prodded and probed behind him. Finally, his fingers alighted on the sword belt. Xanthippus brought his saber down, hard. The blade sliced clean through the coiled leather, Menleco's fingers barely escaping the severing cut. The general whirled away from the slashing steel and began backing again, this time towards Lyssa.
"Oh, I think it is very true," Xanthippus said, raising the saber again.
"You don't know what you are saying." Menleco backed, step by step. "You think I would have you killed?"
"I know what I have heard with my own ears."
"It is me, Menleco. I brought you up from nothing. Don't you remember that? You think I would kill you? I was like a father to you..."
"The last man who was like a father to me had his throat sliced open," Xanthippus said. "Nydeon! Thalen! Make sure no one comes in here."
"Let me kill him!" the young guard cried. "Ya stinkin' bastard, just wait 'til I squeeze your damn windpipe and tear it from yer damn throat! See how you like it!"
Surprised, Xanthippus glanced at the lad and then back to Menleco. "You've been making friends, I see."
"It was the Tygetians," Menleco cried out suddenly. "They threatened me. I had to do as they bid. They would kill me, they said. But I knew they couldn't kill you. We have thwarted them! Just as I knew we would!"
"See if you can thwart this!"
Menleco had backed to within an arm's length of Lyssa and when Xanthippus tensed to strike, he whirled around behind her, shielding himself with her body. He held her fast with one arm across her breast. With his other hand, he had drawn his dagger and held it at her throat.
Xanthippus dropped the point of his saber.
"That's right," Menleco said, peering over Lyssa's shoulder, his mouth at her ear. "You wouldn't want to harm the pretty lady, would you? I, however, have no such qualms."
"Nor I," the guard shouted. He scooped up his spear from where it had fallen. "I will run both queen and bastard through as one--"
"No! Put down your spear," Xanthippus commanded. The guard blinked in surprise. He hesitated, but then let the spear fall to his side.
"No! Don't let him get away!" Lyssa cried. Each syllable she uttered caused her soft flesh to dimple upon Menleco's blade. "You must kill him. He sent the Huntress to her death and he killed a boy right before my eyes."
"I will shower you with her blood," Menleco hissed, as he side-stepped towards the door behind his beautiful human shield. "Not one step closer..."
From outside the tent, Nydeon bellowed, "We are found out! Xanthippus!"
The sound of clashing steel followed his cry. Sword drawn, a Rider burst into the tent. "General, what is happening here?" He saw Menleco holding the girl. When his eye caught Xanthippus, he tensed for a fight.
"Behind you!" Menleco shouted, but too late. The young guard skewered the Rider through the side with his spear. The Rider's helmetless face was a mask of pain. Lyssa shrieked, and as another Rider bolted through the door and then another, Menleco grabbed her by the waist and whisked her out of the tent.
Xanthippus heard her voice cry out in a pleading tone. "Xanthippus!" Her graceful neck whip-lashed as she disappeared through the door in Menleco's grasp.
The next Rider was warier than the first. He squared, reared up, and then hacked at Xanthippus with a practiced and powerful hand. His steel glanced off the Prathian's saber. When he brought the blade down, all of the Rider's weight was on his forward, thrusting leg. Xanthippus spun and kicked it out from under him. The killing slash came an instant after the Rider had hit the ground. The razor sharp blade cleaved into his unprotected neck and shoulder, spewing a crimson fountain of blood.
Xanthippus spun again, this time delivering a side-stroke that slashed the next Rider deep in the ribs. He writhed to the ground with a scream of pain.
Xanthippus looked for the next, but instead saw the young Prathian Guardsman fighting like a bull. He thrust his spear into a Rider's belly. He drove it through the man with such force - the force of hatred or loathing or whatever else possessed the lad - that it indeed could have skewered two as one. Queens, generals or mere Riders, it mattered not at all.
"Go get Menleco!" the guard cried, withdrawing the bloody shaft. "These are mine!"
Xanthippus rushed outside and found Nydeon and Thalen fighting side by side. Though engaged with a Rider, Nydeon had managed to grab Menleco's cloak as he tried to fly past him. With his sword in one hand, Nydeon fended off a Rider's slashing blade while he gripped the general's cloak in the other. Lyssa's feet scarcely touched the ground as Menleco grasped her around the waist in one arm. He carried her as easily as though she were weightless. He slashed at Nydeon with his dagger, forcing him to jump back. At the same time, Nydeon lost his grip on the general. Xanthippus moved to intervene but found a single Rider blocking his path.
Then two.
More Riders had streamed into the clearing. The cookfire and torches still burned brightly and the Riders, mounted now, came galloping towards Menleco's tent from all over the camp, their black cloaks billowing behind them.
There were too many. They would never stop Menleco escaping. Perhaps they would not even escape themselves.
Xanthippus heard a cry and clatter from the edge of the darkness. Rising above the gloom of night, he spied a forest of upraised spears. Hundreds of them. He heard the rattle of armor and weapons, and then a single unified "Hrrrummp!" as deep and chest-thrumming as any peal of thunder. At that instant, the spears fell level to the ground. The Riders turned their heads. Their horses reared. At the edge of the clearing, Xanthippus saw firelight glinting on a line of shields, a line bristling with spears. And standing with arm upraised at its head was a man bearing on his helm the snow-white transverse crest of an officer. An officer of the Prathian Guard.
"Myrtilus!" Xanthippus cried when he recognized his friend.
Bellowing the order to advance, Myrtilus dropped his arm and the line of Guardsman began moving implacably forward. The Riders in the clearing began to panic.
"It is the Guard! The Guard is marching against us!"
The bristling shield wall advanced a few yards at a walk, and then started trotting. The Riders on foot turned and ran. Those on horseback tried to calm their mounts as they spun and reared. The Guard broke out into a sprint, yelling fiercely as they burst into the clearing.
The Riders opposing Xanthippus, Nydeon and Thalen turned on their heels and fled. Menleco stood among a knot of mounted men. He reached up in fury, pulled a Rider to the ground and mounted in his place. He gave Lyssa to another. The Rider whisked her onto the rear of his horse and in fear she gripped him around the waist as the entire troop - Menleco surrounded by ten Shadow Riders - tore off in the opposite direction from which Myrtilus' spearmen charged. Xanthippus could see Lyssa's white gown fluttering behind her, almost lost in a sea of black.
Frantically, Xanthippus looked for a horse. He spotted a group of Riders not far from where he stood and dashed towards it. One of the Riders drew his sword and slashed down at him as he weaved among the horsemen. Ducking under the flashing steel, he grabbed at the Riders' legs and tried to pull him from his mount. He had nearly succeeded when he heard a fierce whinny behind him. He spun just in time to see a pair of rearing hooves aimed at his head. He fell to his knees and twisted away. When he regained his feet, the flailing hooves were gone, but in their place sat a Rider with his saber held high, ready to strike him down.
He had rolled right into the path of the steel and he knew that he could not evade it. The man had only to bring it down and Xanthippus would have reached the end of his days. He saw the flash of the blade like a revelation of his own death. His eye caught the expression of the man who would kill him. He grimaced with exertion as he prepared to deliver the killing blow...
...an expression that changed in an instant to a grimace of pain, shock and horror. Xanthippus tore his eyes from his killer's face only to see that an arrow now sprouted from his breast. The saber flew from his hand as the impact of the shot pitched him head over heels from the saddle.
Without hesitating to contemplate his reprieve from certain death, Xanthippus swung onto the horse's back. Whipping the reins, he dug his heels hard into its sides. His own Rider's cloak, now partially stiff with blood, billowed behind him as he galloped after Menleco.
The sounds of Myrtilus' battle in the clearing receded behind him as he sped alone down the road leading to one of the camp's main exits. Turning corners, he had twice caught sight of the horses of Menleco's party kicking up mud as they galloped, and twice Lyssa's white gown, glimpsed fleetingly as a ghost. He knew that if the Riders made the exit freely, he would never catch them. He spurred his mount to ever greater speed.
Soon he began hearing a tumult of another sort. The exit out of the camp was a causeway over the ditch and through the rampart, forming a natural bottleneck. Outside, stood a Prathian shield wall, shrieking an unearthly cry, charging the causeway. Shadow Riders on foot scampered in every direction. Those who were too slow were trampled mercilessly, skewered by sword and spear. A glut of mounted Riders clogged the narrow causeway. Some had peeled off to try another exit. The rest gaped at the charging Guard in confusion.
At that moment, Xanthippus loved Myrtilus more than any man he had ever known. His old friend had done it, by gods, and he had done it in a big way! Scamper off to the next exit, if you like, Xanthippus thought, but he knew Myrtilus had the camp sealed up tight. It was a Shadow Rider death trap.
He reined up, searching for Menleco among the wild throng of horsemen. Again, it was Lyssa's white gown that gave them away. She was halfway across the causeway when Xanthippus saw her. He rode forward, but could not reach her through the press of men and horses.
"Xanthippus!" she cried out when she saw him. Even through the gloom amid a sea of faces, he recognized the desperation in her eyes. She flailed and thrashed to get off the horse, but the Rider held her fast.
The rest of the Riders must have assumed Xanthippus was one of them, for they did not fight him as he pushed through the glut towards Lyssa. The Riders scarcely noticed him as he wedged his horse between them. He saw their horrified expressions as they witnessed the execution of their fellows in the field beyond. They frantically began trying to turn their horses as the Guard charged towards them. Some gave up and leapt from their mounts and were trampled by their own. Others attempted to scramble over ditch and wall only to be cut down by Myrtilus' faceless sharpshooters. Xanthippus forced his way towards Lyssa, pushing men out of his path.
"The General passes! Make way for Menleco!" Xanthippus looked toward the voices and saw the Riders at the head of the column shouting in all directions and to all ears. "It is Menleco!" they bellowed. "Stand down! Stand down!"
Their voices boomed with authority and for an instant, the mayhem of the panicked throng ceased and even the killing stopped. There was a momentary stillness as the panic gave way to mere confusion. The Prathian Guard halted. Riders stormed through the exit and into the field.
"No!" Xanthippus cried. "Stop them! They must not escape!"
Even as he shouted, he could already see Riders sweeping around the flank of the frozen shield wall and into the night beyond. Rider by Rider, the glut loosened and horses began to surge forward. Xanthippus followed briskly. He had almost reached Lyssa when her horse began to move away again.
"Xanthippus!" she cried, reaching behind her. "Do not leave me to these men!" She stretched her hand out to its fullest extent. He could see her terrified eyes, and knew she remained but a bare moment away from being whisked back into Menleco's grasp forever. His heart yearned to reach her. He stretched out his own hand, but his fingers barely brushed hers. The Rider turned and scowled at him. When he leaned away to draw his sword, Xanthippus knew it was now or never.
With a desperate lunge, he hurled himself at the Rider, knowing it was his last chance to stop him. In mid-air, he realized with dawning horror that he would come up short. His body slammed against Lyssa's thigh, crushing it against the horse. He heard her cry out in pain. He felt himself bounce sideways. He made a desperate grab for the Rider, but could only feel his body falling through space. It wasn't until he had slammed into the ground that he realized his fingers had snagged something. The weight of it wrenched his shoulder as he tumbled in the road. It was the Rider's cloak. His fingers had tangled in it and he had pulled the man from his mount. They had fallen together onto the hard-packed earth of the causeway.
Xanthippus immediately rolled to his feet. Instinctively, his hand went to where his sword should have been sheathed at his side, but it was gone. Weaponless, he squared on the fallen Rider, ready to pounce. Another surge sent horses flying past them. Xanthippus dodged, but the Rider was not so lucky. He had not yet found his feet when a horse trampled him where he lay. Xanthippus could hear the cracking of the man's skull as the massive creature tumbled over him. The beast fell to its knees, throwing its Rider. For an instant, he thought it would plunge head over hoof into the ditch, but by thrusting its head and neck forward and kicking its front legs, it managed to regain its feet, and it stood dazed astraddle the man it had just killed. Xanthippus rushed up to it and grabbed its reins before it could think to flee. He looked around and saw Lyssa nowhere.
A moment later, he saw her white gown again, this time out in the field. Her horse was carrying her away in an uncontrolled panic. Xanthippus swung onto the horse and spurred it to follow.
He broke free from the clogged causeway and burst out of the camp into the field. Lyssa's horse had carried her off to the right and it was now wheeling back again towards him. He could see that it was headed straight for Menleco's escaping column, so he cut across to intercept it. In the space of a few hoof beats, he found himself riding alongside the wild beast as it charged, oblivious to both its rider and the horse now galloping alongside it. With both arms wrapped around the creature's back, Lyssa gripped it fiercely. When she saw Xanthippus, she cautiously reached out a hand. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer to him.
He could feel her weight on him as she grasped his shoulder. She reached out her other hand. "Hold on to me!" he cried, and immediately felt her fingers clench. He flung his arm around her waist and whisked her from her mount. He held her tightly to him as he reined his horse to a halt.
Still holding her suspended with one arm, he turned his face to her with the thought of placing her gently onto the ground. Instead, she flung her arms around him and kissed him deeply. He kissed her back.
He felt light and he found that he wanted to laugh. Even in the night, her emerald eyes sparkled with radiance. She beamed with happiness and his heart soared.
"You are free," he told her, still meaning to put her down, but she would not relinquish her hold of him.
"I am not free," she said, her eyes now shimmering with tears, "for my heart belongs to you." She buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Oh, Xanthippus! I knew you would come back!"
"It is Xanthippus I love!" His heart leapt with joy. He had never dared hope those words were anything more than an unhappy lady's spiteful stab at her tormentor. Did he dare believe it now? How could he?
"Then you knew something I did not," he said, forcing her from him. "I have not yet finished my work." He made to put her down again, but she would not allow it.
"Don't leave me here," she pleaded. "It is not safe for me to be alone. Please take me wherever you go."
The look on her face was a naked blade to his heart. He lifted her again and put her behind him. "Hold on to me," he said, and spurred the horse back towards the unfinished business of the stalled shield wall.
The escaping Riders were a mere trickle now. Perhaps a dozen of them had sped away into the night. No more, Xanthippus thought. He rode in front of the line of spearmen, the men still shuffling in confusion.
"Men of the Guard, why have you stopped?" Xanthippus cried when he had reached to within earshot of them. "Do not let the Riders escape! They have tricked you! Who is in command here?"
"Guardsmen command the Prathian Guard, Shadow Rider!" one of the men called back contemptuously.
"Then listen to a Guardsman when I command you!" Xanthippus called back.
The spearmen muttered and murmured, and loud voices rose above them.
"He is a Rider!"
"Look! He makes to carry off a lady!"
"A Shadow Rider, daring to command us!"
Xanthippus sputtered for a second before realizing that he was still dressed as a Rider. He hastily unclasped his cloak, wadded it in his fists and slammed it to the ground.
"I am no Shadow Rider!" He spat the bitter words at them. "Look upon my face! Those of you with eyes, look upon me! You know who I am! I am Xanthippus of the Prathian Guard!"
"By the gods, it is!" came a cry from the Prathians. The men in the front who could see him passed it along to the men behind.
"Xanthippus has returned!" voices began shouting.
"I am happy to see you, too," Xanthippus cried. Laughter rose from the men. "But we have no time now for happy homecomings, for tonight we are killing Shadow Riders!" He could feel Lyssa's fingers digging into his stomach as she gripped him around the waist. Her fear did not surprise him. If he did not know the men, he would fear standing before them, too. "Those were Riders who commanded you to halt," he went on. "Menleco does not command you! It is Xanthippus who now commands you! Menleco is a dog who must die, and all the Riders with him. Prathian Guard, let none escape this camp!"
A wild cry rose from the men, some cheering, some shouting Xanthippus' name. And then, as one, the spears fell level. "Hrrrummp!" Xanthippus felt the sound in his chest like the booming of great drums. Lyssa shuddered and gasped. The line began to surge towards them. Xanthippus did not move. With a shout, the spearmen broke into a sprint, and the line parted for them like a current breaking upon a stone. The men surged past them so closely they could see their faces even through the concealing shadows of their helms. Their eyes burned like fire. It was thrilling, like being caught in the middle of a barbarian charge and living to tell of it.
Lyssa squealed with delight. Even Xanthippus felt himself laughing. He watched the murderous line as it charged the exit from the camp, still crowded with scattering horses and men. Their cries filled the night air. Behind them, the camp burned.
"Your men love you," Lyssa said. "Look at them! They move as one on your command!"
Xanthippus took a deep breath. "Myrtilus said it was enough just to be alive," he mused. "But, gods help me, it is not."
"Perhaps there is room in your living to be loved by me," Lyssa said.
Xanthippus turned and took her in his arms. "I believe there is room," he said.
She lifted her face and when he kissed her, it was not war cries and booming drums he felt pounding in his chest.
It was love.
Menleco pushed past Lord Taler, but a guard at the door, a Bearded Man, stepped into his path. Menleco felt as though he had run headlong into a stone wall. His eyes barely cleared the guard's sculpted beard. When his forehead met the bronze plate, he fell backward onto his ass and slid a few feet across the polished marble floor. He might as well have run smack into the door itself.
Taler sniffed a laugh. Neither he nor the guard stooped to help him up. Menleco was not accustomed to men blocking his way, nor was he used to them standing by when he needed a hand. He clambered to his feet and glared at the giant Bearded Man. An impassive bronze face stared eyelessly back at him. He turned to Taler instead.
"Don't be in such a hurry, General," the spymaster said, still sniffing. His idea of a smile was a crinkled nose that offered an unwelcome glimpse inside his nostrils. "I don't know how eager Demetrius will be to hear your sordid little tale. Or you his reply."
"Oh, he'll want to hear what I have to say to him." Menleco liked the sound of his own voice. That was precisely the tone he was going for - self-assured, edging towards arrogance. That would see him through.
The sounds of angry voices issued from behind the double doors.
"He's not happy with Theon of Lacecia," Taler said. "I believe he will be equally unhappy with you."
Menleco listened. The angry voice he had heard was Demetrius. Long pauses in which a softer voice seemed to be speaking were interrupted by wails of anguish and despair. That, he guessed, was Theon. His confidence melted away. What had he to offer when not even the vile spymaster felt compelled to help him to his feet? And what did it say of his life's struggle when in his time of need he found himself a solicitor outside the door of a man he hated? As he listened to the voices, it occurred to him that Theon probably had his own life questions about now.
The doors burst open and out poured a double file of Bearded Men. In their midst was a man who could only have been Theon of Lacecia. He was draped in chains and shouting at the top of his lungs, pleading for mercy. By the time the Bearded Men had swept him into the corridor and down a set of darkening steps, he was cursing and vowing vengeance. A heartbeat later, the corridor was as quiet as before.
"He allowed a Sethalian garrison into his city when he had promised it to Demetrius," Taler explained. "Oh, don't worry. Demetrius took the city anyway, but not without effort and not without loss. Well, there it is. The way is now open, the king awaits. You'll pardon me if I don't go in with you, but I've just had my lunch..."
Menleco found the king seated on his throne between two tall braziers in which flames seemed to float upon pools of silvery oil. The firelight glittered in the rings on his fingers and shimmered in his oiled beard and hair. Menleco strode between fat painted columns, keenly aware that the only sound in the room was the clicking of his own heels on the stone floor. He had had scant dealings with King Demetrius. Lord Taler was Menleco's man. But he did not fear kings. By rights, he should have been one himself and soon would be. Yet something about this one made him uneasy.
The seat next to him was empty. Menleco saw the queen wrapped around the back of the king's throne speaking words into his ear. The sight of Pylia took Menleco by surprise. His heel lingered above the floor in mid-stride and the thought of fleeing flashed through his mind. If the king made him uneasy, the queen filled him with pure terror. He had only known her as the creature he had seen peering into the dreadful pool. That such a foul thing could walk on two legs and appear in all other respects perfectly human was a fact more terrible than he would have imagined. At his last meeting, his fear had shamed him. By the time his heel hit the floor now, he realized that his shame had been misplaced. Fear was the companion of all who strode between these columns.
Theon had been screaming in anger and despair, Menleco consoled himself, not pain.
"Ah, General Menleco," Demetrius cried. "How good to see you. You may approach the throne. Please, come forward. Come."
The king held out his hand and Menleco sprang boldly up the few steps of the raised platform. There he knelt on one knee and brushed the royal ring with his lips. Pylia rounded the throne and regarded him coolly. She wore a saffron robe with a diaphanous shawl drawn over her iron grey hair. Her face was that of a withered crone. Her eyes were as black and cold as her depthless pool had been. Menleco thought he could see how she might have been a beauty once, but perhaps he was only remembering that the last time he had seen her she was.
At least part of the time. A beautiful seductress...
...with snakes in her hair...
He retreated to the bottom of the steps before she could request anything of him. He wanted his lips nowhere near her.
"You have brought us news of Clautius, no doubt." Smiling faintly, Demetrius leaned back and rested his elbow on the arm of his throne. He opened his hand and Pylia laid a veiny claw on his palm. He closed his fingers around it. Menleco winced inside. "Better yet, perhaps you have brought us Clautius himself?"
"What I have to offer you is better than Clautius."
Demetrius uttered a dark laugh. "You are like my council, General. They are forever trying to convince me that their nothing is better than the something I asked for. This Clautius! Do you know where he is, Menleco?"
"If I knew where he was, I would have brought him with me."
"Oh, but you were told where he was, were you not? And yet, I see only you standing before me." Demetrius looked up at Pylia. "This Clautius, my dear, is proving to be more slippery than even the boy."
"He has slipped through the general's greasy fingers, that is true," Pylia responded. She allowed her own fingers to slide from Demetrius' palm as she took a step towards Menleco. He wondered if he could keep a straight face, for the moment he had dreaded had now come to pass. If he could not hide his horror, could he at least keep his feet planted? "Perhaps your assassins who failed to kill the little Epirian king can find him, for Clautius has gone to Tygetia."
As she came towards him, his eye was drawn to her frail form. The plunging neckline exposed a withered breast, bony and spiderwebbed with blue veins. He meant to tear his eyes from it, but in a flash the wasted flesh was replaced by the voluptuous breast of a fair maiden, plump and brown. He raised his eyes to see not the puckered dry mouth of a crone but lips red, moist and full...with a wisp of a forked tongue darting between them.
Then it was gone. The hag had returned. He felt her cold finger tracing a path along the exposed flesh of his neck as she walked slowly around him. This is not her chamber of horrors, but the king's throne room. There is no ghastly pool here and no chains on the walls...Calm, Menleco, calm...
"Clautius has escaped to Tygetia?" Menleco asked, as if he cared. He did not blame the man for fleeing. With the witch pursuing him, Menleco would not have stopped in Tygetia.
Pylia whispered close to his ear. The feel of her breath on his neck and the brush of her wrinkled lips on his ear sent a shiver through him. "And from what would he be escaping, General? You?" She laughed, dry and hoarse. "No, Clautius goes where Clautius wishes, and he goes to Tygetia to fetch Hurrus, the very thing we had hoped to avoid."
"I am afraid you might have made a mistake coming here, Menleco," Demetrius said. "You reek of failure and defeat."
Menleco stepped angrily out of Pylia's grasp. If he had made a mistake, even a lethal one, he would at least tell them what he had come for. "You have not even heard me out, Demetrius. I have traveled hard from Prathia. It is true, Clautius eludes me. I admit it. But you must listen to what I offer you now."
Demetrius closed his eyes, sighing. "Dare I ask? Very well. What is this nothing I have not asked for that will please me so?"
Menleco's eyes darted from the king to Pylia - who remained an old woman, at least for the moment - and back again. "I have come here to offer you Prathia."
A loud guffaw issued from the back of the hall. Menleco jerked his head around but saw nothing in the gloom.
Demetrius leaned forward and made a tent of his jeweled fingers. "Now, this interests me," he said. "Prathia, no less. And this is within your power to give?"
Menleco's heart surged with gladness. His Shadow Riders may have been destroyed, the Guard and Lyssa stolen from him, but he was about to acquire the most powerful force in all of Gyriece. The Irrylian army was to be the instrument of his revenge. Did the fool Xanthippus think Menleco would slink away into the night? Not even Pylia frightened him now. With care, he would bend her to his will as well as the king.
"Serusi is a city without walls, Your Highness," Menleco said, speaking of the capital of Prathia. "It is said the city needs no defenses, for the Guard is its walls."
"Yes?" Demetrius' expression grew stern. "No foreign army has ever entered Serusi. Why should it be any easier for us?"
"It is also said that whoever controls the Guard controls Prathia."
There was an empty pause. "You try my patience--"
Menleco spread his arms. "I am the Guard!" he blurted out all at once. He was astonished by their blank looks. Did they not understand the enormity of his offer? "Under my command, the Prathian Guard will not oppose you. This is what I am telling you. I am the Guard."
"The Guard does your bidding?"
"I have used it for extortion often enough. Now, I will use it for conquest, something I should have done years ago. It was said of the old Guard that it would never betray Prathia. But Menleco's Guard will never betray Menleco!" At least, Demetrius must be made to believe it. It was true that the fighting at the Shadow Rider's camp had halted on his command. When the men saw him again, they would renounce their treason.
"And you brought the Guard with you?" Demetrius asked, and Menleco could see he already knew the answer.
"Two thousand of them fought with you in Lacecia, and have now returned to Myssene with the rest of your army. I will command these men."
A deep voice rumbled from the back of the hall. "The man is duplicitous." Menleco turned to see a shadow detach itself from the wall. General Nachtus stepped into the light. His footsteps echoed through the hall like drumbeats of doom, causing the floor to tremble. The bearded giant stood nine feet tall. The sword he wore at his belt nearly touched the floor. He crossed his arms and gazed down at Menleco as though he would like to squash him like a bug. "Trust this man at your peril, Your Worship."
The man was like thunder in his every movement and speech. Menleco could feel it inside of him.
"Oh, I don't trust him, never you fear, General," Demetrius said. "The man bargains for his life, I suspect."
Pylia clasped her hands together. She stopped just short of rubbing them. "I will find the truth in his words, my love," she said to the king. "Not even the most accomplished liar can hide the truth from Sarlon."
Sarlon. Standing against the back wall behind the throne was the snake-headed man, a recent Gyriecian-ized transplant from Tygetia. To most deities, Menleco was indifferent. He had spent a lifetime offending gods and he was well beyond the point of caring what any of them thought of him. His most devout prayer was that they would leave him in peace. This one, however, made him uneasy.
"Believe me, my lady," he said, hoping he did not sound to be begging. "I will volunteer the truth to you. You have no need to prise it from my brain. I give it willingly - eagerly! Happily! I conceal nothing."
"Then what of the rest of this Guard of yours, Menleco?" Demetrius asked.
"They have come under the spell of a traitor. Temporarily. But when we march on Prathia, with your Bearded Men at my side and my Prathian troops at my back, they will come over to me."
"What do you make of this, General Nachtus?"
"I say if the little man wants to lead his Prathians, he should do so from the front." Nachtus stepped to the wall and unfastened a spear from the block. He turned and tossed it to Menleco, who snatched it out of the air. "You know how to use one of these?"
Menleco tried to make his face stern as he inspected the razor sharp spear point. "I have been fighting since you were..." He stopped. He had been about to say 'since you were a boy,' but the image of a boy Nachtus was horrifying to him somehow. 'Since you were small'? This surpassed horrifying to absurd. He let it pass and started over. "Of course I've used a spear," he said simply.
Crouching suddenly, Nachtus made an abrupt move for his sword. Startled, Menleco shuddered and almost dropped the spear. Nachtus straightened and laughed. Menleco could feel the deep rumble in his gut. The giant approached him and wrapped a great hand around his throat, his fingertips nearly meeting his thumb at the base of Menleco's skull. He squeezed, gritting his teeth. Menleco did not know what was expected of him. Was it a test of nerves? Of will? Of skill at arms?
"I have fought with Prathians, I have fought against Prathians," Nachtus said. He continued to squeeze, lifting now, until Menleco's toes barely brushed the floor. "They are the greatest soldiers in the world. You do not deserve to fight with them. You do not deserve to lead them." Menleco's feet danced in the air, desperately seeking the floor. He could not breathe. Nachtus grinned, gritting great square teeth the size of walnuts. By gods, the creature intends to kill me! Menleco stabbed at the giant, meaning to drive the spear into his side, but the iron point glanced off his skin as if it were bronze. Menleco might as well have thrust his spear into a stone wall. Laughing, Nachtus threw him to the floor and Menleco slid across the polished marble. His spear clattered away out of his reach. He lay gasping for breath.
"Let him lead his Prathians," Nachtus told his king. "But let him lead with a spear in his hand. One of his own will no doubt do us all a favor and thrust one in his back."
Demetrius considered, ignoring the fact that Menleco lay on the floor coughing in spasms. He spoke as if Menleco was not there at all. "The Guard has already betrayed him. They are now commanded by this traitor, he says. What chance that the Guard will desert to him, as he claims?"
"No chance," Nachtus replied. "But if they do not, Menleco dies."
"There is another traitor we still seek," Pylia said, her voice like a whisper after the giant's rumble. "Clautius would have named him. Do not forget how this man has failed us."
Inspiration flashed in Menleco's mind. "I sent...I sent you the Huntress," he gasped. The giant had crushed his throat and he could barely speak. Perhaps someone would plunge a spear into his back, given half a chance.
Demetrius regarded him sharply. "What is that you say?"
Menleco rubbed his throat. "The Huntress. I captured her with my own...with my own hands. I sent her to you under guard. Her mind...She would know of your traitor..." He fell into a fit of coughing.
"The Huntress!" Pylia hissed. Menleco glanced up just in time to see the forked tongue dart between moist red lips. Then he saw the hag smiling and it was more horrifying than any snake.
Demetrius sat forward. "The Epirian Huntress? Again, Menleco, you have captured my interest. But I have seen no more of your Huntress than I have your Prathian Guard."
Damn you, Raulon!
"If she is not here now, she will be soon. I sent her under guard of fifty men." Menleco's voice was coming back. His wits might be a while. He climbed stiffly to his feet.
"Is it possible, love, that we have underestimated our Prathian general?" Demetrius asked his witch.
"You don't truly believe his lies, do you, Worship?" Nachtus asked.
"I do not believe men, General Nachtus. But the gods do not lie. And it is the gods who have sent Menleco to us. Is that not true, Pylia? Have you Seen anything of Menleco in our plans."
No, Menleco thought. No, no, no, say no, please say no...
"Oh, I have Seen the general," Pylia said. Menleco felt the air go out of him. Her feet hidden under her gown, Pylia seemed to glide towards him. Menleco was frozen in place. What she had planned for him, he did not want to know. She laid her hand on his shoulder and her fingers snaked upward towards his neck. "But the vision is vague. I See torrents of pain, but little else. I have no doubt he was sent to us by the gods, my love."
Demetrius shook his head in wonder. "Well, it is beyond reason. You see, Menleco, we have just withdrawn all of our troops from Sethaly in preparation for a campaign on Prathia. It is Prathia that harbors the Epirian conspirators. Tell him what you have Seen, my dear."
She was behind him again with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. He felt her breath on his cheek. "The snake comes to Sethaly," she hissed - as if her words had any meaning to him at all, "while Prathia shall harbor the eagle."
Menleco closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away.
"So you see," Menleco heard Demetrius happily chirping from the end of some long tunnel, "Sethaly will fall without bloodshed. This is the meaning. While Prathia must be destroyed utterly. We had already decided this. And then you show up offering us the Guard. Oh, it is too much!" Menleco heard him clap his hands together, laughing. Even Nachtus began to rumble.
Pylia had wrapped her slender arms around him and her hands caressed his chest. Her breath was rancid in his nostrils. "If anything you have said to us proves false..."
"I have told you truly," he intended to reply, but whether or not the words reached his lips he could not say.
He opened his eyes. Where he had expected to see Pylia's arms wrapped around him he found a tangle of coiled serpents. They slithered across his chest. One of them was climbing towards his face, tongue flicking. He could feel a mass of wriggling hatchlings tickling his neck...
"Ahhh!" He wrenched himself free of the witch's grasp. He fell to the floor and began scrambling backwards in terror, his arms and legs pumping. The crone stared at him. Nachtus was still rumbling his laughter while Demetrius' face registered surprise, turning to anger.
"What on earth are you doing? On your feet, man!"
"What would you have me do?" Menleco snapped. Had they not seen the snakes? His skin crawled. He could still feel them. By gods, it is madness!
Demetrius stood. "I would have you thank me for granting your request, General. I will allow you to command your Prathians in our campaign. Any failure will cost you your life. Now, be gone!"
Menleco did not have to be told twice. He turned and strode rapidly back the way he had come. Halfway to the door, he found himself running. The columns passed on either side of him in a blur. Nachtus' laughter mocked him the entire way.
Taler was in the corridor. He caught Menleco as he bolted through the door. "Don't be in such a hurry. Look who has arrived. Old friends!"
Breathing hard, Menleco turned to see Coronea standing by the door, her hands bound. She looked away when he caught her eye. Her expression was full of pain and anger. Menleco, however, wanted to embrace her. She had merely tried to put an arrow through his heart. That indeed made her seem like an old friend compared to these Irrylian monsters. At least he understood a shaft through the heart. The rest was madness.
"You're next." Apart from hugging her, or rescuing her, or mercifully cutting her throat, it was all he could think of to say. It was cruelty to bring her here. He had promised her to them, however, and now Pylia would know he had not lied.
And she would know it without having to rip his brain out.
"Raulon!" he cried when he saw his captain standing nearby. He grabbed a handful of the man's cloak and whisked him down the corridor. "I should have you flogged, you bastard. You damn near cost me my life."
Raulon slapped his hands from him. "I brought the girl. What more do you want?"
"The question is 'what more will I have?' We are fighting with the Irrylians. I am to be King of Prathia and Xanthippus will die."
Raulon blinked. "I feel I might have missed something."
"The usurper Xanthippus has stolen my happiness and now we march on Prathia."
"Your happiness!" Raulon scoffed. "You have never had a happy moment in your life."
"That's because I have never been king. Now, come along, we have work to do."
"Father has granted us ships, Hurrus," Antona said. "Ships! Do you know what this means?"
"Have you even been listening to me?" Hurrus snapped, raising his head. His eyes met hers and he immediately felt ashamed for the hurt he saw there. He felt even greater shame for what he had been forced to admit to her. "What good are empty ships when I have no men? I have nothing left..."
He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He had bathed, his wounds had been cleaned and stitched and he wore fresh bandages. Shirtless, he sat on a stone bench in his garden, his bare feet propped up on a rock. Antona threw herself on her knees and hugged his legs to her cheek, kissing the tops of his feet.
"You cannot say that, Hurrus. It is not true."
"They would have followed me anywhere, Antona." He could feel her long brown hair tickling his toes. He reached down and stroked it. He wanted to embrace her and forget it all - soldiers and ships and crowns, all of it.
"Do you hear that?" he asked instead. He lifted his head and stared at a spot at the base of the stone wall that concealed his garden from the world outside. A little yellow bird hopped from bush to bush across the walkway.
Antona listened. "It is for you," she said, hearing the distant chords of music, the festive voices. "It is not in celebration of a man who has nothing, but of a man who has everything within his grasp. They celebrate a conqueror, Hurrus. At your feet lies the world!"
"At my feet lie broken dreams. From my hands drips the blood of my men."
"Hurrus..."
"I held their lives in my hands, Antona. Under my command was a boy named Aryk. By gods, he would have followed me through the gates of hell. And do you know where I led him?"
Antona shook her head.
"He wanted to return to Irrylia to reclaim the stolen lands of his fathers. I promised him. Yet he died not 100 leagues from where he started. I commanded him never to doubt me. And he did not - right up to the moment a Sarian spear point--"
"Men die, Hurrus," Antona interrupted, pleading. "Did you think you would reclaim Epiria without the loss of a single man?"
"Epiria be damned!" Hurrus cried. He pulled his feet from Antona's hands and strode away across the garden, leaving her kneeling before the empty stone bench. "I lost these men fighting Sarians, I lost them in the desert to heat and sand. What hope have I against Demetrius' legions?"
"Epiria is ours, Hurrus," Antona said, rising. "You are king of Epiria, Arrhus' heir, and I am queen. It shall be."
"Epiria!" Hurrus scoffed. "I had to crawl back into Tygetia. Did you know that?"
Antona shook her head.
"When we reached the parade grounds, we found the Corps of the Crocodile Man waiting for us. I had to confer with Xandros. 'What do we do?' I asked him. I was at the end of my tether. It was over. We could not have fought again, Antona."
"But they did not oppose you..."
"We marched to them. We would have surrendered. We were prepared--"
"But they did not oppose you," Antona repeated in disbelief and growing impatience. "They cheered you. Hurrus, you are a hero to the people. Listen to them!"
"And who will cheer us in Epiria when I alight with my 3000? By gods, Antona, if it had not been for the Mejadym, Kerraunus would have destroyed us." After the battle, Jorem's men had surrounded Kerraunus' house, but there was no sign of the man. Rumors sprang up immediately that he had boarded a ship in Alaun for a port unknown. "Demetrius' Bearded Men will not cheer us, I will guarantee you that."
"The Epirian people will," a gravelly voice said.
Hurrus jerked his head around and saw an old man enter the garden from the house. He wore a floor-length white robe and carried a walking stick which he thunked on the stones of the path as he hobbled forward. The stick was no less gnarled and knotty than the ancient fingers that clutched it.
"And what do you know of the Epirian people, old man?" Hurrus asked. He regarded the intruder curiously and saw that he was quite alone. Too finely dressed and groomed to be some wandering beggar, he seemed to present no threat, but...Was Hurrus' private garden open now to drifters from the street?
"A thousand pardons, my lord." A servant came scuttling out the door after the intruder. "But the old man would not be stopped--"
Hurrus silenced his servant with a wave of his hand. "Answer me, old man. You hold no objection to eavesdropping on my private conversation with my wife. Surely you don't mind explaining yourself."
"You should listen to your pretty young wife, Hurrus," the old man said, advancing boldly along the path. The spindly fronds of a palm brushed his robes as he passed. Hurrus noticed that his old hand twitched spasmodically as he thunked his stick on the stones. He acted as though there was no place on earth more natural for him to have appeared than from out of Hurrus' door into his garden. "Those cheers out there. That is what awaits you in Epiria."
"Wars are not won by cheering," Hurrus said. The old man's bold manner piqued Hurrus' interest, buying the intruder some time. Hurrus narrowed his eyes at him. "Who is it who claims to speak for the Epirians? And why do you speak to me of them?"
"I come to bring them their king. Just as I served your father, Arrhus, I will serve you, King Hurrus."
Hurrus felt a thrill shoot down his spine. "Who are you?"
"I am Clautias," the old man said.
Hurrus' mouth fell open. "The man whose welfare I have prayed for since I was boy now stands before me? It cannot be! Antona, it is the man who saved me, the man who smuggled me safely out of Epiria."
Hurrus rushed to him and threw an arm around his frail shoulders. He helped him to the stone bench and sat him down gently. Hurrus turned and called for wine.
"Ah," Clautias sighed as he sat, his stick twitching. "I was to raise you, Hurrus. Alas, I never had the opportunity. But seeing you now, all my doubts are allayed. You are Arrhus, my boy. By the gods, you are he!" He took the cup offered him by a servant and sipped it. "And I knew you too, Antona, when you were in but swaddling clothes. Myletos' little daughter."
"You honor us with your presence, Clautias," Antona said, bowing her head. "Hurrus has spoken of you often."
"We feared for you, Clautias," said Hurrus. "Nadia said Demetrius has hunted you all these years. Nadia--"
"Nadia?" Clautias asked with a start. He leaned forward, looking around as if he might find her concealed behind a bush or wall.
"She has passed," Hurrus said. He closed his eyes at the thought of it.
"Nadia is dead?"
Hurrus strode forward and knelt at Clautias' feet. "They tried to kill me in my bed," he said. "Nadia died in the attempt."
For an instant, the old man's hand stopped shaking. "All is laid bare," he said in a husky whisper. "All is laid bare..."
"You know of this?"
"The men Demetrius sent to kill you stood before me, dangerous men..."
"You know of my assassins?"
Clautias grasped Hurrus' hand in his gnarled claw. Hurrus saw a look of awe in his eyes. "They have vowed to fight at your side, to bring us an army. Prathians. Men of the Guard. They would have sacrificed themselves so that I might live, all for your return."
"I don't understand..." Hurrus felt as though he were talking to Nadia all over again. What did this old man see through his eyes? Was it Hurrus who stood before him, or was he peering into some other world?
"Don't you see? The gods will not allow you to die. It is their will that you return to Epiria. The witch Pylia has Seen it through her demon and for that she tries to kill you. But even her assassins vow to fight at your side."
Hurrus looked into the old man's eyes and saw that he was overcome with emotion. He felt Antona's soft hands on his shoulders, the brush of her cheek.
"Hail, the king of Epiria!" she crooned into his ear.
"It is the gods of your fathers who fight for you now, Hurrus. You cannot be killed."
"Kunuum..." Hurrus muttered, his words scarcely escaping his lips. "I am a son of Kunuum..."
"You are the son of Arrhus," Clautias said, "heir to the throne of Epiria!"
"My father grants us ships, Clautias," Antona informed the old man. "My husband's Corps--"
Hurrus shook his head, dispelling the dream. "Would not fill half of them," he finished for her. He stood, shaking off Antona's hands and Clautias' gaze. What was he thinking? He had almost let them convince him that it was still possible. "Whatever you believe, I no longer have the men. It cannot be done."
"But it must be done," Clautias said. "Demetrius' army sweeps through Epiria as we speak, Hurrus. He turned from Sethaly and descends now on Prathia. Soon, there will be nothing left of Gyriece to save. The people clamor for their king. Do not destroy their hopes. They have waited for this moment. This is our dark hour..."
"But I tell you, I haven't the men." Hurrus splayed his arms in frustration. How could they not see the hopelessness? "It is by luck alone that I am not dragged through these streets in chains. I need time to build an army anew, to equip and train them. Irrylian troops are not Sarians, Clautias, but seasoned killers."
"The people in Epiria need only a leader, Hurrus. They need their king. While they bleed and die, they cry out for you!"
"I have but 3000 men..."
"And they have conquered all that has been set before them," Antona said. "Had Xarhux himself ever accomplished more with less? Listen to them marching through the streets of Archentethe." She paused and they could hear the music wafting over the garden wall. "They are heroes! There is nothing they cannot do. You have told me yourself, Hurrus. It is as Clautias says, the gods will it. It is out of our hands."
"But we are so few..."
"Then you must be the difference, my love. Epiria is ours."
"Me?" He felt confused. "I am but one man, my failures plain to see."
Antona grasped him by the shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes.
"You are as ten men, Hurrus. Do you not know that?" Her fingers clenched his shoulders and she stared at him in disbelief. For an instant, he was a little boy again, saving her from dragons. He had always been her hero, and he had never failed her. "You dare speak of failures? You alone are as ten thousand men! How can you not know this by now?"
"It is said Xarhux was as ten thousand--" Hurrus began and a feeling of awe slowly spread over him. Xarhux, the last true Son of Kunuum...
Antona nodded eagerly. "Yes... Have you not shown yourself to be his heir? Have you not seen your destiny? When Xarhux left Tygetia, he was--"
"Bathed in Blood!" Hurrus whispered in awe. He saw it now. He moved Antona aside and strode back towards the house.
Clautias looked up in shock at his abrupt passage. "Hurrus, where are you going?"
"I'm going to Epiria!" he answered, without looking back. "But first I must find Jhar."
Gonatas wondered what his father saw when he looked at Pylia. In good light, he himself saw a withered crone twice the king's age. In bad, well, he had once seen the witch at work and he could not bear to look upon her for the memory of it.
Yet, Demetrius cast her affectionate smiles. He caressed her bony scabrous shoulders and stroked her twisted fingers as if she were the sweet, loving wife Gonatas' mother had been and not the repulsive monster the world knew Pylia to be. He wondered if Demetrius was blind. If so, it was with power and ambition, certainly. But did it not at times resemble something closer to love? Gonatas' skin crawled at the notion.
He is mad. That is what Gonatas must remember. The man is utterly mad. Only then could his mind accept it.
He rose from his knee and stood at his father's side. He had already explained how he had missed Clautius and had met up with the group of Shadow Riders bringing Coronea to the palace. Demetrius had nodded sagely and cursed Menleco anew for his failure to capture the rebel leader. But Pylia had merely stared at him mutely - and Gonatas thought perhaps suspiciously. Had she Seen him? He remembered the snake man on the road, Pylia's eyes. He had thought himself secreted safely among the trees and brush, but who knew what sort of vision Pylia's creature possessed? He avoided her gaze as much as he could. Where madness had dulled his father's senses, he suspected the witch's to have been enhanced. Perhaps she saw into his mind even as he spoke his lies, waiting only to ensnare him when there was no hope for his escape.
No one had said a word when he told them the rebels had abandoned Asander, whom they had captured on the road to Myssene, when they had been forced to flee the Shadow Riders' raid.
"I will hear from Asander himself when we are through here," Demetrius had said.
Both had perked up when his story turned to Coronea. Pylia, in particular, seemed as happy with the Huntress as she would have been with Clautius.
"What a pretty girl our Huntress is!" Pylia cooed, as if the fact pleased her in some incalculable way. Coronea stared her in the eye long after Gonatas would have been forced to look away. Her bravery was as breathtaking as her beauty.
"Pretty?" Demetrius exclaimed. "Next to Gorgeo himself, no one has been a greater nuisance to us. What she has done has been anything but pretty."
"Yes, the Ghost has proven" - Pylia leaned forward to look past the king to Gonatas - "...elusive. Has he not, Prince Gonatas? You have pursued him..."
Gonatas could feel her eyes on him, but he would not look her way. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Coronea's face, trying to make his expression stern, as befitted her captor. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. "The Epirian bands travel light, my lady. And they have the support of the people."
"The support of the people!" Demetrius scoffed, as if the very idea was an outrage to his rule. "The bandits are buoyed by patriotic zeal, I suppose."
Gonatas regarded the king coolly. "They are hidden by the populations they operate among, Father. They are fed, clothed, armed and concealed by them. What moral encouragement they receive from them, I could not say."
Pylia cackled with amusement. A cold finger ran down Gonatas' spine. Demetrius smiled lightly as though at some girlish twittering.
"I believe our pretty girl could say," said Pylia. "I believe there is lot she could say...with a little coaxing. Perhaps as much as Clautius himself might have told us."
"I don't know anyone named Clautius," Coronea said.
"Oh, do not insult us," snapped Demetrius. "We did not bring you here to listen to lies."
"You'll get nothing from me," Coronea insisted.
Pylia jumped to her feet. "We'll get everything from you!" Her voice was a hissing of snakes. Coronea's face went white and her head snapped back as though she had been struck. Gonatas jerked his head around and saw Pylia seeming to hiss at her between clenched brown teeth.
"I work alone," Coronea said, recovering quickly from Pylia's sudden rage. She gave her a fierce look. "I know nothing of any Epirian bands or Ghosts or of this Clautius--"
"You know of all of it!" Pylia said. "And I will find it in you. Oh, yes! Believe me, I will. I will find the traitor I seek, too, as well as Gorgeo."
"Gorgeo is dead."
Pylia cackled again and it occurred to Gonatas that Coronea did not intend to leave this room alive. She would not grovel before them, nor would she tell them anything useful, neither of which, Gonatas knew, would have saved her in any case. It had been their plan for him to put a sword through her if there was no other recourse. He could see now that Coronea, by her words, would ensure that there was not. Everything in Coronea's mind would be safe - and she would be spared Pylia's hideous attentions. Gonatas mulled where he would put the blade to ensure a death as swift and painless as possible. But now that the moment was at hand, he wondered if he could summon the courage to do the deed at all.
But he knew he must.
Pylia walked down the steps to where Coronea stood. Coronea stared at her, meeting her eye to eye. Pylia ran a gnarled claw through the Huntress' honeyed hair.
"Do you have any idea what is going to happen to you, my dear?"
"I am going to die," Coronea said.
Pylia huffed a breathy little laugh. "Oh, but there is so much more to it than that."
"Your breath stinks of the pit, witch."
"You will know of the pit soon," Pylia said. She laid a hand on Coronea's shoulder and Coronea wriggled under it until her fingers fell away. "I can prevent it. You needn't suffer. You have only to tell me what I want to know."
Coronea raised her eyes to Gonatas. In a flash, he knew what she intended. She turned and began running for the door. This was how she meant for the deed to be done.
Demetrius leapt to his feet. "She means to escape! Stop her!"
Gonatas drew his sword and flew down the steps after her. Guards bolted from the back wall and two more scampered towards her between the rows of towering columns that led from the door. Gonatas could hear Pylia laughing at the hopelessness of the attempt. Coronea saw the guards coming and shot off between columns, but with her hands tied behind her back, her balance was poor and her steps awkward. Gonatas easily caught up with her. He thrust his free arm around her shoulders and waved his sword at the onrushing guards.
"Kill me," Coronea whispered. "Quickly, before it is too late."
"There is still hope," he said into her ear.
He saw her face tighten and her eyes grow moist. "Damn you!" she muttered.
The Bearded Men rushed them front and back. Without realizing what he was doing, Gonatas whirled, holding them off with his sword. The guards stopped short, blades drawn.
Gonatas recovered quickly, realizing he probably should not be threatening his own guards over the girl. "I've got her," he said in a light tone. "Go back to your posts. Go on. This girl's not going anywhere."
The Bearded Men did not move. They stood staring at him, swords in their hands. Their eyes were black holes in their sculpted face plates.
"Back to your posts!" Gonatas shouted, whirling on them once again. They paused. Then, without a sound, they turned and walked away. Gonatas led Coronea back to her inquisitors.
Gonatas gave her a rough little shove and then took up his position next to his father. Demetrius frowned at him angrily. "Gonatas, let the guards do their work. You don't have to chase down every bound captive that tries to bolt. Are you a prince of Irrylia, or a hired blade?"
"Instinct, Father," Gonatas said, hoping that the king did not see that his only instinct was to protect the woman he loved. Perhaps he should have hacked his way through the Bearded Men. That might have been their last chance. Coronea was right to damn him for clinging to hope where there was none. Gods help him, he could not spill her blood - and now she would pay for his cowardice.
"You should not be in such a hurry to leave us, my dear," said Pylia, as Coronea stood before her once again. Her chest heaved from her exertion. "We will spend some long hours together, you and I."
"But you said you could prevent it, that I would not be tortured if I tell you what I know."
Pylia smiled. "Of course. I am not cruel. Nor am I unjust. Speak the truth to me, child, and that will be seen in your favor."
"It is all we ask," King Demetrius said kindly.
Coronea glared up at Gonatas. This time, he could not read her intentions, but the coldness of her eye frightened him. He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He might have to use it for real now, and he had no one to blame but himself.
"I can see that escape is impossible, so I will tell you what you want to know."
Pylia leaned in close to her. "Go on, child..."
"The traitor you seek is in this room with us." Gonatas' heart pounded in his chest and his muscles tensed. A line of sweat boiled out of his forehead.
"Yesss..." Pylia hissed. Gonatas could feel her seeing him in her peripheral vision. It was just as she had suspected. It was what she had always wanted. Gonatas' blade would ring from its scabbard and find her withered throat... "Tell me, child. Say it!"
"It is him!" Coronea cried, pointing her nose at Demetrius. "It is the mad king who is the traitor!"
Outraged, Demetrius leapt to his feet. Pylia lurched backwards as if slapped in the face.
"It is Demetrius who is the traitor! A traitor to King Arrhus and the Epirian throne. A traitor to King Hurrus whose blade of righteousness will soon drip with the mad king's blood..."
"Guards!" Demetrius bellowed, as Coronea continued shouting. Bearded Men came scurrying from all over the chamber. In an instant, they had surrounded Coronea. "Pylia, she is yours. Find out what she knows. I wash my hands of her."
"If you were half a man, you would unbind my hands--" Coronea was in the midst of shouting when a guard clapped a hand hard over her mouth.
Gonatas stepped in front of Demetrius. "She is mad with fear, Father. She does not know what she is saying. You cannot send her to Pylia. Put her in the dungeon. It shouldn't take more than a couple of days. She'll regain her senses--"
Demetrius pushed him aside. "Your weakness disgusts me, Gonatas."
Coronea's voice rose again from somewhere at the end of a long corridor, "--and feed your witch to you, piece by piece--" but was lost again by the banging of a heavy wooden door. Its metal fittings clanked and then there was silence.
"Father, it is beyond cruelty what Pylia will do to her," Gonatas pleaded. He would beg him if he had to. "What good will it serve to waste this girl?"
"You are squeamish and weak, Gonatas. This girl has defied me and mocks me to my face. Now an example must be made of her. All will know of the Huntress' fate, and all will fear me - as you should as well, Gonatas. There are dark days ahead--"
"I agree with the king."
Gonatas looked across the room and saw Asander standing at the door. He strode towards them between the rows of painted columns.
"You have traveled far, Asander, and by a circuitous route, as I hear tell, only to return to offer your opinion of this petty affair?"
"What happens to the Huntress is far from petty, Your Highness." Asander climbed the steps and knelt, kissing Demetrius' ring. He cast a quick glance from under his brow at Gonatas. "At least to the Epirians," he added, rising.
"Well, now," Demetrius said happily, "not all the counsel I receive is for cowardice. One man, at least, remains in Irrylia."
"The Epirians love her, Highness. Her death will be a blow to them, a blow from which they may not recover. I was a captive among them and I could see how highly they regarded her. When they learn that she has spilled all their secrets...It will be devastating to them."
Gonatas glowered at him. Could he have had the man so wrong? He clenched his teeth when he remembered Asander buying his way out of Epirian custody with deceitful words. He should have left him to the rebel cutthroat, Gorgeo. How could he have been so foolish? Asander was a survivor and nothing more, bowing always to the strongest man. So it had always been. Perhaps men like Asander do not change. The brave and the foolhardy are lost and forgotten, but cowards like Asander go on forever.
Gonatas could not hold his tongue. "What is your game, Asander? How are you to be trusted now, coming to us from the Epirians? Did I find you among them as captive - or collaborator?"
"Don't be a fool, Gonatas. You know what I have learned from the Epirians. What I say of Coronea is true. Would I advocate her death were I a collaborator?"
"I cannot begin to comprehend the workings of a poisoned mind," Gonatas spat.
"Now, you truly are a fool." Asander turned to Demetrius. "I believe the Prince has developed an affection for this girl, Highness. I suggest he be made to witness her demise at the hands of our lady. An observer is needed to take down the Huntress' words and to chronicle her end. Who better than Prince Gonatas himself?"
Demetrius laughed and clapped Asander's shoulder. "I have always been able to count on you, Asander. My councilors tell me only what I want to hear. They are small, cowardly men. I need strong-willed men, Asander, men who do not blanch at the sight of a little blood. Gonatas, it will do you good to see the Huntress' end. You will see much worse in the days to come, I assure you, and I need warriors and strong men by my side."
Madmen and murderers! He expected Gonatas to witness that depravity with quill and parchment in hand, like some ghoulish counting clerk? Gods, no! If he would be forced into Pylia's chamber, it would be with sword in hand, and, by gods, his steel would ring... Gonatas' thoughts ground to a halt. ...if he would be forced to enter...
"Remember this, Gonatas," Asander shouted at him as Gonatas turned to leave. "No one has ever come out of Pylia's chamber. No one but those who have been carried out, that is. I suggest you hurry, before Pylia begins her work. You don't want to miss anything."
...with sword in hand, and, by gods, his steel would ring...
"Yes!" Gonatas cried. Demetrius called for the guards to stand aside. Gonatas ran the rest of the way to Pylia's chamber, down corridors and narrow steps, through heavy wooden doors, and on as fast as his legs would carry him. The dim hallways were lit only sporadically by torches sputtering in sconces set in the walls. Two Bearded Men stood outside Pylia's door.
"Let me pass," Gonatas cried. One of the guards had stepped in front of the door, barring his way. When he made no move, Gonatas grabbed him and flung him aside. The door was unlocked and he burst through it.
Coronea saw him before he saw her. "Gonatas!" she cried.
He heard the clanking of her chains against the stone wall. He looked in the direction of the sound and found her straining at the manacles that secured her wrists. She had been stripped bare and at her feet was Pylia's fathomless black pool. When she saw him, a look of such hope and desperation filled her eyes that Gonatas ran to her at once.
"Where is the witch?" he asked. He looked all around him, past the pool and into the shadows of the many pillars that filled the chamber. On some of them sputtering torches burned dimly. He saw no sign of Pylia.
"She is coming!" Coronea shrieked. "Gonatas, please!"
He unsheathed his sword. "Drop your hand." She pulled the chain that bound her right hand until it was taut against the wall. He swung and his blade rang on the iron links, spewing a shower of sparks. Coronea jerked the chain - twice, thrice - but the links were unbroken.
"There is an ax around the corner," she said. "I saw it when they were bringing me in. Look out behind you!"
Gonatas whirled and saw a Bearded Man rushing at him with leveled spear. Gonatas' sword flashed and the blade struck the spear shaft just below the point, snapping it off. The guard dropped the useless stick and drew his short sword.
"I am a Prince of Irrylia!" Gonatas shouted. "Heir to the throne. I command you to stand down."
The guard paused as if in confusion, staring at him insensibly through the blank eye holes in his bronze bearded face. He cocked his head like a dog, but his sword remained drawn.
"Are you deaf, man? Did you not hear me? Sheath your blade at once and release this woman."
The Bearded Man lunged at him and Gonatas parried the thrust with a sweep of his sword. He immediately slashed, striking the guard in the shoulder. Gonatas expected to feel his blade slicing through flesh and muscle. Instead, his blade glanced off the man's arm as if it were made of metal. The guard stumbled and Gonatas stabbed with enough force to drive his steel in one side of him and out the other. But his blade did no such thing. It rang hollowly and skittered off the side of the Bearded Man's gut.
"What are you?" Gonatas asked in astonishment. The Bearded Man launched another attack and Gonatas whirled out of the way.
He fell to one knee and, looking to his side, saw the axe propped against the wall, double-headed, heavy and stinking of blood and corruption. He grabbed it in both hands and whirled on the guard. With a loud chink, the heavy axe split his helm in two, lopping it off at the level of the man's eyes. The top of his helmet clattered to the floor. Where Gonatas expected to see gushing gore and exploding brains, the ruin of the man's head, he instead saw nothing at all.
Nothing but a hollow black space inside an empty bronze helm.
The Bearded Man teetered on his feet like a drunk and then fell over flat on his bearded face.
Gonatas felt a chill go through him. He rushed around the corner carrying the axe. "Coronea! Hands!"
She held the chain taut. He swung the axe and it bit through the thick links with a crashing of steel and stone. Her hand was free.
"They are not human," she said. She wore the manacle like a bracelet around her wrist, the broken length of chain dangling from it. "The Bearded Men belong to the witch."
Gonatas could feel his skin prickling all over. It felt like his entire body was crawling. His mind swam. He struggled to keep hold of it.
"Hand!" he shouted. Coronea pulled the chain of her left hand taut for him, but before he could swing, she screamed. He spun around just in time to block the overhand blow of a sword with the shaft of his axe. A Bearded Man glowered at him through sightless black eyes. Gonatas kicked him away. The thing stumbled backward and tripped over the rim of Pylia's dark pool. It crashed into the black water, sending up a foul, stinking shower that rained back down on them. The thing sank below the surface and the pool bubbled and boiled, and hissed and steamed where the water had closed up over the top of its body.
Gonatas turned, and when Coronea pulled the chain taut, he whacked it with the axe, freeing her other hand. She collapsed into his arms. "Coronea, you are safe," he cooed into her ear. He could feel her soft skin under his hands. He unclasped his bright mustard cloak and wrapped her in it. "Cover yourself with this."
Coronea fitted the cloak around her body, tucking and folding and tying it over one shoulder. Gonatas gave her his sword. Now, they would dash for the door and be gone. He would use his station to get by the guards. With luck, no one outside of the chamber knew a thing.
Then he heard the sound he had feared.
It was a scream, a loud wailing shriek in the voice of an ancient crone.
Gonatas turned with a start and saw Pylia rushing towards him through the shadows of the pillared room. He could not see her legs moving, nor any other part of her, but she came at him, moving impossibly fast. He gave a start, almost dropping his axe and falling over in shock. Coronea uttered a cry.
Pylia stopped short of her black pool and raised her arms. She was uttering unknown words of some ghastly tongue. Naked, she flashed by blinks of the eye between withered crone and voluptuous seductress, her hair a wispy web one moment, a squirming tangle of snakes the next. Serpents seemed to leap and snap at them from all directions. Gonatas feared he had gone mad. The words that spilled from Pylia's lips filled him with terror.
"It is the language of the gods," he gasped. What else could it be? "I cannot bear to hear it."
"It is the language of the pit," Coronea cried. "Cover your ears!"
Gonatas winced as if in pain. Teeth and eyes clenched, he struggled to lift his axe. "I will not cower in fear," he muttered in a strangled voice. "I will end this now. I will cleave the witch in two."
He took only a single step towards Pylia when the surface of the pool began to boil and hiss at the exact spot where the Bearded Man had gone in. A great turbulence rose in the center of the disturbance as the black water began bubbling up in a torrent. Gonatas wondered if the Bearded Man was coming out again. He held his axe ready. Suddenly, from the roiling pool there burst not a drowned bronze man but a great pale serpent. It crashed out of the water and rose ten feet above Gonatas. Its massive head dripping, it looked about slowly, tongue flicking, while Pylia continued to summon it forth in its unknowable language.
Gonatas ran out from under it, sweeping Coronea away in his arms, trying to flee out of the range of its snapping jaws. Fast as lightning, the serpent lashed at them. Its fangs impaled nothing but air, but its head knocked them from their feet. They sprawled on the floor.
In a flash, it was on them again. Coronea rolled over and raised her sword. Her blade pierced the scales of the serpent's breast. The monster reared, flailing its head, and hissed in pain. Coronea clung to the hilt and the sword came free from the beast, leaving a gash behind. Where blood should have poured from the wound, the bodies of half-a-dozen huge snakes soon wriggled free. Their heads thrashed and their jaws snapped as they reared out of the side of the great serpent like a squirming appendage. Coronea screamed as the largest of them swept down and coiled around Gonatas, pinning his arms to his sides. It lifted him, squeezing. More snakes slithered out of the torn scales and reared up until he could see their cold eyes - hypnotic, unblinking and pitiless - seeming as large as saucers in front of his face.
"Run, Coronea!" he shouted. Her escape would at least give his death meaning. He exhaled and the snake cinched its coils tighter around him. Those were the last words he would be able to speak. A snake's jaws yawned before his eyes. Poison dripped from its fangs. Somehow, he knew that it did not intend to bite him; it meant to swallow him whole. If he had the breath, he would have screamed.
He felt as if his eyes would pop from his skull. The edges of his vision were turning black when he found the yawning snake's head was suddenly free of its body, spinning off through the air in a spray of blood. The crushing coils around his ribs relaxed and in the next instant he found himself falling. He hit the floor with a thud and looked up to see half-a-dozen headless snakes thrashing like bloody ribbons. Asander's sword was dripping with the same blood. Snake heads littered the floor around his feet. The great pale serpent saw him at the same time Gonatas did.
"Asander!" Gonatas shouted. "Are you mad?"
Asander turned to face the serpent. "Run, my lord!" he shouted. "Run, damn you!" The serpent snapped at him and he sliced a red stripe into its nose. It reared back in pain.
"Gonatas!" Coronea cried. He could see they had a clear shot at the door now. He tried to roll to his feet, but the serpent saw him darting away and came straight for him. The snake lashed out.
"I will not stand by!" Asander shouted and threw himself between Gonatas and the gaping jaws. The great fangs pierced him, one impaling his chest, the other his groin. He let out a gurgling groan. The beast rose to its full height, gripping him in its clenched jaws while blood poured from Asander's mouth.
Gonatas scrambled to Coronea. She grasped him in her arms and whisked him towards the unguarded door. "Asander..." he muttered, his voice breaking. He could not take his eyes off the ghastly image, made bleary by his tears. "You didn't have to...You didn't have to..."
The last he saw of it, the snake was disappearing back into the fathomless black pool, taking Asander's limp body with it.
Outside, Coronea slammed the door shut. They could hear the witch wailing from within as they dashed down the corridor away from Pylia's chamber of horrors.
They could hear heavy footsteps descending a stair ahead. A pair of Bearded Men appeared around a corner, filling the corridor as they raced abreast with swords drawn. Gonatas realized they had left their weapons behind. He had only his dagger sheathed in his belt.
"To Pylia's chamber!" he shouted in a commanding voice. "Hurry!"
They stood aside as the Bearded Men raced past them. Relieved, they continued running.
He tried the same ploy when he entered the throne room, as he directed half-a-score of Bearded Men to Pylia's chamber below. The door slammed shut and they could hear the guardsmen's footsteps receding away behind it. Then all was quiet. They crept down the corridor and saw Demetrius sitting alone on his throne.
"You neglected to give your Bearded Men brains, Father," Gonatas said, emerging from the narrow passage into the room. Gonatas unsheathed his dagger.
Demetrius remained sitting, unsurprised. From behind him, Gonatas could not see his face and the king did not turn. "Brainless they may be, but they are loyal and deadly. Pylia's men. You cannot kill them."
"I have already killed two," Gonatas said. He could not keep a quaver out of his voice. He still felt shivers running down his spine. He was sweating and shaking as if he had a fever.
"Two is not twenty-thousand. I have an army of them, Gonatas. In a moment, this room will be full of them."
Gonatas came around the front of the throne and held the dagger to the old man's throat. The blade disappeared into the king's glistening beard and Gonatas could feel its point pricking the flesh.
"Kill him, and let's be gone," Coronea said.
Demetrius' eyes moved wearily to Coronea. They were heavily bagged, bloody red showed beneath them. He looked back to Gonatas. "I always supposed the traitor to be one of my councilors, betraying me for coin," Demetrius said. "But it is not coin with you, is it, Gonatas?"
"It is revenge, Father. For Mother..."
Demetrius began laughing. "Your mother has been dead for years, but only now do I find a blade at my throat."
From behind the door at the end of the corridor, they began hearing footsteps and the clatter of arms.
"Gonatas," Coronea shouted. "Finish him and let's go. Give me the dagger and I will do it."
"You are a child, Gonatas," Demetrius went on. "It is not revenge that brings you here. It is love. It is this girl and nothing more." He laughed again, scornfully, hatefully.
Gonatas grabbed him and flung him to the floor. He fell on his back and Gonatas was on him in an instant. His dagger hand shook and he could feel the blade slide into the king's flesh. Demetrius jerked, groaning, but Gonatas held him fast. He had only to give it a little shove and it would be over. Sweat from his brow dripped onto his father's face. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth.
"Though it would be a mercy to you and to the world, I cannot kill you," he said, his voice shaking. "But I pray to the gods someone will."
"Gonatas! Kill him! Kill him!"
"Pray to the gods all you like," Demetrius said, chortling. The man was mad. Did he even know his life hung in the balance? "I have no use for your gods, Gonatas. I have Pylia now. Look at you! Your hair is streaked white and your voice is tremulous--"
Though they could not see it, they heard the door burst open and the tramping of running feet. Gonatas struck Demetrius on the temple with the pommel of his dagger. The king's head fell limp.
Gonatas started running. He grabbed Coronea as he dashed past her.
"You should have killed him," she said as they ran.
"Gods help me." He could not keep his voice from shaking.
Dusk had not yet settled over the city, yet the streets of the Prathian capital, Serusi, were curiously empty. Xanthippus glimpsed faces peering out of windows and through cracks in doors. The only citizen in full view was a little boy playing in the street. As the group neared him, a woman dashed from a house, scooped him into her arms and whisked him away indoors. Xanthippus shot Nydeon a look. He hadn't expected a parade, but neither had he foreseen entering a city of ghosts. Nydeon shrugged and Xanthippus saw Thalen and Myrtilus anxiously scanning the rooftops on either side of the road. The twenty Guardsmen they had brought with them merely followed along behind, the clopping of their horses' hooves echoing through the empty streets.
"The people are fearful," Lyssa said.
"Perhaps they think we are Shadow Riders," said Xanthippus.
"They think you are Menleco." The name stuck in Lyssa's throat. Xanthippus knew the people detested Menleco. It was not for nothing that his own father, the former king, Cleonomus, had disinherited him. He had been cruel and hateful even as a young man. The Prathian people felt themselves cursed with him. "Whenever he came to the city, it was for no good," Lyssa went on. Her voice dripped with hatred. Xanthippus was a little taken aback by it. What she must have endured at Menleco's hands made him long for revenge. "The people would see his troops camped outside and it usually cost them coin - or worse, if he let the men run free. They hated Menleco. They hated his Prathian Guard and his Shadow Riders equally."
Xanthippus ground his teeth. It had not always been that way. The Guard had always been the pride of Prathia, not its bane. How many times had he ridden at Menleco's side through these same streets and not even noticed the fear and the loathing? He had been so full of those things himself that he had been blind to it in others. If it had not been for Xanthippus always at Menleco's side, perhaps someone would have killed him long ago.
"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Xanthippus said.
The street was wide enough for them to ride four abreast. Nydeon rode next to Xanthippus. He turned and regarded him dryly. "Without the Guard, he is as good as dead. You have deprived him of them and destroyed his Riders. What more could you do?"
"It is enough for me to be free of him at last," Lyssa said. Xanthippus had no doubt of that. It should have been enough for him too. "He stole me out of my bed. I can still see them, the grinning skulls gazing down at me when I opened my eyes. They were like demons of the night. They took me to him without a sound, one of their stinking hands clamped over my mouth. That was the last I saw of my dear uncle. For over a year, Menleco held me captive..."
Lyssa's voice trailed off with a quavering hitch. Xanthippus thought back. It was Menleco extracting pain from King Areus, Lyssa's uncle, for a kingship that should have been his. Thankfully, it had been a Shadow Rider operation, and not the Guard's. Kidnapping was not beneath the Riders. He wondered what he would have done had Menleco ordered the Guard to take her, instead of the Riders. By rights, Lyssa should have hated him as passionately as she hated Menleco. He remembered when she had begun appearing in his company, the unhappiest lady he had ever laid eyes on. He had fallen in love with her - thoroughly, completely, helplessly - but he had been unable to say a word.
Xanthippus sighed. "The people will honor us when they know he is gone," he agreed. "But I would feel more peace if I had witnessed him expire, especially with his blood on my blade."
Nydeon shot him a stern look. "It is done, Xanthippus. He is gone. You have destroyed him. It is over."
"I would have liked to see him dead."
Above the rooftops, they could see the palace on its hill, flanked by towering colonnaded temples. It was constructed of yellowish limestone, rose-colored in the dying sun. In a strip under the eaves of its peaked roof were colorful bas-relief images of gods and heroes. When Xanthippus' party turned a corner toward the palace, they found the street blocked by a line of horsemen wearing full armor and carrying spears at their sides. Xanthippus held up his hand and the party came to a halt. Two of the horsemen detached themselves from the line blocking the street, and rode forward slowly.
Both were strong-looking, square-jawed Prathian men. Xanthippus nodded at them as they approached. They replied with grim expressions.
"Who are you and what are your intentions here?" the leader of the two men asked.
"I am Xanthippus, leader of the Prathian Guard. I seek an audience with King Areus."
The man narrowed his eyes. "I recognize you. You are Menleco's man, and the Guard is no friend of Serusi. The king has no use for you."
"You have me wrong, friend. I was Menleco's man, but no longer. I have come to return the king's niece to him, the Lady Lyssa." The man craned his neck and regarded Lyssa suspiciously. Xanthippus could see some of the fire fade from his eyes, but his wariness ran deep.
"No doubt demanding ransom--" the man began, but Lyssa herself cut him off.
"Stand aside at once," she commanded. "Menleco is no more. These men have saved me from him, and now I want only to return to Areus, my sweet uncle."
The man glanced in confusion at his companion and then back at Xanthippus. "You are not sent by Menleco?"
"Menleco no longer commands the Guard," said Xanthippus.
"We are free of him," Lyssa said. "We no longer need fear him."
The man's hard expression melted away. He bowed his head. "We are ecstatic at your return, my lady. Your...absence was a black stain on our honor."
When he raised his head, Xanthippus could see that the man felt his words deeply. "In truth, I bring Areus more than his lovely niece. I am returning to him the Guard itself. I mean to restore Prathian honor, sir. All of it, your stained honor and mine lost."
"Lead us to him," Lyssa commanded.
The man bowed his head again. "At once, my lady." He gave rein to his horse and hurried back to his men, followed by his companion. The leader shouted orders and in a moment Xanthippus' party found themselves trotting unimpeded toward the palace.
It had been years since Xanthippus had last seen King Areus. His hair had grayed. Flecks of white powdered his temples and streaked his beard. He was taller and leaner than Menleco but had the same thick neck and his face bore enough similarity to the general's to remind Xanthippus that the two were kinsmen. Areus, however, immediately conveyed a feeling of warmth and kindness. Xanthippus could quickly see how it was that the Prathian people loved him. However difficult the decision and bearing whatever bitter fruit, it seemed to Xanthippus now that old King Cleonomus had chosen his successor wisely.
When Lyssa saw him, she dashed across the floor towards him, her arms outstretched. Tears sprang up in Areus' eyes.
"Lyssa! You have come back to me!"
He stood a head taller than his niece did and when she crashed into him, he lifted her and twirled her around. The room was full of their laughter. When he set her down, he turned to the four men who had escorted her into his presence.
"And I have you men to thank for this. Is this true? Please, identify yourselves."
Xanthippus stepped forward and knelt on one knee before his king.
"I am Xanthippus, a loyal man of Prathia," he said as he lifted himself from his knee. "I am but a simple soldier honored to find myself in your presence, Majesty. This" - he swept his arm back towards his group - "is Myrtilus, son of Anzellus, an officer of the Guard and a true son of Prathia." Myrtilus dipped his head, as did each man in turn as he was introduced. "Thalen, our friend, an honored warrior of Irrylia, and Nydeon, like me, a soldier of the Guard. We have come to deliver to you not only Lyssa but the Guard itself."
The king scoffed. "The Guard itself..." He thought for a moment. "And which do you value more, Xanthippus?"
"Which do I...value? I do not understand, Your Majesty. What do you mean?"
"What are your terms?" the king snapped, his voice becoming angry. "Surely, you are demanding some reward, or some... It is known to me that your troops are camped outside the city. The Prathian Guard is not known for offering up gifts--"
"Uncle Areus!" Lyssa cried, cutting him off. "It is not like that, not with these men!"
Xanthippus stiffened. "Sir, I would like to tell you that Menleco is dead, but, in truth, I don't know where he is. But I do know that he no longer commands the Prathian Guard and his Shadow Riders have been destroyed. Those troops camped outside the city are not Menleco's - they are yours. I want nothing in return."
"This man" - Lyssa flew to Xanthippus' side and grasped his arm - "saved me from Menleco. His friends destroyed the Shadow Riders. I was there, Uncle! The Prathian Guard love Xanthippus. You should have heard them cheering. They did exactly as he bid them. He is their leader now."
"The Guard serves Prathia, Majesty," Xanthippus said.
Areus' eyes darted from Lyssa's happy face to Xanthippus. He was no different from the king's guardsman in the city - his suspicion ran deep. "You have returned Lyssa to me, and for that, the crown owes you much, Xanthippus."
"The crown owes me nothing, King Areus, but the restoration of Prathian honor. I will accept nothing less. If you must have one, then that is my demand."
"I'm afraid Menleco's ransoms and extortions might have been easier to pay. He has taken the Guard far down an evil path. I fear it will be no easy matter to bring it back."
Nydeon stepped forward. "I disagree, sir. The men are rough, but it was their leadership that made them what they are. Leadership can bring them back."
"The men yearn for it," Myrtilus said, taking a position at Nydeon's side. He had fifteen years on both Nydeon and Xanthippus and his career as an officer gave him an authoritative bearing.
"Now, you I know, Myrtilus," the king said. "That is to say, I knew your father before he passed, and I would readily trust his son, an officer of much experience. Could you lead the Guard back?"
"I earned my crest under the command of Xarhux when he united all of Gyriece," Myrtilus told him, holding out his helmet to show the transverse crest that marked it as that of an officer. The brilliant white horsehair contrasted starkly with the night-black lacquered bronze of the helm itself. A man wearing it could be seen for miles amid a sea of black Guardsmen. "When the Conqueror moved on to attain his immortality, I stayed behind and entered the "Prathian School." This was before the days of Menleco, so I know what it is to be an honorable Guardsman. There was no higher calling and Xarhux valued no soldiers more. We were famous the world over."
"Then you are our man!" Areus exclaimed. "It is just as I would have supposed of a son of Anzellus."
Myrtilus smiled and shook his head hopelessly. "While I know the value of who I am, Majesty, I am also keenly aware of my limitations. Aside from my little slice of the army, I am no great leader of men. I see what is before me, but that is all. Plans and ideas I have like any other man, but they lie dormant in my head, while men like Xanthippus give them life and spur men like me to finally act on them. That is how the Guard came to be free of Menleco. That is how the Lady Lyssa came to be rescued from him. It is Xanthippus who should lead the Prathian Guard. I believe the men would follow him - just as I did when finally prodded into action."
"It is true, Uncle," Lyssa said. "You do not know the hardships I endured." With a pained expression, Areus reached out his hand and stroked her hair. "Xanthippus saved me, not once, but twice, without even knowing who I was. He risked his life for me. And I loved him before I knew who he was. Now I am devoted to him."
Areus laid a hand on Xanthippus' shoulder. "You are well-loved, sir. A lucky man." He looked beyond Xanthippus abruptly. "Nydeon! What say you?"
"I say Xanthippus should lead the Guard. I have known him my entire life."
"He should lead it, but you should not?" Areus asked.
"Yes," Nydeon said
"And what about you, young man, honored warrior of Irrylia?"
"My name is Thalen and I love the man. I would follow him anywhere."
"Would you follow him to sack Serusi? This is what I wonder."
"We fight for Prathia," Xanthippus said, with just a touch of impatience. The man had suffered greatly at Menleco's hands, his confidence and pride had been shattered. His beloved niece had been stolen from him and he had no means to retrieve her. "The men followed Menleco out of fear. They will follow me because they know I understand who they are. I am one of them and I will lift them out of Menleco's darkness as I myself have been lifted out of the abyss. They yearn for it, sir, as Myrtilus says. With the help of these men who stand before you, I will return the Prathian Guard to its rightful place of honor."
"Then the Guard is to be the walls of Serusi once again as in days past?"
"Under Menleco the Guard was an instrument of terror and fear."
"And under Xanthippus?"
"The Guard shall be restored, King Areus."
Areus stared at him for a moment, considering the sincerity of his words. Then he turned and strode away with his hands clasped behind his back. "These are dark days, Xanthippus. There is war in the north. We will soon have need of walls."
"Dark days indeed, Your Majesty. We have been traveling with the Epirians and we have seen that their war is unending. Whether our walls be stone or flesh and bronze, Prathia cannot stand by while the Epirians fight alone for their lives. As it is, they fight without walls, with nothing to armor them but their courage. Irrylia has conquered Epiria and now invades Sethaly. Is there any doubt they will march on Prathia next? We must join with the Epirians before Demetrius brings his full might to bear on them. They cannot stand alone against him for long."
Areus turned. He looked tired and worried. "But who has the strength to oppose Demetrius?"
"No one," Xanthippus answered. "That is why we must join the Epirians. Together perhaps we can stop him. The Epirians believe their king is returning. They fight with great moral conviction."
"Hurrus! I have heard this, too. I knew King Arrhus, of course. But the boy Hurrus...I would not trust a Tygetian, no matter his bloodline."
"Would you trust him less than Demetrius? This king, Hurrus, will not return without an army at his back. When he sees that it is Areus who helps him win his throne, Prathia will find herself with a much-needed ally, perhaps a powerful one. Perhaps a very powerful one."
Areus sighed. "Much-needed, indeed. Already we have received reports of Bearded Men raiding our villages, rumored to be the vanguard of a large force."
"Then we must move at once," Xanthippus said. "Gorgeo must be informed so he can mobilize his people as one, and we will fight at his side. I will assemble the Guard and take it north to meet the Irrylians."
"This is what we will do," Areus agreed. He clapped his hands and a messenger rushed to his side. "We will send Riders to Gorgeo." He spoke softly to the messenger and the man scuttled out of the room quickly. "But there is nothing to be done tonight, Xanthippus. Tonight we shall celebrate the return of Lyssa. Tomorrow, there will be time enough for war."
At first, Xanthippus felt irritated at the needless delay, but as the sky darkened and they dined and enjoyed singers and musicians, the happiness in the room made him quickly forget his dismay. Areus was right. There was little he could do that night and there was no harm in enjoying a few moments. He was back in Prathia, after all. Lyssa was beautiful. Her smile was so constant that he scarcely recognized the sullen girl he had come to know in Menleco's presence.
After dinner, he bathed in the great palace bathhouse. As he lay in the steaming waters, he found himself thinking of the immense fat man in Tygetia. Sotheb, the man was named, repulsive and corrupt. He remembered the cursed ape and how Nydeon had tried to converse with it and that made him laugh.
Then he saw the giant urn of the water heater.
A little fire burned beneath it and a ladder rose to its gaping mouth. There is something clogging the apparatus inside, Xanthippus. He screwed his eyes shut tight. His spirit climbed the ladder and took a hesitant look inside.
He slammed his fists into the water, startling the servants.
Gods be damned! Can't I have a moment's peace?
He felt no peace until later that night when he was alone with Lyssa in her chambers. He stood at the balustrade overlooking the bay. The moon was low on the horizon and its reflection wavered placidly in the black water below. A warm breeze flowed over his body under his loose-fitting robes, the richest garments he had ever worn, smooth and soft. His hair and beard had been daubed with scented oils and he wore soft, cloth sandals.
"It is funny to think that Isala lies out there somewhere, beyond the curve of the horizon."
He felt Lyssa's hands slip around his waist. He half-turned and saw her beautiful face close to his. She had fixed her hair in a complex weave bound by an ivory comb at the back of her head, giving her a regal look. He smiled and turned back to the sea. On the crest of the dark headland that enclosed the bay a temple stood black against the sky, moonlight visible between its columns.
"Isala has special meaning to you, Xanthippus?" Lyssa asked.
"It is the land of my birth," he said. "It is strange to think that the same water that laps on our shore touches that coast as well. It makes it seem so close, and yet it is removed from me by an ocean of time. No mere sailing ship could ever land me on its shore."
Her arms tightened around him. "'Xanthippus,'" she mused. "It is an unusual name."
"It is Isalan," he said.
"And what does it mean?"
"In the Old Tongue, it means 'man of pain.'" Xanthippus felt embarrassed to say it aloud. He chuckled thoughtfully. "Isala is more ancient than even Tygetia. They still worship the bull there. They call him Kunuum. He lives in their labyrinths."
"Labyrinths? Just as those beneath our own temples?"
"Yes. Prathia inherited them from Isala. Here, the temple priests illuminate them with everflame, but some of the labyrinths on Isala are so old they have gone dark. I knew them well and could walk them by heart, even the dark ones."
"Alone? The very idea of it makes me shiver."
"Fear was my companion for many years, Lyssa. When I needed a place to hide, I could bury myself in Kunuum's labyrinths. I got to know them well."
"A place to hide...from what?"
"I was a child and thought I could hide from my fear. Instead, I found it. I learned one thing down in those dark mazes. I learned that the bull does not stalk the labyrinths through which the priests lead processions under everflame torches. The bull inhabits the dark ones, the ones the priests have forgotten. I know, for I have seen him."
Lyssa pulled him tight to her. "Now you are frightening me!"
Xanthippus turned, laughing. He held her close. "I don't mean to scare you. It is funny what causes one to remember. It was your palace bathhouse that set me off. Now I am stuck with these memories until they go away. We will speak of it no more."
"But I want to know of you," she said. She laughed lightly. "I will be brave. Tell me of this bull."
Xanthippus chuckled again. "Oddly, I was not afraid of the dark. I embraced it...and it embraced me. I could not see my own hand before my face, nor any wall before I stumbled into it. After a while, I would say that I could walk the maze with my eyes closed, but the utter darkness made that redundant. No one could ever find me in my hiding places, and yet I suspected I was never alone in them.
"One day, I knew I was not alone. Footsteps followed me. When I moved, they moved with me. When I stopped...silence. It did me no good to turn and look, though I squinted hard behind me. It did me no good to cry out; I received no answer. But when I moved, it followed and when I ran, it ran after. Finally, I gave up and just sat at the base of the wall. I waited for the thing - whatever it was - to crash into me, but nothing happened. I listened but heard only the pounding of my own heart. My pursuer had gone silent, but I could still feel it nearby. It was watching me, and as I sat there in the dark waiting for it to eat me - or to do with me as it would - I could feel the thing's warm breath on my neck. By gods, if I had lifted my hand, I would have touched it, but I dared not.
"On the wall above me, there was an old extinguished everflame torch. It must have still had a dollop of the stuff in it for at that moment it flared up suddenly, illuminating the entire corridor in a blaze of red. That was when I saw him, the bull man, his face just inches from my own." Lyssa shrieked and he could feel her jump. His own skin prickled at the memory of it. "He was staring at me with his great blind stone eyes. The flame died out and I jumped up and ran as fast as I could, no longer hoping to die. Not if that creature had anything to do with it."
"Were you just seeing things?" Lyssa asked, hopefully. He remembered thinking the thing he had seen was death itself. He did not know why. Why would death appear in the shape of a bull-man? He had had no answers, but he had always imagined a similar vision might occur to a drowning boy in his last moments. From that time onward, he knew that he did not want to die - and he would kill to avoid it.
"Demons live in shadows, my lady," he said. He ran a knuckle along her smooth cheek. "Best to keep a flame lit."
"I think you must have been having a nightmare. Perhaps you had gone down into the dark maze and fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing. You were just a boy. Is that possible?"
"If it was a nightmare, it torments me even while I'm awake, for I just saw the bull man again in Tygetia," Xanthippus said.
"Again?" Lyssa gasped. "Say it is not true!"
Xanthippus laughed. The fear that showed in her face somehow made him less afraid. It seemed silly when he spoke it aloud. "Nightmares, dreams and visions. Probably just a memory of the black maze, a demon that lives in some shadow of my mind."
He sauntered into Lyssa's chamber. Braziers burned low on either side of her canopied bed. The breeze from the veranda made the diaphanous curtains flutter slightly as if a ghost had passed through them. He poured them both cups of wine from a decanter. When he turned, he could see her shape where the moonlight filtered through her gown. He felt a stirring inside him.
"The Tygetian bull man saved a man's life that night," he said, handing her a shallow drinking cup. "So...I don't know. No matter. I'll not be going to Isala or Tygetia again any time soon. There are no monsters for me here."
"Not since you destroyed Menleco perhaps," Lyssa said, taking the cup. "I fear there may be more monsters in Gyriece than just some abandoned old gods." She sipped thoughtfully, and then looked up. "Tell me what you know about the girl who is called the Huntress."
"The Huntress?" Xanthippus repeated in surprise. "The earthbound Veronysia." He couldn't help smiling.
"I knew it! You are in love with her."
"What?" Xanthippus felt his face redden. "I traveled with her group. As a captive."
"Her real name is Coronea. I was with her when Menleco sent her to her death. Can she be saved?"
He shook his head sadly. "I don't know. Men went to rescue her, but...I don't know."
"I knew you had been traveling with her, but you didn't, though. Go to her, I mean."
"I had to rescue you," Xanthippus said with a smile.
"I can see how a man would fall in love with her."
Xanthippus found himself nodding in agreement. "She never believed I was a slave," he said.
Lyssa looked puzzled. "Who would ever believe that?"
"For many years, Lyssa, I did. But not Coronea..."
"I would never believe that." She put her cup down. "I want to be as brave as she was...is. I will make you love me, too."
"Oh, but Lyssa, I do. I would give anything if Coronea were still alive, but it is you I love."
"I want to share your fate, Xanthippus. And that of your army and of Prathia itself. I am a Prathian woman, strong and brave as any other. When you march tomorrow, take me with you. Please."
Xanthippus started to object, but he stopped short when she reached behind her head and removed the ivory comb. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders.
"The fate of a woman would be much worse..." he began to say, but now she twisted the clasps at her shoulders and her gown fell to the floor. She stepped out of the fabric that had pooled around her bare feet. Xanthippus took her gently into his arms.
"I will take you with me wherever I go," he promised.
And he covered her mouth with his.
Kunuum was speaking when Hurrus arrived at the temple.
The altar fire was burning and peasants filled the courtyard, grasping their little offerings under their arms, their lambs and their bristling jars of wheat. A trio of priests scurried up the steps while two more rushed down. Hurrus strode through them, taking the steps two at a time. In astonishment, the priests stopped to let him pass. Xandros and Jorem dashed after him, pushing the startled priests aside.
"Jhar!" Hurrus bellowed as he passed beneath the 30-foot-high Kunuums that flanked the entrance. His voice filled the chamber. Every priest in the place stopped to look. The interior of the temple seemed pitch black after the brightness of the day outside and it took a moment for Hurrus' eyes to adjust. The giant columns cast shadows everywhere he looked. He strode boldly past them. "Jhar!"
Hurrus could hear Xandros calling behind him, but he paid him no heed. A simpering little priest stepped into his path from behind one of the pillars. He recognized him as Hersut, the rat-catching priest.
"My lord, please!" the little man said, laying his clammy palms on Hurrus' chest. "You are in the Temple of Kunuum. He is speaking. You must..."
He regarded Hurrus' bandaged head with a puzzled look and when he saw Xandros and Jorem striding out of the gloom towards him, he left his words hanging. He took a step back and regarded the trio in fear.
"Where is he?" Hurrus asked.
"Wh-who?" Hersut stammered.
"Your master. Where is he?" Hurrus looked over the little man's head into the gloomy hall beyond. "Jhar!" he bellowed.
His eyes darted from one corner to the next. He spotted Jhar ascending a set of steps in the rear of the hall. His head appeared and then his shoulders. Hurrus pushed the little rat-catcher aside and strode towards the high priest, his mind a blur.
"What is all this fuss?" Jhar was muttering in irritation as he trudged up the steps. "Doesn't anyone realize that Kunuum is speaking..." He looked up to see Hurrus coming right at him and his eyes went wide. Hurrus grabbed him by the collar and hurled him up against the wall. The high priest was a long slender man and Hurrus lifted him from the stairs easily. Xandros was shouting again, but he did not care.
"No more lies!" Hurrus hissed into Jhar's face. "I will be Bathed in Blood, priest. I will be as Xarhux" - he fumbled at the hilt of his sword, finally drawing it and holding the blade to the terrified priest's throat - "or you will die right here in your own temple."
He could feel his chest heaving, the sound of his breathing heavy in his ears. Once he felt Xandros' strong hands grasp his shoulders, he realized that a madness had seized him. He allowed Xandros to pull him away from the priest. Jhar almost collapsed from relief. He stood against the wall and closed his eyes, covering them with a trembling hand.
"You heard the prince. Speak up, priest," Jorem snapped. "He commands you--"
"It is all right, Jorem," Hurrus said gently, resheathing his blade. "We will respect the house of Kunuum. Let us give the priest a moment to collect his thoughts so he can speak sanely to me. I will tolerate no more lies, Jhar."
"But I have told you no lies, prince," Jhar said. He straightened, composing himself and at once his face became a blank slate. Torchlight caught the jewel set in the center of the golden medallion he wore around his neck, his black eyes glittering. This was the Jhar Hurrus knew from Nadia's tomb, a man whose tongue dripped lies.
He closed his fist around Jhar's medallion and pulled the chain until the priest's face was but a hand's-breadth from his own. "I will tell you right now, it is madness to lie to me," Hurrus rasped. He released the medallion and Jhar fell back against the wall.
Fear had replaced his cunning expression.
"Ask of me what you will, prince," he said. "You shall have all the answers you desire."
A wailing voice shattered the quiet behind them. A shiver ran through Hurrus at his recollection of the sound. It was the Faceless Man. In a moment, they heard him speaking the words of Kunuum, the unknowable syllables spilling rapidly out of veiled lips spitting blood.
With a look of shock, Xandros ducked as if the words were darts aimed at his ears. "Ye gods!" he cried. "What on earth is that?"
Hurrus had recovered quickly. "That is the Faceless Man uttering the words of Kunuum," he said, knowing that Xandros' puzzlement would go unrelieved by his explanation. He felt a sudden coldness regarding the interpreted words of the bull-man.
"That is Kunuum answering the prayers of--"
"We have no interest in this blabbering, Jhar. It is a small god who troubles himself over such petty little requests, such pathetic appeals for mercy from the likes of those who clog your courtyard..." Jhar winced.
"This is the voice of a god?" Xandros asked in amazement.
"This is a farce," Hurrus snapped. "The real Kunuum speaks elsewhere, doesn't he, Jhar?" That was what Jhar had been trying to conceal from him, what had been on the tip of his tongue, what he had wanted to tell him, but did not dare. "I seek only what Xarhux sought. I shall hear the words of Kunuum. I shall hear them as Xarhux did, not spilling from the tongue of some veiled charlatan, but directly from the bull-man's own lips."
Jhar's face grew suddenly grim. "You don't know what you're asking, Hurrus. If it were just a matter of speaking and listening, I would gladly relent - gladly! - but it is so much more. You don't understand..."
Hurrus reached for the hilt of his sword. "I understand that you will die if you do not show me." His hand was shaking as he fumbled with the grip.
Jhar angrily swatted Hurrus' hand from his sword before he could draw it. "You want to see? So be it! I will show you - and gods have mercy!" He started down the steps. "Well, if you are so eager to die, come with me," he called back over his shoulder when no one followed.
The base of the stairs was lost in a sea of blackness. Jhar grabbed a torch from the wall. As he descended, the darkness seemed to part before him. Hurrus had never seen a man so angry. He stomped down the steps, muttering to himself. Near the bottom, he turned with such fire in his eyes that Hurrus, even in his own madness, was taken aback. He pointed a long, bony finger at Hurrus' bandaged head as if making an accusation. "This is your temple, after all. You have fought and bled for it. It is yours. Do with it as you will."
Hurrus traced a path with his fingers along the gash in his scalp, feeling the ache through the bandage. "I have fought for no temple," he said.
"You fought for this one," said Jhar. "Why do you think the Sarian god-king brought his army to Tygetia? What prize but death is to be won out in Hathor's desert? It was the Temple of Kunuum he wanted. All who know of its secrets, covet it. It is best you killed him, for he would not have stopped. I fear you will not either."
"Kunuum would have devoured him, had I not," Hurrus said, speaking words that entered his head unbidden. "His occupation of this temple would have profited him nothing, for he is not a Son of Kunuum as I am."
"You are no Son of Kunuum," said Jhar with just a hint of a joyless laugh. "Not yet, you're not,"
He came to the bottom of the steps and led them through a wide corridor that ended at an arch that had been bricked over. The corridor walls and arch were of rough stone, hewn from the living rock beneath the temple. In comparison, the bricks and mortar might have been laid yesterday. Torchlight flashed in Jhar's eyes as he passed the flame across the face of the brick wall. Out of the darkness behind them, they could hear the low mutterings of the Faceless Man, his voice reaching their ears by some trick of acoustics.
"What is this, Jhar?" Hurrus asked, turning to see no adjoining corridors in any direction. "A dead end? Is that what you have brought me to? I see nothing but a brick wall--"
Jhar shushed him. He put his ear to the bricks. "Listen!" he whispered.
The group grew silent for a moment. "I hear the mutterings of your veiled man, Jhar--"
Jhar held up a warning finger. "When Kunuum is speaking, you can hear him..."
"Riddles!" Hurrus snapped. "Damn you, priest! You speak in circles!"
Jhar shot him a heated look. "Inside, you fool! Shut up and listen!"
Hurrus pressed his ear to the cold bricks, but heard nothing. "I will not be pacified by tricks, priest..." He let his words fall away. From behind the wall came a kind of skittering sound. He pressed closer. He heard a distinct footfall, and then another. Someone was behind the brick wall, walking towards him. Then he heard a loud clacking and clicking and he could feel the sound vibrating in the bricks. He pulled his ear away in alarm. Whatever was inside stood just on the other side of the wall, separated from him by a mere hand's-breadth of brittle masonry.
"He moves," Jhar said in a kind of dreamy ecstasy. He gently pressed his palm to the bricks where Hurrus' ear had been as if he could feel the heat of whatever stood on the other side. "It is Kunuum. He moves."
"Is there a way in?" Hurrus asked.
"My lord..." Xandros began. "Hurrus, please...I beg you to leave this place. Let us leave the gods lay--"
"This god does not lay," Hurrus shot back. He snapped a look at Jhar. "Is there a way in?"
Jhar ran his hand almost lovingly over the brick, his long knuckly fingers rising and falling over the uneven structure. "This wall has been rebuilt only once. You see the bricks at the base here." His torch traced a path through the air just above the floor. The bricks were pale with age, the mortar dry and brittle. "They are a thousand years old."
"And up above?" Hurrus asked.
"Myletos would have nothing to do with this place," Jhar said. "He was like your large friend here. 'Let the gods be,' he said. The wisest of all Xarhux's men was Myletos."
"Myletos is no Son of Kunuum. He has no divine blood."
"No," Jhar said reflectively. "No, he is not...and he has not. You are right. It was your father, Hurrus, who...urged me down here. Much as you are doing now, only with...less anger."
"My father!" Hurrus cried.
"Your father, yes. And his brother, Xarhux." Jhar uttered a thoughtful little chuckle. "I could not tell them apart, the twins Arrhus and Xarhux. Not until after Xarhux began wearing Tygetian garb, the blue headscarf. It is after him that the Mejadym pattern themselves." He looked appreciatively at Jorem.
"You brought them here?" Hurrus asked. "Xarhux himself? To this wall?"
"The wall had stood for a thousand years. When originally sealed, there had been no temple above this archway, no giant Kunuums, no courtyards full of supplicants, just a hole in the ground. At first the ancient priests expanded it, paved it and built archways and passages. Later, in their wisdom, they bricked it up and buried it. Alas, they could hide it, but could not make men forget it. Kunuum would not let them. A temple was built where the gasses rise. These vapors were found to be the mind of a captive Kunuum and our Faceless Men trained in breathing them and speaking Kunuum's voice. So it stood for a thousand years until Xarhux learned of it. He would not be happy until he had peered inside."
"Xarhux stood on this spot?" Jorem asked.
"Indeed he did," Jhar said. "And I with him. And Arrhus, too. Xarhux was holding a torch just as I am now. It was Arrhus who did the hammering. A strong man, Arrhus' hammer bit into the ancient brick, chipping away at the wall, piece by piece. The first brick to fall inward released such a pent up wind that Xarhux's torch went black. We worked for some time in the utter darkness to relight it. While we worked, we could feel cold air issuing from that space in the wall where the brick had broken free. Even through the darkness, something watched us through that gap, something ancient beyond telling and cold as death itself.
"It was with much relief that we were finally able to relight the torch. When the light burst forth from the flame once again, we saw that it was just a black hole in the wall where a brick had fallen and nothing more. Nothing had slithered out of it and nothing peered at us through it. We all laughed nervously in great relief. Hammering, Arrhus expanded the hole and then made it larger still. Soon it was large enough for Xarhux to reach his torch inside."
"What did he find?" Hurrus asked, transfixed. He scrutinized the wall, trying to see the spot where his father's hammer had broken through. He felt he was standing on hallowed ground.
"Nothing," Jhar said.
"Nothing?" Hurrus exclaimed, deflated. Certainly, Jhar would not have brought him this far for nothing. "Then why seal it at all if there is nothing inside?"
"Nothing at first," Jhar finished. "Xarhux reached the torch inside. This time, the flame guttered but held. The hole was just large enough to fit his head through as well as the torch. When he looked in, Arrhus asked him, 'What do you see?' His reply was just what I have told you. 'Nothing,' he said. Our hearts sank. 'Ours,' I say, because I was no passive bystander, make no mistake. To be sure, I never would have descended these stairs on my own, but once here, I wanted it as much as anyone. To see inside Kunuum's tomb, the first eyes in a thousand years--"
"He saw nothing at first, you say?" Hurrus urged Jhar back to the point.
Jhar did not miss a beat. "'What do you see?' Arrhus asked him. 'Nothing,' came the reply. From my position alongside the wall, I could just make out the profile of Xarhux's face, lit in the torchlight. Suddenly, I saw his eyes light up. There was such a look of awe in his expression that I became excited and fearful at once. Arrhus asked him again 'What do you see?' and this time Xarhux replied, 'Marvelous things..."
Hurrus waited, but Jhar said no more. "What things?" he asked. "Jhar! What things? What did he see?"
"No one knows," Jhar said helplessly after a moment. His voice cracked with anguish. "Arrhus continued to hammer. As soon as the opening was large enough for Xarhux to crawl inside, he did."
"And no one followed him in?"
"He would not allow it."
"That would not have stopped me," Hurrus said.
Jhar regarded him coolly. "At this time, Xarhux had united all of Gyriece by the sword and he had conquered every land between. And he did so for one reason - to crawl through this wall." Jhar patted the bricks. "No one would dare defy him, not even his own brother. I daresay, not even his brother's son would have done so."
Hurrus stiffened. "You might be surprised what his brother's son would do. Xandros!" Hurrus called. His voice seemed to desecrate the silence of the space. He wondered if the thing on the other side of the wall could hear him. He hoped it could. "Those workmen in the temple...Go fetch us a hammer. Two of them."
"Hurrus, I beg you," Xandros said. "This is madness..."
"Go!" Hurrus commanded.
With a parting look, Xandros disappeared into the gloom. In a moment, they could hear him climbing the stair.
"Madness it is, Hurrus," Jhar said. "I have not told you yet. While it is true that no one followed Xarhux inside, Xarhux did come out. And when he did, he was--"
"Mad!" Jorem finished for him. Hurrus snapped his head around. "It was this place that caused him to go mad, that caused him to turn on the Mejadym." Jorem's eyes darted all around as if Xarhux's mad ghost inhabited every corner and crevice of the rough-hewn walls around them.
"Xarhux was not mad," Hurrus insisted.
"He wasn't when he went in," said Jhar. "I knew the risk, but I made no move to stop him, I said not a word. I knew...I knew...but I could not. I had to let him go..."
Hurrus looked from one man to the other in disbelief. "Jhar...Jorem...What is this nonsense? Xarhux mad? I refuse to believe it."
But in fact he had heard this before. Nadia had always made a distinction between the men who had entered Tygetia with the Conqueror from those who had left. In one of her most lucid moments, she had called Hurrus' companions 'the sons of men who have never known what it is to follow a madman.' Her words still rang in his ears.
He did not believe it then; he would not believe it now.
"You cannot tear down this wall, sire," Jorem said. "It is what the Mejadym feared in you - the madness of Xarhux. It is a great evil."
"The man who came out was not the same man who went in," Jhar said. "After he left, I sealed this place up as you see it now. I built this wall with my own hands, each brick resisting my will to place it. Even now, a part of me wants to peer inside, to take up the hammer and smash it down." Jhar's chin sank to his chest and he shook his head miserably.
Hurrus scowled, feeling only shame for these two, for their misery and their pleading expressions. Were they not even men? "What is this? Are you cowards? I will have what Xarhux had - not madness, Jorem," - he could do nothing but spit the name, so repulsive did it seem to him now - "but power. Xarhux was Bathed in Blood - by your own words, Jhar! - and he left here to conquer the entire world. Not in madness - but with the strength of a thousand men. Is it fear that moves you, now? Is it cowardice that makes you call strength madness?"
"And what would you call this?" Jorem turned and spread his shoulder blades, broadening his back. Above the linen bandages that wrapped his torso, Hurrus could see a tangle of thick welts left by the lash, so numerous in places that the flesh appeared to have been burnt in flames. "After all we did for him, this was how he repaid us, delivered by his own hand. I was just a boy, but strong - stronger than the others." Supposing Hurrus had seen enough, he turned back. "He rounded us up, Hurrus. Some he tortured, some he just had a little sport with - we, who served him! He seemed a giant in my eyes. I cowered from the lash and the more I cowered, the larger grew the whip, and the larger grew the man. I was seeing visions before I passed out. The last I saw of Xarhux, he was laughing through my torment. The man I loved, the savior of Tygetia. He was a laughing bull-man who towered over me. I had seen nothing like it until...until Kerraunus, when I doubted my own sanity. I still do, when the lash cracks..."
"He became cruel and bloodthirsty," Jhar added, when Jorem's voice failed him. "He had put to death some of his own generals whom he believed plotted against him. Loyal men who had endured many hardships for his glory and who would have followed him anywhere. He tortured confessions out of them. When he left here, all were happy to see him go."
"It is no coward who fears what is in there, sire," Jorem concluded, having collected himself.
"Or what comes out," Jhar said. "Death or madness awaits those who enter, Hurrus."
"Or great power," Hurrus said, unmoved.
"Or great power," Jhar agreed reluctantly. "No man can tell you which."
"But men can tell you that I am a true Son of Kunuum. Can't they, Jhar? Your Faceless Man saw it - and your Mejadym knew it too, didn't they, Jorem?"
Jorem bowed his head. "The Mejadym feared your strength, Hurrus. We saw Xarhux in you. We love and fear him to this day. Power coupled with madness..."
Jhar laid a palm against the bricks. "Beyond this wall is what the ancients called 'The Blood Gate,' so named after the condition of the first men who dared enter. The bodies of those it spit out were truly bathed in blood. It is a portal to the land of the gods...or so it is said. The first ancients to enter were spit out, bloody corpses, the last - an initiate into the order of Kunuum - never came back at all. His body remained as if in sleep, but his spirit was gone. He woke only long enough to scream as though in great pain. The ancient priests kept him alive. Finally, counting his spirit irrevocably lost, they allowed him to pass from starvation. After that, they sealed it and the seal held for a thousand years."
"The weak enter and die," Hurrus said.
They heard footsteps approaching in the darkness. "I could find only one hammer," Xandros said as he stepped into the light of Jhar's torch.
Xandros passed the long-handled sledgehammer to Hurrus. He grasped it with one hand and the hammer immediately plunged headfirst to the floor with a dry clank. It would take a strong man to wield such a tool. Hurrus hefted it with two hands and gave it back to Xandros.
"Xandros," he said, "you are my Arrhus. Bring this wall down."
"Hurrus, I beg you..."
"Do it!"
Xandros angrily spit in his palms and lifted the sledge, gripping it near the head and towards the end of the thick wooden handle. He reared back and swung. A cloud of mortar dust erupted from the wall and chips of broken bricks fell to the floor.
He reared again, his muscles straining, but before he could bring the hammer down, Jorem seized the handle and tried to wrench it from his grasp.
"I cannot allow this." Jorem's voice was a deep rumble. Hurrus saw the white of his clenched teeth flash inside the nest of his black whiskers. Xandros' arms were too strong for him and the larger, younger man wrestled the hammer free, throwing Jorem to the floor.
"You have no say here," Xandros snarled. He had been distrustful of Jorem from the first moment he had ridden into their lines. Xandros was no Tygetian and Hurrus knew he resented Jorem's constant presence among them. "This is no Mejadym matter. I'll let you know if we need a hired blade to slide a shiv between someone's ribs."
"You'll regret that remark," Jorem said. He rolled onto his elbow to lift himself from the floor, but Xandros kicked him down again.
"The wall is best left intact, but if the prince wills it, I will tear it down. And you will shut your mouth and watch me do it."
"I would be little more than a criminal if I let you kill this boy..."
Xandros' face turned red. In a single powerful motion, he brought the hammer down. Jorem rolled out from under the massively heavy blow. The hammer cracked the stone where just an instant before Jorem's head had rested. He sprang to his feet, and stood before Xandros, wary and unarmed. Xandros let go of the hammer and drew his sword. The hammer stood erect on its head, its handle quivering. He took a step towards the Mejadym man. Jorem turned and ran into the darkness, stopping just before he was lost to sight.
"I'll not die to stop you, but neither will I be party to this madness. If you want to kill yourselves, go ahead."
He turned away and they saw him no more.
Without a word, Xandros sheathed his sword, took up the hammer and swung at the wall, his anger fueling the might of his blows. He clenched his teeth and swung once, and then twice more, hardly pausing. Dust swirled and chips of broken bricks littered the floor at his feet.
When he rested, sweat was already glistening on his bulging arms. "You say I am your Arrhus," Xandros growled, his chest heaving. "Well, you can believe it. For, like him, I will not be following you inside, either."
He reared back again and brought the hammer crashing down, taking another bite out of Jhar's wall.
Xandros' hammer crashed through the wall into empty space. When he tried to yank it back, the head stuck. He turned it this way and that as he pulled and each time the head caught on the bricks that framed the opening. Finally, he leaned forward and heaved back with all of his strength. The hammer broke free, bringing a trio of cracked bricks crashing from the wall with it.
Hurrus felt a sudden blast of cold air. He pushed Xandros aside and tried to peer through the opening. He could feel the air, but he could not see a thing through the swirling motes of dust. Spitting the dust from his mouth, he stepped back to give Xandros more room. The opening was too small.
Three or four more swings of the hammer was all it took. Hurrus grabbed the extra torch Jhar had fetched for him and rushed to the hole. Inside, he saw a corridor no different than the one in which he stood, leading off into darkness.
His heart sank. What had he expected to see? Treasure? Or perhaps Kunuum himself? Whatever marvelous things Xarhux had gazed upon were nowhere in sight now.
"Give me a hand. I'm going in."
He gave Jhar his torch and Xandros braced himself and bent his knee, giving Hurrus a platform to step up. Hurrus climbed onto his knee and then pulled himself into the hole to the waist. He paused to balance his weight, and then heaved himself through. Inside, he fell gently to the floor.
Jhar's torches cast an orange glow through the hole into the corridor where Hurrus stood. Certainly, he had sensed something within, a presence of man or beast. He moves... Jhar had said. But it was as disappointing from this side of the wall as it had been from the other. Hurrus considered that there was a chance that whatever had been entombed here for a thousand years Xarhux had set free.
Or unleashed.
If anything remained of the Blood Gate, it was in there, he thought, peering into the darkness.
"Jhar, my torch," he called, reaching back through the opening. "And not a word," he added quickly in warning. Silently, Jhar handed him the torch, perhaps remembering that the last man to protest had had a hammer crack stones that, but for good fortune alone, might have been his skull.
Hurrus turned to Xandros. "Wait here for me," he said. "I'll be right back."
"Hurrus..." Xandros began.
Hurrus turned and walked quickly into the darkness, the torch lighting his way.
"Hurrus, I beg you to reconsider." Xandros' words chased him through the dark tunnel. Hurrus did not look back. He was following the path of Xarhux now, step for step. For a thousand years, no man but he had walked this ground. No man but Xarhux - and now Hurrus, both to lead armies out of Tygetia. "What you are doing is foolish..." The words were small and weakening, growing as dim in his ears as the pinpoint of light that shone through Jhar's wall. "Hurrus!" By the time he turned the corner, the sound had faded away completely.
He was alone in the dark tunnel, its rough hewn walls splashed with the orange light of his torch. He heard no sound and he saw no hint of movement nor felt any presence. The corridor was wide enough that even with his torch burning he could not see both walls at once. Thus, he walked close to one side, letting his palm feel the contours of the cold, rough stones as he passed. Touching them, he felt tethered to a safe mooring as though the darkness beyond was an unknown black sea. The floor was by turns bare earth and crumbling pavement. Undisturbed dust coated the dressed stones wherever they had not crumbled away. For a moment, he entertained the idea of scouring the floor for footprints, to find the very steps of Xarhux himself. His own feet left long skid marks in the dust, so surely Xarhux's steps could still be seen...
But he dared not venture away from the security of his wall. Who knew what he might find out there in the black void - Xarhux's steps veiled in a thin coating of dust or giant cloven hoof prints, clean and bright? He cursed his cowardice. If anything had wandered these halls after Jhar's wall had gone up, he did not want to know of it. Best to leave the night to unknown terrors.
And to the voices...
...to the voices that began whispering in the darkness beyond the light of his torch. The sound was so faint, the voices so numerous and intermingled that he could not make out a single word so that he believed it was a stray wind finding its way through cracks in the ceiling or walls and not voices at all. But there seemed to be intelligence behind them. When he stopped and squinted into the darkness, the sounds abruptly ceased, as if he had caught them discussing him. When he resumed walking, the whispering led him deeper into the blackness.
His hand followed the wall until he found his fingers grasping a corner. An opening had been carved out of the solid rock and he saw that it led into a bleak chamber. He stepped up onto a platform and stood beneath a stone grating that emitted faint light and a hint of fresh air from above. He knelt, passing his torch over the floor. He saw that it was stained with a black spattering like spilled paint. Then it dawned on him. He was standing where acolytes had been bathed in the blood of the slaughtered bull. It was what Jhar had described as a corruption of the ritual. He held his torch high above his head and could see calcified drippings hanging from the slats of stone, like little black stalactites. The chamber was rough and unadorned. He could easily imagine blood spilling down upon him from above, and for a moment he thought he could smell death, too.
He left the chamber and continued along the corridor. After a time, he no longer felt the rough grittiness of bare rock beneath his fingers, but smooth stone and neatly chiseled lines. When he looked he saw a wall of polished blocks filled from floor to ceiling with ancient picture writing, colorfully painted. Only skilled priests could ever hope to decipher it. Hurrus felt uneasy in its presence as if such arcane devices could only convey sinister magical spells and only a lunatic would carve them with such exuberance and precision. The floor was now solid and he found sconces set in the wall holding cold torches. He tried to light them with his own, but they fell away to ash at the slightest touch.
The end of the corridor lay just ahead. The picture writing spilled from the walls onto the floor here. Patterns of geometric shapes covered the stone tiles, triangles and circles, symbols which Hurrus thought must be meant to represent the earth as the stars on the ceiling depicted the heavens. He was studying them when he suddenly became aware that he was not alone. A shape stood in the gloom at the end wall.
A shape that resolved itself into the form of a man.
A bull-man.
He lifted his torch with a start and the light illuminated Kunuum in stone, standing in inscrutable silence, painted in the colors of life. Hurrus chuckled at the jolt the thing had given him. Yet, it was so lifelike, he wanted to press a finger into its stone-flesh to see if there was any give to it. This one left him with the same impression as the giant bull-men at the front of the temple - that he could step away from his wall and move freely as he willed it.
If so, it had been a while since he had willed it, for the fingers of one hand were frozen in a circle around some missing object that had either rotted away to dust or had been stolen by ancient robbers. Either way, Kunuum had not bothered to procure himself a replacement, and Hurrus found it oddly comforting that he had not been able to prevent the loss of the original, whatever it had been.
The giant temple Kunuums watched the countryside for miles around, but this one watched a simple opening in the wall, an ancient archway that led into a chamber to Hurrus' left. When he investigated it with his torch, he was overcome with a feeling of dread. The archway itself had been bricked over at one time. Broken bricks still clung to the frame of the opening like bad teeth. The rest had been smashed in and cleared away long ago. Hurrus suspected the ancients of sealing more and more of the tunnel and chambers as the years went by. It might have been that the wall Xarhux had broken open was only the latest of many.
He felt he was close to the Blood Gate now. The whisperings were behind him, no longer enticing him on, but pushing him forward. He thrust his torch under the arch and the small chamber inside burst into view.
Kunuum knelt on the wall, ten feet high, sowing stars from his fist. They seemed to spring from his fingers, a fountain of stars filling the wall and spilling onto the ceiling. Releasing souls to the heavens, it was the same depiction of the bull-man that he had seen in Nadia's tomb. On the wall opposite stood Kunuum, the Deathbringer, holding a golden staff against the black field of a starless night. His sightless eyes had a somehow satisfied look, his belly full and his jaws smeared with the blood of the damned.
Now was the time for second thoughts.
A man-sized marble slab stood hopefully beneath the star-sowing Kunuum, deceptively silent and plain. What rituals had been performed here? Hurrus ran his hand over the smooth cold stone. Should he lay upon it, as seemed to be its purpose? Had Xarhux lain here? Had the soulless acolyte who had screamed in pain? He decided against it. He needed no priest to tell him that when the acolyte laid upon the stone, the time for second thoughts had passed. He preferred to keep his options open.
On the third wall was another black archway leading to...nothing. Hurrus passed his torch across the opening, but no light penetrated its blackness. It was not a solid wall, but neither was it a passage to another chamber or corridor beyond. Carefully, he poked the torch into the opening. It vanished as thoroughly as if it had been lopped off by a razor and the chamber became dark as night. He pulled it back with a start. The torch reappeared as out of thin air, burning as brightly as before. The wall itself was of living rock, the carefully laid bricks of the archway a mere façade decorating a natural fissure. He knew what he had found. Not the passage to another chamber, but a portal to another world. The doorway to the land of the gods.
The Blood Gate.
His torch had gone in and come back out. Would it be any different for him? He stuck his hand in this time. It disappeared to his wrist, lopped off as neatly as had been his torch. He pulled it back, wriggling his fingers, none the worse for wear.
Did he dare enter?
Xarhux had dared.
And when he had reemerged, he was...
(Mad!)
...more than a man.
Hurrus stepped forward. Of course, he would go in. He must be not only as ten men, but ten thousand. Where but the Blood Gate could this be made to happen? His leg was sliced off at the thigh and then he was engulfed in blackness.
He could not see his feet. The ground beneath his sandals was spongy and mist coiled around his calves like clinging vines. As he continued to walk, he could not tell what time of day it was, nor from what direction the sun shone. Shadows lurked behind the moist haze, murky masses of trees, black heaps of rock, a ruined temple. Where was he?
Hurrus whirled.
He expected to see the backside of the archway, but he saw only a gray sheet of fog. Panic gripped him and he ran to where the opening should have been. Perhaps the fog was thick enough to hide the passage. He made it only a few steps before his foot caught on a root or stone and he fell splashing to the sodden ground. By his reckoning, he should have fallen right into Kunuum's chamber. He looked up but detected no trace of an archway or temple wall. Rising to his feet, he waved his hands into the mist and felt nothing but damp air swirling through his fingers. Apparently, getting back was not to be as simple a matter as leaving had been. The time for second thoughts had passed.
He turned back around, thinking it must be the way forward, though, in truth no direction appeared different than any other. There was no path to follow and no landmarks, except perhaps the shadow of the ruined temple. He walked toward it.
He could make out little more of it than a skeletal line of columns atop a shallow platform. Weeds had sprouted up in the cracks of its paved courtyard and one of the fluted columns had toppled over and had rolled to the base of the steps, where it lay covered in moss.
A shadow darted between two of the columns.
Another shadow detached itself from the gloom of the temple floor and seemed to peek at him before flitting away.
A murky heap he had taken for an outcropping of natural rock opposite the temple turned out to be a jumbled pile of masonry stones. He felt a presence there, but when he snapped his head around to look, he saw nothing but the hazy outline of a tree that had grown among the blocks. That was when a shadow flitted again between columns.
His eyes darted from the stones to the temple in consternation. Wraiths moved behind the veil of fog all around him but only when he looked away. When he looked directly at a thing, he detected no movement at all. He could not look everywhere at once.
"I see you there," he called in no particular direction. "You're not frightening me." But saying it aloud only made him feel afraid. He reached for his sword and found that it was gone. His sword belt was missing. Could it have been wrenched from his waist when he had fallen? Was it possible?
He took a step and immediately plunged to his chest in a hidden bog. His legs were mired in muck halfway to his knees. A pair of snakes slithered out of the reeds at the edge of the pool, gliding soundlessly through the water. He tried to lift his foot out of the sucking mud, but it was loathe to release him.
He suddenly felt as if he were in a dream. The snakes swam towards him but he did not fear them. He beat his arms in the water to scare them away, not out of fear, but...he did not know why. One vanished. The other latched onto his forearm. He tried to shake it free and the snake flailed through the air. In the next instant, it was gone and he could see the red pinpricks its fangs had left behind, seeping smears of watery blood. He sensed what had just happened was not a good thing, but he was not particularly afraid.
"Were they real?"
"Did you not feel the fangs?"
"I feel fangs just as painful in my dreams. Do you not experience sensations that you know are not real?"
"I do not dream. Neither do I sleep."
"Tell me then: what kind of snakes were they?"
"The one that bit you was a Tygetian asp, a species favored by Mejadym assassins. The other was harmless."
"Then I will be dead soon."
"Who will not?"
"If I die here, do I also die...back there?"
"Dead is dead," said Kunuum.
"Then I will kill you quickly, as I may not have much time."
Kunuum walked down the steps. Hurrus could see its shape through the fog, but could make out none of its features. He was a gray shadow of a bull-man walking towards him carrying a long staff. If not for its horns, Hurrus might have thought it was just a man.
"Why do you wish to kill me?"
"It is what I must do." He was certain of it, though he did not know why. He pulled one of his feet free of the muck and twisted at the waist to grab hold of the solid bank. He was not going to accomplish much mired in the bog. "You know as well as I do," he added, struggling to find purchase for his freed foot.
"You make it sound so easy," said Kunuum.
Now, Hurrus could just make out the shadow of its horned head peering at him over a stand of reeds across the pool - a bull-shaped shadow emerging from a reed-shaped shadow. Over on the jumble of toppled stones, the ibis-man sat writing something in a parchment scroll. His human legs were crossed and Hurrus could see his long, curved beak.
"Perhaps you could help me out of here," Hurrus said, a little impatiently.
"You're doing fine, Eagle Man."
"So you know who I am?" He found a rock lodged in the bank and, grasping tufts of weeds in his hands, put his foot on it and began lifting himself out of the water.
"I know all who come to defeat me."
"Have any ever succeeded?" Hurrus pulled himself up onto the bank. Climbing to his feet, he turned and found Kunuum towering over him. It jabbed Hurrus in the stomach with the tip of his staff. Hurrus fell to the ground, pain coursing through his body. When he opened his eyes, Kunuum's hooves dominated his field of vision. Tufts of fur spilled over the tops of them. The ibis-man was writing vigorously on his seat of jumbled stones.
"What is he writing about?"
"He is recording the day of your death," Kunuum said. He whacked Hurrus across the bridge of his nose with his staff. Wincing in pain, Hurrus rolled away in the wet grass. He bound to his feet and immediately ducked under the staff as it came swinging through the air at him. Kunuum said, "He keeps very precise records."
Hurrus could tell when the ibis was looking at him. It would stop writing and cock its head so that Hurrus could see the shape of his curved beak in full profile.
"Does he say whether I die from asp venom, or your damned staff?"
"He does not record the future, only events as they occur."
"I might yet survive then," Hurrus said with a smile. He could feel a warm trail of blood flowing from his nose, and tasted copper on his lips.
"That depends." Kunuum took a short, hard swipe at Hurrus' face, then with blinding speed whirled and swung at Hurrus' head. Hurrus dodged it, losing his balance and falling to one knee. The blow had the force of death behind it. Hurrus sprang to his feet, backing off.
"On what does it depend?" he asked, going into a defensive crouch.
"On whether or not you have the Creator in you." Kunuum swung again, but this time Hurrus stopped it dead in the palm of his hand. The bull-man tried to pull it free, but Hurrus held it fast.
He grinned. "I am of divine birth," he said, wrenching the staff from Kunuum's grasp. Quickly and powerfully, Hurrus swung but felt his attack shudder to a halt with a dull crack of wood. Kunuum had deflected the blow, once again holding a staff in its hands. From where it appeared, Hurrus had not seen.
"Divine birth," the bull-man scoffed. The creature was expressionless, but Hurrus could hear laughter in its tone. Its eyes were blank orbs of stone. It regarded him coldly, sightlessly. Man, beast or god, Hurrus was suddenly uncertain. He felt fear and confusion. "You are demonspawn," the thing said. "Sired by demons so numerous, no one can trace your true lineage."
"You speak lies!" Hurrus drove the point of his staff into Kunuum's stomach so quickly the bull had no time to react. It doubled over and Hurrus delivered it a blow to the side of the head that knocked it from its feet. He felt the end of his staff clatter against the thing's horn and he saw blood glistening in its ear. Hurrus did not know how he could tell from Kunuum's expressionless face, but he did know: that was not supposed to happen. The ibis cocked its head and then started writing.
"The bird records the day of your demise," Hurrus said, circling the prone bull. His fear had vanished. "That is real blood you feel trickling out of your ear, bull-man."
"You cannot destroy me," Kunuum said. "I have been defeated before."
Hurrus continued to circle him. "Have any ever profited from it?"
Kunuum lashed out and struck Hurrus' ankle with his staff. He sprang to his feet, jerking the staff up through Hurrus' legs. An instant later, Hurrus found himself plunging out of midair to land flat on his back, breathless.
Kunuum slammed his staff down where Hurrus' head would have been had he not managed to roll away from the blow. He wrapped his arm around Kunuum's staff and yanked it from the bull's grasp as he climbed to his feet.
Hurrus threw Kunuum's weapon aside. Was that fear he saw in the creature's blind eyes? "Why do you seek this power?" Kunuum asked, stepping back.
"You don't know?"
"I have seen only one other like you."
Hurrus jabbed at Kunuum's face, then feinted to one side while delivering an uppercut slash that spun the newly reappeared staff from Kunuum's hands. Then he launched a flurry of blows to the thing's chest and head, enough to kill a man. The bull-man fell to one knee.
"You have seen none other like me," Hurrus countered.
Hurrus reared back and swung, but Kunuum caught the staff in its hand and pulled Hurrus in close to its face. Hurrus stood nose to snout with the thing.
"You ask if any have profited?" Kunuum rasped. "I tell you the answer is no." He gave a hard shove and Hurrus, staff and all, fell to the ground. When he tried to reach for his weapon, he found Kunuum's hoof painfully astride his forearm. Kunuum knelt down beside him and spoke close into his ear. "If you look carefully, you will see the shades of men who have tried to defeat me." Hurrus thought of the figures flitting at the periphery of his vision. He thought of the bodies of men with lost souls. He struggled to rise, but found himself pinned to the ground. "Some I spit out for the priests to tend to. Some I allow to remain here with me. They have long since abandoned the fight. But you? I have a feeling you would not abandon the fight. As a Son of Kunuum, you shall live in me. I will keep you here, and you shall live in my belly."
Horrified, Hurrus watched as the bull-man opened its jaws and lowered its head. He felt the flesh of his chest squeezed as if in a vise and then he screamed as it was ripped from his body. When Kunuum looked up again, its snout was red with his blood. It grasped Hurrus' arm in an iron grip and placed his hand between its teeth. Hurrus could not move. Kunuum had only to tighten his jaw muscles slightly and Hurrus would lose his sword hand at the wrist.
"Do you mean to eat me?" Hurrus asked.
"I saved you once, when dark men had come to kill you. That makes you mine."
"You?"
"You are a Son of Kunuum, are you not?" Kunuum's words echoed inside Hurrus' head. They did not issue from the bull's lips. "I know why you seek this power. It is always the same. It is because you know against what type of men you'll have to fight."
"Yes, but do you?" Hurrus answered. He felt the teeth begin to dig into his wrist. He opened his hand wide, straining his fingers. He felt his hand expand inside the bull's mouth, pushing back at the clenching teeth, until it had grown to twice its normal size. The creature had no inkling of what was about to happen to it. Its blind eyes remained as impassive, as insentient as the stone from which they had been carved. Hurrus' hand continued to grow - three times and then five times its normal size until Kunuum's jaw broke free from its joints and Hurrus' fingers exploded through the creature's skull, showering him in its blood.
When Hurrus stood, he towered over the diminutive form of the headless bull-man. He cast his eyes upon the ibis, who stopped writing and cocked its head to peer at Hurrus out of one of its eyes. "Put that in your ledger," Hurrus said, and stepped back into the chamber of the two Kunuum's, the sower of stars and the Deathbringer.
He found that he needed no torch now. The tunnels through which he had fearfully groped just moments before were bright as day. He found his own footprints, skid marks in the dust, and he retraced his steps back the way he had come. Seeing the faint torchlight from the opening in Jhar's wall, he walked toward it and the meager light of the flames faded in the radiance that preceded him down the corridor. Xandros' face appeared in the opening, his eyes widening in fear and amazement. He backed away slowly and Hurrus kicked through what was left of the wall.
When he saw him, Jhar let his torch fall to the floor and he pressed himself tight to the rough stone wall, his arms splayed. "By the gods!" he gasped. "What have I done?"
Hurrus looked down at Xandros. "Follow me to Epiria," he said, and Xandros knew he had no choice but to leave the temple with him.
Menleco's eyes darted from the figure of the archer on the ridgeline to the rider in the valley below. The horse trotted heedlessly across the valley floor while the archer above drew her bowstring. He knew what was about to happen, but was helpless to prevent it. He also knew who the archer was, even from across the valley.
She made such a perfect picture - the mounted archeress targeting some distant foe - that he felt he might be watching a scene staged by the famed Cleonander himself: Veronysia lighting the sky with a shaft of gold.
Only the shaft she fired did not inspire love in the heart it pierced. Far from it.
The horse's back legs buckled and the beast fell to its knees. In a cloud of dust, the rider disappeared under its bulk. Menleco imagined he had seen the arrow arcing all the way down into the horse's haunch, though he knew he was too far to see any shaft just as he was too distant to hear any sound. It seemed strange to him to witness the death of the horse and the toppling of the man in silence. Yet no sound reached his ear. From his point of view, the horse had simply been trotting up the long slope one moment and falling onto its side the next, its legs kicking up a cloud of roiling dust. It would have seemed pointless and surreal had he not glimpsed the mounted figure on the ridgeline opposite him.
The Huntress.
In one way, her presence hearkened him back to a simpler time when he could still be moved by a skillful playwright, when the mythic could be made to seem real and beautiful. In another, more urgent way, the Huntress filled him with a presentiment of doom. He imagined not only the arc of her deadly shaft, but also the line of her vengeful gaze that stared him straight in the eye. If not for an unassailable range, he knew her shaft would have flown at his heart rather than at some nameless scout who had carelessly ridden within the reach of her bow.
The rider rose out of the dust thrown up by the black heap of his dying horse. He began scampering up the slope on foot, casting anxious glances behind him as he ran. To him, death fell unseen out of a clear blue sky. How terrifying, Menleco thought. The Huntress did not string another arrow, but just sat there, looking...
...at Menleco. He was sure of it - hearkening back to a simpler time, indeed. To a time when it had been her life or his. Only now, he was certain it would be his. He watched her ride away, first her horse's head and then hers vanishing below the ridge.
"They know we are here," Raulon said.
Lost in thought, Menleco heard the sound of Raulon's voice, but failed to catch the words.
"They know we are here," Raulon repeated. "What are your orders, sir?" He paused, waiting, but receiving no answer, asked again, "General, your orders?"
"Coronea is with them," Menleco answered, shaking off his reverie.
"So?"
"So, it bodes ill," Menleco snapped irritably. "I delivered her into the hands of the Irrylians, and yet here she is opposing us."
"She is slippery. I will give her that."
"Slippery enough to escape the Irrylians' witch - and that is slippery indeed."
"Good for her, I say. We were lucky to escape ourselves, if you ask me."
Menleco cast his captain a sidelong glance. "We have not escaped yet," he said.
"Then maybe we're on the wrong side of this valley," said Raulon. "Did you ever think of that?"
"I have thought of everything, Captain. If Coronea is over there, then so is Xanthippus...and so is Lyssa."
"But isn't that what you wanted? Xanthippus you will kill, and Lyssa you will take as your queen when Prathia spreads her legs for you." Raulon chuckled darkly, enjoying his own imagery.
"Then why do I feel death approaching?"
Raulon shrugged and Menleco watched the dismounted rider continue to scramble up the hillside. The threat to him was long gone, but he still ran a zigzag course, peering over his shoulder.
"I fear one of the Huntress' arrows is destined for me," Menleco said.
Raulon's laugh was clipped short by Menleco's hard look. "Is there anyone who is not trying to kill you?" he asked dryly.
Before Menleco could answer, an Irrylian officer galloped over a crest behind them.
"Deploy your troops, General," he called, riding towards them. He reined up and handed a parchment down to Menleco. The aging general opened it and saw the deployment order scribbled in Nachtus' clumsy hand. No writing instrument would fit comfortably in his gigantic fingers, so his written orders were often an impenetrable scrawl. Menleco folded the note neatly and slipped it under his leather cuirass.
His Prathians were to occupy the extreme left of the Irrylian line, a dishonor to which his men were illused. Yet Menleco would not complain. They had been traveling inside Prathia for three days now and during their long march through Epiria, Menleco had done all he could to avoid the giant, remembering the feel of his thick fingers around his throat.
"Then I will be facing the Prathians," he said, knowing Xathippus' troops would occupy the enemy right, the place of honor. Coronea's appearance on the ridgeline confirmed it.
"Facing, but not fighting," the officer said, glowering down at him. Menleco knew the Irrylians hated him. During the coming fight, he vowed to watch his back as well as his front. "General Nachtus expects the Prathians to lay down their arms - as you promised, General."
"Lay down their arms? They will run to me. They are my men." He recalled how the Guard had ceased their attack on his Shadow Rider camp at the mere mention of his name. Surely, they would not allow themselves to be commanded by the lowborn usurper Xanthippus when Menleco stood before them. Turning their arms against the Riders was one thing - perhaps he did not even blame them - but they would not turn on Menleco. Not the Guard. They had been his for twenty-five years, and all had profited under his leadership. What greater profit would they know when they were commanded by the king himself? King Menleco, that is. This was what he would convey to them.
"And they will fight for Irrylia?" the officer asked.
The man's question was a challenge. Menleco saw only sneering disbelief in his expression. He itched to tell him the truth, that he would first turn the Guard on the Irrylians, if he had a chance, and be rid of this oaf officer and his dolt of a giant commander as well.
"Of course," Menleco said.
After the officer had gone, Menleco ordered Raulon to bring the troops forward, a bare 2000 men, a meager force with which to face Xanthippus' Guard, 20,000 strong. When he saw the rest of the Irrylian army boil over the hillside - blocks of spearmen, archers and javelineers, wedges of cavalry and wave upon wave of implacable Bearded Men - he felt like a captive, caught between poor choices. Nachtus alone, he thought, would have deterred most armies from taking the field against them. Even among the throngs of soldiers, the giant was impossible to miss as he tramped down the hillside at the head of his force. The sword he carried was as tall as some men, and the Irrylians' peculiar Bearded Men followed faithfully behind him like a huge pack of hunting dogs. Across the wide field, the ill-equipped Epirians seemed to gaze upon him in awe. Menleco could feel their fear.
He did not begin to feel his own until he saw the great black mass of the Prathian Guard filling the slope before him. They recalled a swarm of hornets, he thought. He would not have liked to be the one to plunge his hand into their nest, as to a man he knew they were seasoned killers. But they were his killers, by gods, and he would have them back.
"They will see in a moment that they are opposed by Menleco," he said. The valley was full of sound - the clatter of arms, the tramping of feet and hooves, the barking shouts of officers. Nachtus' voice seemed to rise above them all, a deep booming thunder like the beating of a war drum. Amid such a clamor, Menleco did not blame Xanthippus' Prathians for not noticing him yet. They continued to sort themselves out on the sloping ground, arranging themselves into bristling lines. Their steel spear points reflected the sun amid a sea of black armor and cloaks. Menleco had never been on the business end of the Prathian array, staring down the point of Prathian spears. He realized that he had never fully appreciated what it felt like to stand against them.
Raulon approached, leading two horses and handing Menleco his helmet. "Your helm, sir."
Even from this distance, Menleco could discern the Prathian officers by the brilliance of their helmet crests. His own was snow white and extended from ear to ear across the crown, ending in long braids that hung down past his shoulders. There was not a Guardsman alive who would not recognize it at a glance. He placed it on his head and mounted up. Raulon mounted beside him and handed him his spear. Menleco held it aloft as he peered across the field toward the twenty-thousand. He saw them begin to stir as men pointed him out to one another and shouts rose from their lines. Behind him, Menleco heard his own men begin to murmur.
Despite the heat that had sweat trickling down his cheeks and the back of his neck, he smiled under his helm. "To a man, all they are and all they have, they owe to me," he said.
Raulon made no comment, instead pointing out Xanthippus on the far slope. The crest of Xanthippus' black helm was composed of alternating bands of red and white, the red catching the eye like a spot of blood. "There is your man," he said, with little feeling.
Menleco gazed across the field at him and felt his anger rising. What had attracted his eye, however, was not so much the pretender Xanthippus as the figure in the white gown that rode alongside him: Lyssa. "He has brought her to the battlefield with him," he said contemplatively. "He rubs my nose in it."
"Is that the lady Lyssa?" Raulon asked, intrigued.
"I will leave him with what I found him with. Nothing!"
"First the Huntress, and now your lady," said Raulon. "We are opposed by women, General. Things will not end well for them. Look at the Epirians." Raulon gestured toward the left of the enemy line where the Epirians stood, the bulk of the enemy force. "They are poorly armed and virtually unarmored. I don't know about you, General, but I wouldn't be too eager to fight the Irrylian giant and his Bearded Men, I can tell you. I pity the poor bastards. If Xanthippus thinks he can keep his women safe--"
Menleco was only dimly aware of his captain. "The boy was little more than so much stinking flotsam when I found him washed up on these very shores." He gestured toward some distant beach beyond the horizon to a sea that lapped both Isalan and Prathian coasts at once. "By rights, I could have had him hanged. Now, look at him! Commanding my army, with Lyssa at his side. If I could have seen the future--"
"How many men would you have hanged?" Raulon asked grimly, seeming to know the flow of Menleco's thoughts.
Menleco shot him a sidelong glance. "More than you can count, believe me," he answered, making clear by his tone that he was proud of it, too. He could see that Raulon's curiosity was more than academic. If Menleco had any faith in what he saw of the future at that moment, Raulon might just be the first to dance to the hangman's tune. When he saw that Raulon understood more than just the flow of the general's ruminations, he thought of adding, "No offense," but found that he did not really care.
"Raulon, signal a parlay," Menleco said after a moment. "I will speak with Xanthippus and I will claim what is mine."
A few minutes later, under the white flag, Menleco led Raulon and a party of his surviving Shadow Riders into the field between the two armies. Leading his own party, Xanthippus came out to greet him. Menleco felt a rising dread. The Guard must have known it was Menleco by now, and yet they stood as firmly in their lines as ever they had under his command. They had to see their faithful general treating with the usurper. Yet not a man of them seemed to be moved. Obviously, he had filled their heads with lies.
When they were still a few yards apart, Menleco called a halt. Of course, he knew all of Xanthippus' men. Flanking him on one side was the veteran Myrtilus, who predated Menleco's command of the Guard. On the other was Xanthippus' right hand, Nydeon, who should have died with him in Tygetia. Arrayed behind them were twenty mounted Guardsmen, all in Prathian black holding their long spears upright at their sides. Inside the crescent of armed men - traitors all - sat Lyssa, resplendent in her white gown. Menleco felt his heart melt at the sight of her beauty, unmarred in his eyes even by the sneering hatred of her expression. But the moment lasted for just an instant when his tenderness was replaced by rage at how Xanthippus had betrayed him. How they all had.
He saw Xanthippus about to speak, but Menleco cut him off before he was forced to suffer the sound of the traitor's voice. "You are doomed men, Xanthippus." His horse must have felt his anger, for it shuffled nervously when he began to speak, and Menleco found himself turning his shoulders to keep the traitors in his sight. "Look around you. You don't stand a chance."
Xanthippus wore an insufferably calm expression. "Is that what you called me down here to tell me? That I am doomed? For I have been told this before--"
"As always, Xanthippus, I only point out to you what is obvious. For the benefit of those who are too dense to see it for themselves." One at a time, he gazed at all of Xanthippus' men, Myrtilus and Nydeon, the men arrayed behind him; he peered directly into Lyssa's eyes. "Perhaps Xanthippus has deluded you with high-minded words. I invite you to cast the scales from your eyes and see for yourself. For your own good." With a sweep of his arm, he revealed the full scope of the Irrylian army arrayed against them, but not a man looked away from Menleco's face. Menleco scoffed at their pig-headedness. "Do I need to point out to you the Irrylian giant, Nacthus? Do you really need me to show you his corps of Bearded Men? And what have you to stand against them? I see a gang of hooligans armed with pitchforks and scythes." He indicated the Epirians on the Prathian left, and was encouraged when he saw doubt creep into some of the men's expressions. He knew he was on the right track. Always appeal to men's fears, he thought. "You call this an army? How long will the Epirians hold your flank against the giant's Bearded Men? How long before you find Irrylian cavalry slamming into your sides? Your lives are measured in minutes. You know what I say is true. I can see it in your eyes."
"You do not see it in my eyes," Lyssa spoke up. "In my eyes, you see only burning hatred. I have come here for one reason: to tell you to your face how much I hate you and pray for your death."
Menleco laughed, though her words cut him like a knife. "You think you are the first to pray for my death? Well, pray all you like. Your hatred of me will be small consolation when Nachtus gets his hands on you, Lyssa. Perhaps, if you are nice, I can convince him to give you back to me. Then you will understand how good you had it and what you have thrown away. I would make you Queen of Prathia."
"I would die first."
"That is your decision, Lady Lyssa," Menleco said. "Though, I daresay, most women would choose Queen over death."
"Have you come to make us an offer?" Xanthippus asked, his condescending manner stopping Menleco short. It was infuriating.
"An offer? Why, yes, I have. I give you the opportunity to offer me fealty as King of Prathia," Menleco said defiantly.
Xanthippus' party broke out in laughter and guffaws. Xanthippus merely smiled. "These men behind me are kings of Prathia, Menleco," he said, gesturing towards his twenty-thousand.
"Kings? Does the realm empty its dungeons to find its kings, now? When you were a boy, I could have had you hanged, Xanthippus. Or worse. The same as all of these...kings of yours."
"Could have? I would even venture to say 'should have'," Xanthippus answered. "Should have while I was still a harmless lad, that is. It is rather too late now."
"You were never harmless. Did you know that Lyssa? This man you follow is one of the vilest cutthroats I have ever known. And you can see the kind of company I keep." He gestured towards Raulon who sat without expression beside him. He looked back to Xanthippus. "I wonder if Areus knows of your 'kings'? And what is in it for them? My army wanted for nothing, Xanthippus. What is it you offer them?"
"Honor," Xanthippus said.
Menleco burst out laughing. "And have your men - my men - had a taste of fighting and dying for honor yet?"
Xanthippus said nothing.
Menleco went on. "At this time tomorrow when Nachtus' Bearded Men are wiping Prathian blood from their swords, will your men's bellies be full and their pockets bulging with honor? Will their hearts be brimming with allegiance to their new leader?" Xanthippus had no answers. Encouraged, Menleco gave heel to his horse and he began riding alone towards the Prathian lines. "I will speak to your men. To my men."
"You're going nowhere," Myrtilus said, reining his horse to block Menleco's path. Half-a-dozen grumbling Guardsmen followed him.
"Let him pass," Xanthippus said. "Let him see for himself that he no longer commands the Guard."
Menleco smiled and rode towards the Prathian lines, leaving Xanthippus and his party behind. The more he considered it, the more he began to believe his own words. These men had no honor. They would fight as long as it profited them to fight, and they would follow a king before a pauper, any day. He could see the men watching him as he approached and he rode towards them until he could see their eyes inside their black helms.
"Men of the Guard!" he shouted. "It is I, Menleco, your commander!" Confident now, he felt his words begin to boil up inside him, but before he could open his mouth, he saw a palm-sized stone arcing at him through the air, a small black speck growing larger as it plunged towards him. Instinctively, he ducked. The stone missed him and instead struck his horse with a meaty slap. The horse reared, and before Menleco knew what was happening, he found himself laying on his back on the ground, dazed and out of breath. When he lifted his head, he heard the laughter of 20,000 men rising into the air as one.
He should have expected such a thing. Some stinking flotsam he should have had hanged years ago. He rose to his feet. "You would follow this pauper," he shouted, pointing a finger at Xanthippus, "when you could be led by a king!"
Another stone, this one aimed at his head and following a flat trajectory, flew from somewhere out of the phalanx. He nearly lost his balance dodging it. More stones began falling all around him. He danced out of their paths as though he were dodging raindrops. The men were laughing and jeering him. A stone struck his helm, making a dull clank. He ran for his horse and vaulted into the saddle, the men laughing. Some even threw javelins now, the shafts quivering in the ground where they stuck.
He galloped away, feeling his face grow red with rage. He saw Xanthippus and his men doubled over in laughter.
He had never before that moment seen Lyssa laugh.
"Xanthippus!" he snarled. He reined his horse, turning to face him. Though he had killed many men, he had never felt such viciousness inside him. "If I break through your lines, you better pray I don't find you. You and your girl."
Xanthippus stared at him with steely eyes, and said in a low rasping voice, "If..." to which his gang doubled over again in laughter.
Menleco galloped away, his men dutifully filing in behind him. He could hear the Guard laughing at him all the way back to his own lines. He reined up to tell his men that they were to give no quarter in the coming battle, when his lines suddenly surged forward. Menleco fell silent, dumbfounded. Had the Guard's shameful mistreatment of him goaded them into attacking? En masse, their lines parted as his soldiers streaked past him.
"Stop!" he cried. The men paid him no heed. They plunged down the slope and into the valley. Menleco turned to Raulon. "What are they doing? Stop them!"
It was then that he heard his men. They were shouting, laughing and calling out to their comrades. In horror, it dawned on him that they weren't attacking - they were defecting. Xanthippus' men lifted their arms and cheered as their comrades raced across the field towards them.
"They cannot do this to me," Menleco cried, looking about desperately as if he should be able to find some way to stop it. "Raulon, they cannot do this to me! Make them come back."
Raulon, who was still carrying the white flag of truce, let it fall to the ground. He turned to Menleco, shrugged, and galloped off across the field after his comrades.
"Raulon!" Menleco cried from his now-empty hilltop, his voice ringing across the battlefield. "Raulon! RAULON!"
Laughing, Xanthippus slapped men on their backs as they scampered past him into his lines.
"Welcome home," he said to them.
"Hail Xanthippus!" the men cried just before their comrades mobbed them. It was amusing to Xanthippus to hear the familiar clatter of arms on armor when it was not the result of marching and battle, but of clasping hands and happy embraces. Not a man was sorry to leave the command of Menleco.
Xanthippus could still see the man sitting his horse alone on the hilltop across the valley. Suddenly, he saw a group of mounted Irrylians ride over the crest and begin to converge on the general. With increasing interest, he watched Menleco prance away as they tried to gather round him. A humorous, silent pantomime, Xanthippus thought. But of what, he could not tell. An instant later, Menleco was galloping down the slope and across the field toward the Prathians. The Irrylians gave chase for just a moment before halting.
When the men saw Menleco coming, angry oaths replaced the sounds of the happy Prathian reunion. Menleco raced up the slope, dismounting before his horse had even come to a full halt. His helmet flew from his head as he stumbled to the ground and fell to his knees.
"Please, Xanthippus, I beg you," he began, a terrified expression on his face. "You must take me in. Do not leave me to the Irrylians."
Puzzled, Xanthippus looked from Menleco's imploring gaze to the mounted men he had escaped on the far ridge. They sat peering across the valley at him. Even from a distance, Xanthippus could see that they were cold-hearted, patient men, waiting to draw steel on their erstwhile ally. Understanding now, he looked back down at Menleco. Here was a doomed man, a troop-less leader lost between two hostile armies. Though he recognized the man's wretched despair, he could not pity him.
"You sent me to my death, and now you want me to save you from your own treason?"
"Yes!" Menleco exclaimed eagerly. "By the gods, yes!"
"And why would I do this for you?"
"For pity's sake," Menleco pleaded. "Do you have any idea what the Irrylians will do to me?" He cast an anxious eye to the men waiting on the far slope.
"Why? Because you did not bring them my head on a pike?"
"No. It is because I did not bring them the Guard. I told them that I commanded the Guard, but I can see now that you do. You have stolen my happiness. Now you will steal my life. I was a father to you, Xanthippus. Does this mean nothing?"
"I have had an unlucky run of fathers, Menleco."
"If you have any mercy in you, make me your captive. But save me from the Irrylians."
Sitting in the saddle, Xanthippus raised his foot and planted the soul of his boot on Menleco's chest and kicked him over. "I have no mercy in me," he said. Then he called for Coronea and she appeared riding her bareback pony around the flank of the Prathian line. "Show our visitor the door."
"Gladly!" Coronea exclaimed, pulling an arrow from her quiver. Menleco had clambered to his feet and stood staring at Coronea as if he were seeing a ghost.
"It is meant for me!" he gasped as Coronea nocked the arrow.
"It is indeed," said Xanthippus. "I suggest you run."
And run he did. As soon as Coronea had drawn her bowstring and Menleco's eyes, as wide as targets, saw the arrowhead pointed at his heart, he turned and ran. Coronea loosed and the arrow pierced the earth right where the scampering Menleco could see it. He let out a scream, changing direction to avoid the shaft of which he seemed to have an almost superstitious terror. His legs pumped desperately, taking short, choppy strides as he raced down the hill, zigging and zagging, as Coronea chased him with arrows. Menleco cried out each time a shaft found the earth at his feet.
"It is cruel sport," Lyssa said, but Xanthippus saw that she was stifling a laugh as she spoke.
From the lines behind him, Nydeon's voice rose above the clamor. "Ten coppers on the Huntress!" he shouted. There was a rush of soldiers towards him.
"I've got three on the general," another declared.
"I'm giving two-to-one," Nydeon called, encouraging bets on Menleco as he happily gathered in handfuls of coins.
Holding their breaths, the bettors watched each arrow Coronea loosed as the shafts arced through the air at the descending general, whose form was rapidly diminishing in the distance. The arrow would land at his feet, the men would hear Menleco cry out as he changed direction and the bettors would groan loudly in disappointment or cheer in approval, depending on where their money was. Nydeon continued taking bets, reducing his odds the further Menleco ran. Finally, when Menleco had reached the level plain below, Coronea loosed and even Xanthippus, who had no money on the outcome, could tell where this one was heading.
"No more bets, gentlemen," Nydeon announced, his eyes following the inevitable shaft as it sliced through the air. An instant later, the bettors erupted as Menleco tumbled to the ground, the arrowhead buried in his thigh. The commotion of payouts followed.
Later, as Xanthippus rode along the lines preparing for battle, he prodded Nydeon lightly with the blunt end of his spear.
"You'll be a target for every Irrylian in the field today," he said. "You jangle like a human coin purse."
Nydeon grinned. "I suckered them into putting their money on Menleco. Not a mistake I would ever make."
"How does that saying go again?"
Nydeon did not miss a beat. "'Given this life, one dreams of revenge'," he said.
"That's exactly the one the I was thinking of," said Xanthippus with a smile. He had witnessed the Irrylian horsemen surrounding the stricken Menleco and sweeping him away over the far crest. He knew what the Irrylians would do to him - the same as Menleco would have had done to Coronea. He also knew that he would sleep well that night, if only the sleep of death, for they were in no way guaranteed to survive the coming battle.
He could feel the grimness in the air, had even seen it in Nydeon's eyes, despite his bulging purse. The Irrylians outnumbered them - badly. They had redeployed a corps of Bearded Men to replace Menleco's defected Prathians. Xanthippus had watched the strange men march over the crest of the opposing hill with a sense of unease that he could not explain.
"They are not natural," Coronea had told him. "The Bearded Men are a witch's enchantment. They do not know fear."
But, Xanthippus thought, they could certainly induce it. He felt his men's anxiety which only grew the more they contemplated the enemy. The Bearded Men stared back at them not only fearlessly but seemingly without comprehension, their vacuous eyes accentuating their inhumanity. Xanthippus was not the only one who felt uneasy. He found Thalen deployed in the front line, dressed in Prathian black, but with a fearful look in his eye. He recalled the lad fighting Shadow Riders and knew he was not a coward.
He tried to make his tone light. "Are you ready for a real 'Prathian Battle' now, Thalen?"
That did the trick. Thalen smiled broadly. "Fuck you, Prathian," he said. The words were music to Xanthippus' ears. Lyssa, riding by his side, blushed.
"The men are crude, my dear," he said. "This one in particular. He has been cursing me since the day I met him."
"Don't make me repeat myself," Thalen said.
To Myrtilus, Xanthippus adopted a more serious air. "I owe you my life, old man," he said, remembering Myrtilus' attack on the Shadow Rider camp.
"Indeed you do," Myrtilus replied. "And Nydeon owes me five coppers. I'll survive this battle just to spite you both."
But it was the Epirians who had to fear for their survival. When the attack finally came, it broke like a storm over their lines. Nachtus led his brigades of Bearded Men straight at the ill-armored Epirians. Many of the men fled at the brutality of the initial onslaught, horrified by the fearlessness with which the Bearded Men fought. They had never faced such a heartless foe. The bronze automatons stepped over the bodies of their dead as though they were mere hummocks of earth, never once pausing their murderous advance. Short of killing them all, there seemed to be no stopping them. Nachtus knew just where to strike. Archers and javelineers swarmed over the unsteady Epirian flank while the Bearded Men cleaved into their lines. Xanthippus watched them absorb the initial shock, despairing to see men streaming away in fear. The line shuddered and bent. He was on the brink of shifting his Prathians to bolster them, knowing the move would unleash the Irrylian left upon him, when the line finally stabilized and held. Only the lateness of the attack and the setting of the sun saved them.
That night around a crackling fire with the pitiful wails of the wounded filling the air, Xanthippus met with Gorgeo and Gonatas and the other Epirian leaders.
"We cannot hold," Gonatas said. "When the dawn breaks and they attack in earnest..." His voice trailed off. His face was grimy and streaked with sweat. Xanthippus had been shocked by his appearance. When he had first met the former Irrylian prince, he had been strong and handsome, vigorous and regal in his bearing. Now, Xanthippus could not help but notice a fearful cast to his eye. His hair was shot through with white. He seemed to have aged twenty years and he spoke in a halting manner, a quavering lilt to his voice.
"They are not men," Coronea said of the Irrylians. "They must be killed, each and every one. They do not break off an attack once it has begun."
"What say you, Gorgeo?" Xanthippus asked.
"We might use the darkness to retreat," he suggested without much conviction. "Though I am weary of running. But Gonatas has the truth of it. We cannot hold. If we fight, we die. I fear the dawn, Prathian."
Xanthippus met his eye across the dancing fire. Deep shadows framed his angular face. He was the iron man, and to hear those words from his lips shook Xanthippus to the core.
He was surprised to hear Lyssa's voice break the silence. "If these Bearded Men are an enchantment as you say, Coronea, then perhaps the spell can be broken."
"Nachtus leads them," Xanthippus said, feeling hopeful. "They are clearly Nachtus' men."
Gonatas had already begun shaking his head before Xanthippus had even finished. "It is imp-p-possible. He cuts down great swaths of men with a single stroke of his sword. He is a f-f-fearsome creature. I hesitate to call him a m-m-man."
Xanthippus felt a rising annoyance. They could not hold, they could not advance or retreat. He had heard enough of impossibilities. Coronea cut him off, however, before he could speak.
"Of all of us, we alone have fought them," she said, thrusting an arm around Gonatas' waist. She looked around the group defiantly. "You will forgive us if we understand the challenge we face."
Xanthippus let out a sigh. "I ask only if you can hold," he said, "and you have answered me honestly. It is the Prathians who will fight tomorrow. But the Epirians must hold. That is all I ask. Lyssa," he called and Lyssa looked at him with an anxious expression, "do you know where Mormaso is?"
"Yes," she said. "I know it well. This is the Mormaso road. The town lies but half-a-league from where we sit."
Xanthippus nodded. "Take Coronea and twenty of my Guardsmen. Speak to the town council in the name of Areus and bring back all the men, young and old, and all the strong young women of the town, along with every shovel and pick they can put their hands on."
Lyssa smiled, happy to play a role more suited to her than to any other in the group. "I know the council, and they know me," she said. "It is done."
"What is the meaning of this, Xanthippus?" Gonatas asked.
"Tomorrow we fight, but tonight we dig," Xanthippus said. He went on to explain to them that they would build a trench in front of the Epirian lines, a trench even Bearded Men might find daunting when backed by a determined enemy whose hearts seethed with hatred. "Do not let any...man...across the trench. I will lead the Guard and sweep the Irrylians towards you. We will crush them between us."
Skeptical, Gonatas averted his gaze. Gorgeo's eyes remained fixed on Xanthippus. "It is cowardice," he said.
"It is your only chance for life, Gorgeo. Do not be so eager to die."
But he did not fault Gonatas for his skepticism. Normally, he could count on the fear and crumbling resolve of an enemy, especially when facing the Prathian Guard. He had never considered the possibility that an enemy would not know fear.
He was in a foul mood when he returned to the Prathian lines only to find that their flank was under attack by flights of arrows issuing from a nearby copse. The men tried returning fire, but shooting through darkness into the cover of the trees, they had no hope of hitting anything. Enemy fire continued unabated.
"The men will never get any sleep tonight with those arrows flying out of the sky at them," Nydeon reported when he had returned. One of the arrows had lodged in his shield. He pulled it out and slammed it to the ground.
"By gods, we're going in then!" Xanthippus declared. It was unthinkable to him that he should have attained command of the Guard just to see it destroyed in its first action, and all of Prathia lost. That this nuisance would be added to the very real possibility of his destruction was more than he could bear.
He and Nydeon gathered up Myrtilus, Thalen and fifty other Guardsmen to attack. They lined up outside the little oak wood and leveled their spears. They would flush the Irrylian bastards from their cover like rabbits.
They could see arrows flying over their heads, thin black streaks barely visible in the night sky. Of the wood, they could see very little but where the leafy branches extended above the horizon. Dressed in their Prathian black, they remained unseen by the archers in the wood. They brought several torches with them, but Xanthippus had ordered them to remain unlit. He wanted to take the enemy by surprise. On his word, the line began running. As far as Xanthippus was concerned, it was a blessed relief.
When they crashed into the wood, they found the first of the archers in the act of nocking an arrow. At the moment Xanthippus drove his spear into the man's side, he had actually been laughing at some remark offered by a nearby companion. The man was not bearded, nor was he armored at all. He was all too human. A grimace transformed his smiling face into a mask of pain as he clutched at his gut where Xanthippus' spear point exited his flesh. The wood was suddenly alive with sound and mayhem.
Myrtilus and Nydeon raced past Xanthippus on either side. The dead archer's jesting companion was the next to fall, but none of the other archers waited to witness his fate. Shouting in fear, they turned and bolted noisily through the brush with the Guard hot on their heels. Screams and the sounds of bodies crashing through leafy branches filled the little wood. Some of the Irrylians hid rather than fled, but it was too dark to find them. The Prathians began lighting their torches and soon tree trunks and underbrush alike were bathed in torchlight.
Though he could hear men fighting and crying out in the distance, the wood seemed oddly empty to Xanthippus. One of the men with him carried a torch and he and Nydeon approached a small clearing and stopped when they saw something at the far edge of it.
As soon as he found himself illuminated by the sphere of torchlight, the Bearded Man looked up. He was down on one knee, pulling a bloody sword from the breast of a Guardsman, showing no more alarm than a man gutting a fish on a riverbank. Xanthippus felt a thrill of fear shoot through him. The thing stood and seemed to regard the Prathians menacingly with its hollow eyes. The Bearded Man stepped over the dead Guardsman. Before his foot hit the ground, two more appeared out of the brush on either side of him. Xanthippus, Nydeon and the torch-bearer found themselves facing three of the things that Coronea had told them were not natural men.
Xanthippus saw now that while telling was one thing, seeing was quite another.
The Prathians exchanged glances, lowered their spears and charged. Shieldless, the Bearded Men hacked at the thrusting spears, dancing aside with surprising agility. Xanthippus caught the first one in the side, but his spear point glanced off the thing's breastplate. He immediately lifted his shield to block the return slash from the Bearded Man's sword, a powerful blow that he could feel rattling his bones even through his bronze-faced shield. With inhuman speed, the thing immediately stabbed at him. Xanthippus dropped his shield down hard, catching the edge of the blade with its rim. Then he shoved with all his might, intending to pulverize the Bearded Man, and plowed him into the ground with his shield. Xanthippus reared back and thrust his spear into the thing's breast, driving the point deep until he could feel it digging into the ground beneath it. He yanked the point free of the armor, releasing, not a fountain of blood, but a gushing of steam and searing heat. He drew back in amazement as the life hissed out of the Bearded Man's hollow breast.
When he looked up again, he saw another of the bronze men staggering drunkenly with Nydeon's spear piercing him clean through. Nydeon had drawn his sword and he watched the Bearded Man totter away from him before falling on his face, pushing the spear out his back. Ribbons of steam trickled out around the shaft.
"Gods preserve us!" Nydeon muttered.
The third bronze man had lunged at the torch-bearer who saved himself behind his shield. He thrust his torch into the thing's face, but the Bearded Man swept it aside and in a shower of sparks the torch leapt out of the Prathian's hand. It spun off into the dry brush and began to burn while the Bearded Man slashed a bloody stripe into the man's thigh. Grimacing in pain, he cried out and staggered back, groping for his sword. Xanthippus turned to charge when he saw Nydeon swing his sword with both hands, lopping the Bearded Man's head from its bronze shoulders with a clash of metal. The thing fell forward and the wounded Prathian fell back, scrambling away so it would not land on top of him. As the headless thing lay smoking at his feet, he stared at it, terrified, as if he expected it to rise again.
Xanthippus rushed to the man and helped him to his feet. The fire had already spread and was beginning to climb the trees that grew out of the burning brush. He could feel its heat on his back as the man thrust his arm around his shoulders. His leg was red with blood. Nydeon grabbed his other arm and together they carried him quickly out of the burning wood.
Back near the Prathian lines they found most of the men they had left with. Others sprinted up the slope from the burning wood and joined them as physicians tended to the wounded man. After taking stock of the missing and the dead - only three men failed to return - Myrtilus looked down on the growing conflagration which illuminated half of the Prathian position.
"No more missiles will be coming from there," he said without satisfaction, even as the screams began dying away.
Xanthippus reflected that while the archers had been human and easy to chase off, the Bearded Men had been something else entirely.
Privately, he confided to Nydeon, "I believe we are going to die." No one could have been more astonished than he was to hear those words fall from his lips. It may have been the first time in his life that he had ever truly believed it. Or it may have been the first time he had ever believed it without welcoming it. It did him no good at all that Nydeon did not argue with him.
By the time the dawn began to purple the sky above the distant black hills, the wood had been reduced to smoking charcoal. Riding to the Epirian lines, he saw that the trench was only half done, half as deep and half as wide as he knew would be necessary to impede an Irrylian attack. There simply had not been enough time. After his experience with the Bearded Men, he was not so sure even a full-sized trench would have been much better. The workers - soldiers and old men, women and boys - had all climbed out of the ditch and fled when the sunrise found Nachtus glowering across the field at them with a bolstered array of Bearded Men, archers, spearmen and heavy horse. The giant knew now where to hit them and had spent the night redeploying his forces. With a sinking heart, Xanthippus could see that his trench would do little to thwart him. He rode back to the Prathian lines. His attack would have to be launched at once with vigor and without regard to their survival. The sheer size of the Irrylian army would absorb his attack, he felt, but there was no choice. If they would die, they would die fighting.
He found Lyssa sitting near the burnt-out campfire on the Mormaso road. Her gown was dirty and torn, her face smeared with mud. Her hair hung in damp strands around her face. He dismounted and came to her. When she caught sight of him, he saw such a look of adoration in her eyes that his heart immediately melted. He ran to her and grasped her in his arms.
"We dug all night," she said. "All the people of the town, with all of their shovels and picks...We did the best we could."
Xanthippus saw that she was exhausted. "That trench will save us," he said, noticing a look of pride in her eyes. He had begun to see a deep well of courage and determination in this girl. "But you must promise me, Lyssa."
A troubled look creased her brow. "Promise what?" she asked.
"Should the battle go against us, you must promise to--"
"But the battle will not go against us," she said, cutting him short.
Xanthippus would not be put off. He overrode her voice in a more forceful tone, "You must promise to ride hard for Serusi--"
"No!"
"Go to Areus and board a ship--"
"I will not leave here without you," she said sternly.
"If we fail, there is nothing standing between Serusi and these monsters--"
"If we fail, then we die. That is the end of it. There are no ships, I will not leave here..."
"Xanthippus!" He jerked his head around to look over his shoulder. Men were calling his name. In the distance, he could hear the Irrylians banging their weapons against their shields, and he could hear Nachtus' deep, booming voice rising above all. He was shouting for them to surrender, offering the Epirians merciful treatment. The sound sent a chill down his spine.
"My men await me, Lyssa." When he looked back to her, he wondered if it would be the last time he would ever see her.
Then he began to hear a different sound. It started as a low murmur, the clattering of thousands of men turning, followed by choruses of excited voices that soon became uncertain cheers of joy.
Xanthippus looked about him in confusion. Men were turning to peer behind them. Men in the rear ranks wandered off to get a closer look and relayed what they saw to others. Men began raising their weapons over their heads. Men began cheering.
Xanthippus stood and gazed into the distance. The sun had peaked over the hills and the valley below was awash in its light. A long black mass of shadows crept across the plain under a cloud of dust that could only have been thrown up by thousands of marching feet. Preceding it was what for an instant appeared to be a giant, a black figure that seemed to stretch to the sky.
Xanthippus gave a start. Men were cheering this? Yet another giant leading another army. What could it be but more Irrylians come to crush their enemy between them?
As he continued to gaze into the plain, the figure resolved itself out of the mirage of rapidly warming air into that of a mounted man, a man in gleaming armor who shone brighter than the sun.
"Eagle Man!" someone gasped. Xanthippus snapped his head toward the sound. He knew the name. He had heard it in Tygetia. More recently, he had heard it from the Epirians who knew that it was what Hurrus was called in his homeland, a name that stirred the Epirians' imaginations to unknown heights. Their chests had swelled with pride when they had learned of it. And when the first man let fly the name - "Eagle Man!" - others took it up and the next man Xanthippus saw utter it did so forcefully and with tears welling in his eyes.
"Eagle Man!" all of the Epirian army began shouting when they recognized who it must be. "Eagle Man! Eagle Man!"
Xanthippus did not dare hope, but after he got a good look at the man in his polished silver armor, the eagle wings spreading from the crown of his helm, the regal purple cloak overlaid by his long golden hair, he did not have to be told who it was. He could see at once why the Epirians called the man their king, for looking at him Xanthippus saw that he could be nothing else.
Lyssa had been standing at his side and he had not realized it until he heard her voice whispering in awe. "They are magnificent!"
At Hurrus' side rode the woman who must have been his queen, a woman of surpassing beauty who wore a slender golden crown nestled in the rich waves of her auburn-tinged black hair.
When Hurrus rode close enough to make himself heard, he called out. "You are the man called Xanthippus?"
Lyssa grasped Xanthippus' arm in both of her hands - in love and, he thought, a little fear. "I am," Xanthippus answered. He saw the spread-wing eagle embossed on Hurrus' silver breastplate. Behind him rode a score of impressive mounted men, Gyriecian soldiers of old. Xanthippus' heart leapt. He must have been in a dream. Was he seeing ghosts? Waiting down on the plain was Hurrus' corps of infantry and cavalry, some of whom carried shining silver shields. He might have been in the presence of Xarhux himself, conjured from the minds of poets and made flesh before his eyes.
"I am Hurrus," the man said.
"I know," said Xanthippus. "We have been waiting for you."
"Move your men aside," Hurrus commanded. "My 3000 will stand to the right of the Epirians. I myself will ride with the cavalry, and your men, Prathian, will guard my flank."
Even before he had finished speaking, the man named Deon began moving Hurrus' troops to the crest of the hill. They wore scarlet cloaks over their bronze armor. One group of men, some hundreds strong, carried splendid silver shields, intricately embossed with the same spread-wing eagle Hurrus wore on his breast. The cavalry were armed with long lances and wore iron helms, visorless so as not to impede their vision. They all had the bearing of seasoned soldiers. To Xanthippus' mind, they seemed to march out of the mists of history itself. Even in his most romantic dreams of the Gyriecian past, he would not have dared envision men such as these.
For an instant, he felt lost in the maelstrom of the would-be king's sudden appearance. On the Epirian front, a big man named Xandros had begun supervising the unloading of the wagons Hurrus' men had brought with them. Thousands of bronze breastplates, greaves, helms, spears and swords found their way into the hands of Epirian soldiers. Soon, the entire Epirian array stood gleaming in polished armor, bristling with bright spear points that glinted in the sun. Now, Deon and his officers were shouting for the Prathians to stand aside. Emerging from his astonishment, Xanthippus grasped this Deon by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
"3000 men?" Holding Deon in his grasp, Xanthippus glared up at Hurrus, still mounted on his white stallion. The silver eagle wings sprouting from his helmet made him seem unnaturally tall in his saddle. "Have you seen the enemy arrayed against us? You mean to win this battle with your 3000 alone?"
"You have never seen such a three, my friend," Deon said. He looked contemptuously down at Xanthippus' hand gripping a fistful of his tunic and swatted at it angrily. Xanthippus released him with a disdainful shove.
"And you, my dear, are the Queen of Prathia?"
It was Antona's voice. Sitting sidesaddle on her bay mare next to Hurrus, she gazed down on Lyssa who stood at Xanthippus' side. A slight smile played upon her painted lips. Her skin was smooth and brown from the sun. Her long slender fingers drew Xanthippus' eye. The nails were glossy and clean, for she had not spent the night digging in the mud. It was plain to see that she was no daughter of Prathia. Awaiting her on the plain, were four shirtless attendants dressed in Tygetian headscarves standing alongside a litter with gossamer curtains.
Lyssa took a bold step forward. Xanthippus saw that she easily exceeded Antona's beauty, even with smudges of mud on her face and gown, which in his eye made her only more attractive.
"I am a princess of Prathia," Lyssa announced proudly, "soon to be queen." Xanthippus wondered if that meant he was soon to be king, but held his tongue.
"And Prathian princesses are to be found on battlefields?" Antona asked.
"No less than Epirian queens," Lyssa countered. "If that is what you are."
"Soon to be," Antona replied, her smile broadening.
"Then we have a royal army here, do we not? Epiria and Prathia locking arms."
"We have common cause," Hurrus said.
"Your Prathian men, all in black, are a fearsome lot, Princess Lyssa," said Antona.
"I am afraid on this day that it is the enemy who strike fear into the hearts of our men."
"Under King Hurrus, my dear, the men know not fear."
"Alas," Xanthippus cut in, stepping forward and glaring up at Hurrus, "my men, perhaps alone on the field, do know fear - and folly. To hold the flank of your 3000?" He strode rapidly to the crest of the hill and looked across the field. Deployed alongside endless brigades of Bearded Men, he saw blocks of Irrylian heavy cavalry, spear-wielding humans in bright yellow cloaks. The Prathians had no cavalry to match them. Even Coronea's horse archers and javelin men were deployed on the Epirian flank. Xanthippus turned back and spread his arms. "My men will have to fight off the attacks of the Bearded Men to our front and the cavalry to our flanks. What you are asking of them is pure folly. Come see."
"I do not need to see," said Hurrus. "I ask no more than what is possible, Xanthippus. Perhaps failure is clouding your judgment."
Drums began beating from across the valley. Rising above the thunder, Xanthippus recognized Nachtus' booming voice. The enemy too had finally emerged from its stupor.
"Failure?" Xanthippus asked. "My failure to what?"
Hurrus smiled. "To kill me," he said.
Xanthippus was stunned. "You knew?"
"Prathians rise fast," Hurrus said with a smile. "From lowly assassin to..." He paused, casting a glance to Lyssa and then back again to Xanthippus. "To would-be king."
"Asander told me..." Xanthippus began, almost unaware that he had spoken aloud.
Hurrus cocked his head, still with that smirk on his face. "Ah, Asander! I remember him, poor man. What is it he told you, Prathian?"
"That I would someday see you in Gyriece."
"And so you have." Hurrus spread his arms, presenting himself to Xanthippus in all his glory. "The day Asander foretold has arrived, just in time for me to save your life. So what?"
"He said I would wish I had killed you."
Hurrus laughed. "I'm afraid that is quite impossible now. But, never fear, Xanthippus, you may yet have an opportunity to try. Deon!" The man appeared at his side. "You are in command. I must go and see to Xandros and my left. The enemy stirs."
No sooner had Hurrus uttered the words than Xandros came riding up in great haste.
"It is the enemy giant, my lord," he cried. "He calls for you."
"Does he, now?" Hurrus asked in good humor. "Well, let us go see what the fellow has to say. Giants should not be kept waiting. Come, Xandros. You will accompany me. Deon, prepare the men to attack. Xanthippus, I'm counting on you."
With that, he and Xandros rode away. Down on the plain, Xanthippus could see the giant Nachtus where he had marched out ahead of his army under a flag of truce. Even the mounted members of his party seemed men in miniature in the shadow of the giant's great bulk, the fiercest of their destriers seeming like ponies, their riders no more than boys at play. Nachtus himself looked to be challenging the entire enemy, though he called out for Hurrus alone. "Show me this king of yours," he bellowed. "Show me this Hurrus. Bring him to me!"
When Hurrus came down onto the plain, Nachtus, fists on his hips, grinned down at him in satisfaction that the diminutive king had answered his summons. Hurrus saw that the man was nine feet tall, the feathery crest on his helmet adding at least another foot to his height. At his belt on his left, Nachtus' great sword was near as tall as Hurrus himself. On his right, two severed heads dangled from a leather thong looped over his belt, evidence of the previous day's fighting.
"This Epirian eagle is little more than a sparrow to my eye," Nachtus said laughing. "Why should so many men have to die for such a small king?"
"Lay down your sword, giant, and no one need die," Hurrus replied. Though he spoke from Nachtus' shadow, he showed no sign of fear. "I might even allow you to live," he added.
Nachtus threw his head back and boomed a laugh, exposing great square teeth surrounded by a tangle of black beard. The heads at his belt bounced and bumped one another, sharing the joke. "I would make you the same offer."
"And I would offer your men compassion - if I thought they understood it."
Again, Nachtus laughed. "My men, as you call them, understand compassion no more than they understand mercy and fear. Your people dig a trench to protect your cowardly soldiers. My Bearded Men will fill it with their own bodies and march across as if it was not there. They do not tire, they do not lose heart, they do not know fear. They only kill."
Hurrus lost his good humor in an instant. "And these men hanging from your belt...They are to inspire fear in us, to make us tire and lose heart?"
"Ah, my new friends." Nachtus looked down at the dead faces admiringly. "Officers of the rebellion. Handsome fellows. Did you know them?"
By the time Nachtus looked back up, Hurrus had already drawn his sword. The self-satisfied smile had not yet left the giant's face when Hurrus whirled and dug his blade into the creature's hip, severing the leather thong. The heads spilled from the belt and rolled across the ground at Nachtus' feet. Hurrus himself looked surprised when his blade rang and rattled on some unexpected armor that covered the giant's hip.
In a blur, Nachtus unsheathed his greatsword and brought it crashing down with the strength that would have obliterated a normal man in a fine mist of blood. The blade flashed in the sun, but instead of cleaving into flesh and through bone rang like a bell, steel on steel. Sparks flew and Nachtus' eyes went wide when he saw his sword rattle off another at least as large and thick as his own. He staggered back and with a look of terror found himself looking up at a man who stood a head taller than he did, a man with silver eagle wings sprouting from his helm.
A cry went up from the Epirians, a cry of astonishment and fear. Some of the men dropped their weapons and made to run only to be restrained by their companions. No one had seen such a thing, a shining giant looming where just a moment before a mere man had stood. Surely, it was a witch's conjuration meant to destroy them all. Even the drums of the enemy had fallen silent.
Hurrus took a step forward. The ground seemed to tremble under his footfall. "You are no man," Hurrus said. "You are no more man than the others. Yet it is fear I see in your eyes."
Hurrus slashed at Nachtus' face. He jerked his head back and Hurrus' blade rent the air just inches from his nose.
"I do not know fear and you cannot kill me."
"Are you sure about that?" Hurrus delivered an overhand blow that rang against Nachtus' sword, ripping it from his hands. He immediately jabbed and caught him under the arm, but Hurrus' blade glanced off metal where there should have been only smashed ribs and severed cartilage. Hurrus shook his head. "What a pity to be not a man."
"I am unarmed," Nachtus pleaded. Everyone who watched saw the giant look up to see into Hurrus' eyes.
He continued to look up...and up as Hurrus lifted his sword with both hands directly over the top of his head. Nachtus made no move to stop what was about to happen. Hurrus brought the blade down with all of his strength, just missing the giant's head but striking his shoulder with a great crashing of tearing metal. Steam hissed out of his body as Hurrus' blade sliced him clean in half. Nachtus fell in two pieces, one to the right and one to the left, and lay smoking and sizzling in the damp grass.
Hurrus approached the piece to which the head was still attached and lopped it off. He grasped the thing by the hair and flung it into a knot of Bearded Men on the ridge. They danced out of the way of the plunging head, as big as any two of their own. As it bounced at their feet, they scattered as if they believed it might explode.
"Now they know fear!" Hurrus cried. The battlefield had fallen utterly silent so his voice carried to every ear. The Epirians erupted in wild cheers. Nachtus was destroyed and whatever dark art animated their leader, it was their magic now, and they saw without question that their king was, as they had suspected, more than a man. Delivered from certain death, their moment had arrived.
"Eagle King! Eagle King! Eagle King!" the masses shouted, pumping their new gleaming weapons in the air.
His normal size once again, Hurrus stood before them.
"If I am an eagle," he cried, "it is only because you are my wings!"
A moment later, before his own men, he was more concise.
"Silver Shields...We're going home!"
Without a word, the Shields leveled their spears with a deep "Hrrrummp!" and the Bearded Men across the field from them recoiled at the sound. They knew fear now and even as they stormed down onto the plain to meet the advance of the Shields and the charging Epirians, they cut a wide swath around the mangled ruin of their leader. In death, Nachtus seemed to produce in them a superstitious dread and a weakening of the spirit. Whatever magic imbued them seemed to have flowed from the giant. As his life hissed out of him, the Bearded Men grew confused and fearful. Their lines were ragged so when the Silver Shields crashed into them, it seemed as if they were being assailed from all sides.
The further away from Nachtus, the braver the Bearded Men remained. Xanthippus led his Prathians onto the plain, covering the flanks of Hurrus' troops. The Bearded Men attacked with a single-mindedness the Prathians found unnerving. Only their hatred of the creatures spurred them on. They had witnessed the bronze men's pitiless decimation of the Epirians on the previous day and now longed for revenge. Their lines crashed together. At first, the Prathians found their spear points glancing off both shield and the armor plate that covered the enemy head to toe. Xanthippus knew how hard the demon men were to kill individually; it was even worse en masse, for no sooner would one be dispatched than another would immediately take its place. They cared nothing for the deaths of their fellows, and those who fell under the weight of Prathian shields were trampled by the crush of those advancing behind them.
Flesh and blood Irrylians fought alongside the Bearded Men and the Prathians slammed into them with equal vigor. Where their enchanted brethren fought in grim silence, the Irrylians died with screams flying from their throats just as fountains of blood spewed from their breasts. Prathian spears plunged through the gaps in their armor and found soft flesh beneath. Unlike the Bearded Men, the humans died easily, and did not fight to the last of their blood, but only to the last of their wits. Leaving their dead behind, they turned and fled as the Prathians hewed into them. One group of hundreds of fleeing men ran into a reserve of bronze soldiers and Xanthippus watched in astonishment as they hacked the terrified humans apart.
Prathians filled the gaps left by the retreating humans and turned onto the flanks of the bronze men. Whereas a simple jab was enough to deliver a killing wound to the humans, it took all of their strength to pierce the bodies of the Bearded Men. They hissed and staggered and fell. At one point, Xanthippus saw a metal man tottering blindly in circles with a sword buried to the hilt in its eye hole. Die, he pleaded as it stumbled drunkenly. Die, you damned thing, die. He watched as long as he could, but never did see it fall.
The Bearded Men seemed to attack in endless waves, constantly seeking the Prathian flank. Xanthippus stripped men from his left to bolster his right. They rushed across the rear and slammed into the attacking brigades, Bearded Men and humans alike. Soon, the entire Prathian line was bent back in the shape of a fish hook as Irrylians continued to stream onto the flank. The front was stretched almost to the point of breaking. If the Prathians faltered, the enemy would sweep all before them under the sheer weight of their numbers.
It was then that Xanthippus saw what he had been dreading. Irrylian horsemen had trotted down onto the plain and were now forming up for the attack. He could see the points of their spears above the sky-blue tassels that spilled from the center of their bronze helms. They aligned themselves in a wedge formation and he could see exactly where they were pointing. One of his brigades was so intent on fending off an attack by Bearded Men on its front that no one had noticed its flank dangling uncovered.
No one but the Irrylian horsemen, that is.
And Xanthippus.
If the riders reached it before he did, there would be a bloodbath - and an open path into the rear of the entire Epirian army.
Xanthippus felt as if his legs were mired in sludge as he ran to the brigade to warn them of their impending doom. The horsemen began moving towards them at the same time. Though he shouted at the top of his lungs, he could not even hear his own voice over the din of battle. As he approached, he felt relieved when he saw the familiar snow-white crest on the black helmet, bobbing among the men. It was Myrtilus' brigade, the most disciplined unit in all the Guard. Xanthippus found him just as the Bearded Men slammed into their front causing the entire line to shudder under the impact.
"Myrtilus! The flank!" Xanthippus grabbed the nearest men and began flinging them from the rear ranks towards the flank. They saw immediately what was happening and rushed to their places.
Myrtilus looked up just in time to see the horses change from a trot to a gallop, aimed right at him. His eyes widened when he saw the riders level their spears. Xanthippus could feel the thunder of the hooves as they approached ever closer. Myrtilus cried out to his men. As one, and in an orderly procession, the rear ranks turned and sprinted to the flank. The weakened front gave a step or two under the pressure of the bronze men, but the Prathians leaned into their shields and held the onslaught at bay. The horsemen were nearly on them when the redeployed men, now angling back from the front, suddenly leveled their spears and braced their shields. Where the Irrylian cavalrymen had expected to find an unwary flank they now found themselves charging into a hedgehog bristling with spines.
Eyes rolling in terror, the chargers threw their riders as they skidded to a panicked halt before the unwavering wall of spears could find them. Others turned aside, many tumbling to the ground. Men screamed as the great beasts rolled over the top of them. Other riders fell at the feet of the Prathians who dispatched them quickly, happy to fight from behind a growing breastwork of the dead.
Two more charges followed, the first behind a renewed onslaught of Bearded Men - the line shuddered but held - the second following a flight of arrows that blackened the sky. The Prathians lifted their shields. A sound like hailstones filled the air as they rode out the murderous rain under an umbrella of bronze and wood. By the time the charging horsemen arrived, they found not only a wall of steady spear points but one of shields bristling with spent arrows as well.
Xanthippus could see the men were beginning to grow weary when he heard a great cry arise in the distance. He looked through the forest of spears and caught a fleeting glimpse of Hurrus leading his cavalry in a wild charge. He saw the man's long golden hair flapping beneath his eagle wings, and then he was gone.
The Prathians had done it! They had held while the Silver Shields had broken the enemy. Hurrus' heavy horse was now pouring into the gap. He could hear the shouts of the Irrylians in flight. Exultant, Xanthippus ordered a charge. With renewed energy, the Prathians stepped over the wreckage of the Irrylian attacks and slammed into the Bearded Men. The effects of Nachtus' death had spread over the entire battlefield now and the bronze men staggered under the Prathian charge. Many turned and ran for their lives before sputtering out all over the hillside where they would later be found scattered in smoking ruins.
Xanthippus turned his men in the direction he had seen Hurrus charging. All around them, Irrylian men dashed for safety, throwing down their weapons and leaping over heaps of the dead, faster than any Prathian could pursue them. Xanthippus directed his men towards the last formed enemy body on the field. They were engaged to their front and the men in the rear turned just in time to see the Prathians slam into them. A cry of anguish went up from the trapped men, caught now in a vise between hostile bodies. The men who did not die outright, scrambled to escape out the sides of the formation. Like drowning men, they clawed at their companions and trampled the fallen in their terror. In a matter of seconds, the orderly block of soldiers had been reduced to a panicked mob. The Prathians hewed into them.
Through the glut of bodies, Xanthippus spied a glint of silver and by the time the Irrylian force had vanished through death or escape, the Prathians found themselves facing Hurrus' Silver Shields. They had been attacking the Irrylians' front while the Prathians struck their rear and now they met in the center. Calling a halt, Xanthippus sighed in exhaustion when he saw them. The Prathians relaxed. They began hailing their allies in joy at their victory.
But the Shields did not relax. Xanthippus had removed his helmet and stepped out in front of his men, prepared to greet his fellow commander when it dawned on him that the Silver Shields had no intention of standing down. The unit remained crouched in their fighting stance, shields up, spears out. When they took a step towards him, and then another, Xanthippus quickly replaced his helmet and raced back to his men.
"Prathians!" he began, but the men needed no orders. The threat was clear enough. Raising their shields, they leveled their spears at once. If the Tygetians meant to have a fight with the Prathians, they would have it. They stared at one another across the field of the dead. The Prathians were waiting for them, but the Shields made no further move.
Suddenly, Xanthippus saw them begin to stir, the men parting for Hurrus himself as he came striding through the center of the formation. They closed up as he passed and remained ready for combat as the Eagle King stood before them.
Xanthippus came out from his men and, stepping over dead Irrylians, approached Hurrus. His long purple cloak was gone. His silver breastplate was smeared with blood.
"You have held my flank, Xanthippus," the king said. "For that, I thank you. But now that Demetrius' army has been vanquished, my question is: which way do I go? North to Epiria, or south to Prathia?"
"This is how you thank me?" Xanthippus asked. "You threaten my men with your Silver Shields?"
"Perhaps we will show you what it is like to fight men with true Gyriecian hearts. Do you still wish you had killed me?"
"The day is young," Xanthippus said.
The man Xanthippus recognized as Xandros came out of the formation and stood beside Hurrus.
"My lord, we have only to enter Epiria now and claim your throne." He spoke in a soft, consoling voice. "We stand to gain nothing by this...this folly."
Hurrus swept his forearm across Xandros' chest, forcing the man away from him. "I think Asander had it wrong," Hurrus said, not taking his eyes off Xanthippus. "I think it is I who will wish I had killed you."
"You may wish," Xanthippus said.
Hurrus swept past Xandros who rushed forward and tried to restrain him. But Hurrus pushed him aside and each step he took toward Xanthippus, he seemed to grow a foot in height and half another in breadth. He drew his sword and swung at the Prathian. Xanthippus raised his shield. The blow almost knocked him from his feet. He could feel the wood crack and the bronze crease. He felt a near bone-cracking shudder all the way up his arm.
Xanthippus could scarcely believe what was happening. Though he could make no sense of it, he knew that he could not survive another shot like that. To stand and trade blows with the giant was madness. He rushed forward behind his shield and rammed him as hard as he could. He caught him still off-balance from his blocked attack and Hurrus stumbled back. His foot landed in a patch of fresh Irrylian blood and shot out from under him on the slick grass. He fell on his back with a great thud. Xanthippus at once drew his sword and held it at Hurrus' throat. Xandros dove at him and the next thing Xanthippus knew, he had dropped his sword and he was rolling on the ground in the grasp of the big man. He was appalled at Xandros' strength. Once they had rolled clear of Hurrus, Xandros released him and stood, drawing his sword.
"Kill him!" Hurrus cried.
Xanthippus looked into Xandros' eyes and saw a man torn. He held up his hand and the Prathians who were about to rush to his aid, stood back.
"Kill him!" Hurrus repeated. He was his normal size again. He rose to his feet. "I command you, Xandros. Kill the Prathian."
Xanthippus saw Xandros clench his teeth in anger. He lowered his sword and sheathed it, turning to Hurrus.
"I will not make war on the sons of Prathia," he declared.
"You dare defy me?" Hurrus snapped. He picked up his sword from the ground and took no more than a step toward Xandros when the big man fell to his knees.
"You may have my head, Hurrus," he said, bowing and exposing his neck to the executioner's blade. "I have come to reclaim your throne and no more. I will not make war on Prathia."
Hurrus scowled, and then his expression suddenly softened. He sheathed his blade and smiled.
"Stand, Xandros. You are my brother, as you know. I will not have you on your knees before me. And you, Xanthippus, you also are my brother. We are all brothers!" He turned to address the entire field. The men relaxed again, but only slightly. "Epiria and Prathia together! It was a madness that seized me. It was the battle madness." He helped Xandros gently to his feet and reached out a hand to Xanthippus. "It has passed now. Forgive me."
Xanthippus warily reached out his hand and the two men clasped one another by the wrist. In the distance, the Epirians began cheering. Gradually, they had been drawn to Hurrus' position on the battlefield and when they saw Hurrus and Xanthippus clasp hands it meant to them that the Irrylians had been defeated and they shouted in unrestrained joy.
Deon stepped out from the Shields, a broad smile on his face.
"Listen to them," he said. "The men would enjoy their victory, King."
"Ah, but there is no time for enjoyment, Deon. Xandros, prepare the men for pursuit. We march for Epiria at once! My crown awaits me!"
"The man stands naked before me!" the crone cried, looking up from the black pool.
Menleco did, in fact, stand naked before her, but that was not what Pylia was talking about. Not that Menleco had heard what she said. He could hear nothing over the sound of his own screaming.
Demetrius nodded in satisfaction. He had never seen Pylia more beautiful. Even as she crouched over her black pool and groped its rim as she raced round and round, her feet clawing at the stones of the floor, he was certain he had never seen a more beautiful creature. Watching her as she performed her work in the nude, he felt himself begin to stir. He scarcely even noticed Menleco. So enraptured was he by Pylia's comely appearance that it surprised him whenever he heard Menleco pulling his chains taut as he struggled against the wall.
"You know everything?" Demetrius asked eagerly.
"The man is laid bare!" The notes of Pylia's laughter were like chimes to Demetrius' ears. He loved her joy.
"What of this treasure?" Demetrius asked. At one point, he had heard not the clanking of chains but the clear sound of Menleco's voice - a word rising out of his sea of pain. Something about a vast treasure.
"Only I...Arrhhh!...know...Gyahhh!...where it is...Please! Arrhhh!" Demetrius had noticed with annoyance that Menleco spit when he talked, a disgusting habit. Equally irritating was that he had bitten off the tip of his tongue, making his words hard to understand.
Pylia had gone halfway around the pool, the torchlight glistening off her smooth, round buttocks. She had cocked her head in that characteristic way whenever she Saw something in the pool.
"There is no treasure," she had announced, before continuing around the black water.
Menleco had been so disappointed, Demetrius thought he was going to cry.
"Pure fantasy," Pylia declared anew now.
Demetrius shook his head sadly. "A liar," he said. "In all the time I have known him, I don't believe the man has ever told me a single true thing. Now, look at him. A pity. He came into this world with everything, but he will leave with nothing."
"Kill me..."
Demetrius spoke of pity, but he did not really feel it. Mostly, he felt annoyed whenever some pathetic sputtering or overloud clanking diverted his attention from his lovely Pylia. Even when she finally tired and began speaking the words of her unknown tongue and the waters of the pool began to bubble and hiss, and even when Menleco really did begin to cry, Demetrius felt no pity. In fact, he was amazed at how quickly all thoughts of Menleco flew from his head. It was Pylia who commanded his attention. He felt weak...and perhaps a little afraid.
Imagine that! A king, afraid of the intensity of an emotion...
It was astounding what love could do to a man.
\*
Calamity stared Xanthippus in the face.
He had followed the grimacing bastard through every twist and turn of the great Royal Labyrinth and was relieved when the priest finally turned and Good Fortune smiled on him at last. It was about time. He felt queasy enough without the threat of teetering disaster hanging over his head. It was funny what the constant stare of the red-faced old satyr could do to you.
Though the priest in his double-mask beamed at them, he would not turn the great stone head of Ardonis - 'Old Two-Face' as he was called by the profane - until after Xanthippus and Lyssa had stated their vows. Lyssa laid a little toy coin purse of beads and woolen yarn in Ardonis' flaming offering dish. The thing went up in a puff, the wooden beads blackening before catching fire. Xanthippus saw a tear well in her eye. It grew heavy and ran down her flawless cheek.
He knew this was to be the hard part - for both of them.
He had no relic of his childhood, so he offered only a scrap of parchment bearing the names of his little brother Angyos and his sisters. "So the gods will know their names when they see them," Xanthippus had explained to the priest prior to the ceremony. The scrap went up even quicker than had Lyssa's toy purse and a twisting streamer of smoke bore their names to the gods.
They turned and pledged their vows to one another before the assembly and the priest turned the great head. Xanthippus could hear its neck grinding on its joint and he knew when the turning was complete by the cheers that filled the vast chamber at the center of the Labyrinth.
His heart suddenly filled and he took Lyssa in his arms and kissed her deeply. Just before losing himself, Xanthippus noticed the priest frown inside his mask. He realized that he had forgotten the script for the ceremony. Was he supposed to kiss her now? Or was the priest to speak some words first? Perhaps he was not supposed to kiss her at all. He didn't care. He lifted her off her feet and gave her half a twirl. The chamber erupted in hoots and howls. Who could remember every damned little thing, anyway?
When he set her down, he emerged from her lips to see his fellows passing a skin. Apparently, Nydeon had smuggled it into the procession and it looked like this was not the first time they had passed it around. Thalen was taking a deep draught when Xanthippus saw him, while Nydeon had begun singing a bawdy tune, urging others to join him. They needed little encouragement. Myrtilus, in particular, who had already gone through three or four wives of his own, began singing at the top of his lungs. Soon, the entire chamber rang with their caterwauling. Even the nobles and ladies of Lyssa's entourage joined in. The priest's frown deepened. Perhaps he was thinking to turn Ardonis' head right back the way he had found it. But when King Areus joined in, even the priest shrugged and added his voice to the chorus.
"I love you, Lyssa," Xanthippus said, unsure if she could even hear him though his lips brushed her ear.
"I have never been so happy," she cried, not caring who heard her.
Xanthippus felt people slapping his back and men he could not remember were shaking his hand. He could not believe where he found himself standing. On Isala, the inner chambers of the labyrinths were small dreadful places, not meant to be found easily. The Royal Labyrinth beneath the Temple of Ardonis in Serusi was ablaze with everflame, burning not behind blood-red panes, but under golden domes. The room was awash in light, and alive with the sounds of music and joy. Xanthippus could only shake his head in wonderment. What strange path had led him here!
King Areus raised his hands and after some cajoling, managed to silence the crowd.
"Today," he said, "I proclaim to the world that the man, Xanthippus of Isala, is from this day forward my trueborn son. Before this body I name him my Master of Arms and commander of the Prathian Guard!"
\*
"Eagle King! Eagle King! Eagle King!"
From the balcony of the Epirian palace, Hurrus looked out over the multitudes filling the square. Such faces, such joy, ecstasy! Men pumped their fists in the air as they cried his name, and women raised their hands as if grasping for the sun. The joyous throngs spilled into every street and avenue. They hung from windows and congregated on rooftops. For as far as Hurrus' eye could see, there was no space that was not filled with his subjects pressing to catch a glimpse of their new king. Their cry of "Eagle King!" reverberated off of every wall and edifice with a strength that seemed capable of toppling them.
Temples and public buildings stood as islands in a sea of humanity. Even the new Mausoleum was a mere platform from which people might find a better view of their king. Faces peered out at him from the hanging gardens on its rooftop that surrounded the pyramid of Nadia's Tomb. So magnificent was the rest of the structure that many people did not even notice it up there, a near-exact replica of the one that originally housed Nadia's body in Archentethe. Zarcen unleashing the dawn from his spreading wings was almost lost amid the palms, the wild ferns and flowers of the garden. Kunuum's starry souls pouring from his fist went likewise unnoticed. Hurrus himself had supervised the carving of the Tygetian picture-writing that filled the door-face of the pyramid. He had taken the words from the walls surrounding the Blood Gate. The workmen had no knowledge of what they carved, for only Hurrus knew the incantations that would release Nadia's soul to heaven and he had laughed when the workmen had covered their ears and cowered in fear when he had spoken them.
The Mausoleum itself, a marvel of architecture that was already famous throughout the world, housed the tombs of his mother, Eunice, and father, Arrhus, who was called the Opener of the Way, for he had broken Xarhux's wall. As he gazed on the masses now, Hurrus could only imagine the silence and peace inside the tombs as the surf of jostling humanity lapped at its doors outside. He was happy to see the Mausoleum so gaily bedighted. He had built it so his people would enjoy it and remember their fallen king - and so the king himself might see that his son had not failed to return to reclaim the crown he had left for him.
The Opener of Hurrus' Way stood with him on the balcony, Xandros, in full war regalia, a symbol of Hurrus' military might. Hurrus cast him a glance, but Xandros' face was stone. He was unmoved by the cries of "Eagle King!" probably because he knew Hurrus when he was but an Eagle Man and even earlier when he was not a man at all. Xandros had served him well. Hurrus determined at that moment that he would think of some way to honor his friend.
But that was for later.
For now, he would honor his people.
He put his hand on Antona's shoulder and gave her a smile. In reply, she offered him a half-turn of her lovely face with just the faint trace of a smile on her lips. He could see how the people adored her and how she raised her chin when she gazed down on them and he knew she truly was their queen.
Hurrus raised his free hand, beckoning silence. The people obeyed. That such a stillness could befall so great a mass of humanity was astounding. Hurrus would give them the same reply he had given his soldiers.
"If I am an eagle," he cried, his voice bouncing off the walls of the edifices that surrounded the square, "it is because you are my wings!"
"Eagle King! Eagle King! Eagle King!"
It was the name itself that gave his people wings, that set their imaginations soaring. They loved the idea of the Eagle King and Hurrus was happy to give them the eagle if they wanted it. But he knew there was nothing of the eagle about him, for inside him beat the heart of the bull.
"Eagle King! Eagle King! Eagle King!"
The people might call him Eagle King, but he knew what he was.
He was Deathbringer.
THE END
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THE ROMANS WASH THEIR HANDS IN THE SEA
Strait of Messana, 264 B.C.
In the gathering gloom, a light rain had begun spitting in his face and Appius Claudius Caudex was making a dash across the strait.
He clenched his jaw, letting the rain drip. It galled him. A consul of Rome, stealing into Sicily like a thief in the night. The risk was great: 20,000 men crossing a hostile sea under an escort of but a handful of borrowed warships. Of course, there was cause for fear.
But it galled him, nonetheless.
The consul could see that his tribune, Gaius Claudius, was aching to speak out, but held his tongue. By now, the tribune knew the strait as well as anyone. As part of a diplomatic delegation, he had made the trip from Rhegium to Messana twice in the previous week. The first time, he had been turned back by the appearance of a Carthaginian war fleet. The second, crossing at night, he had at least been able to disembark. But Rome's demands had been rejected out of hand by Carthaginian and Syracusan alike. Neither, he had been informed, would abandon the siege of Messana, Rome's ally. Roman honor could not tolerate this, but the Carthaginian commander had been clear. "Rome will not be allowed to even wash her hands in the sea!" he had exclaimed with sneering arrogance. "This remains to be seen," Gaius Claudius had replied boldly, striding from the room. But neither he nor the consul felt so bold now. What if the Carthaginian's threat had been no idle boast?
The ships of Claudius' fleet, more than one hundred of them, filled the sea all around him. Thousands of oars bobbed and strained through the waves. The growing wind whipped the low-hanging clouds until they roiled as turbulently as the seascape below them. A fine, cold mist -- a discouraging mixture of sea-spray and rain -- showered consul and tribune alike. Their flagship, a trireme borrowed from the city of Tarentum, was one of the few decked warships in the fleet. Most of the fighting ships were mere fifty-oar pentekonters, little more than open rowboats. Unlike Rome, the Greek colonies of Magna Graecia in southern Italy at least had a seafaring tradition. They had provided all of the warships in Claudius' fleet, along with experienced oarsmen and crew. Claudius had long advocated the need for a Roman fleet to counter Carthage, but his pleas had been ignored. What did the Senate care when it was Claudius who had to sneak across the strait with only wind, weather and darkness to protect him? Even the triremes and pentekonters of the Italian Greeks were obsolete, certainly no match for the modern warships of Carthage.
Even in the failing light, Claudius could see the rowers in the nearby warships as they grappled with their oars, the cruel bronze beaks of their ships' rams slicing through the waves. The mainmasts and sails had been disassembled and stowed in Rhegium. The added weight would have only slowed them down. The transports carrying Claudius' legions relied solely on the strength of their rowers' backs to power them.
"What is it, Tribune?" Claudius asked finally, seeing that some issue continued to weigh heavily on Gaius' mind.
"What chance have we to reach Messana without interference?" the tribune asked. The thick mass of Sicily loomed on the horizon.
"None," Claudius replied. "The harbor in Rhegium was swarming with spies."
"Carthaginian spies?" Gaius asked in a surprised tone. "I saw only traders."
"Spies and traders... It is all the same, Tribune. Little happens in the Middle Sea without Carthage knowing."
"Well, hopefully we will reach Messana before they know we've left Rhegium."
"Our only hope is speed and the coming darkness. Hannibal Gisgo," Claudius said, referring to the man who commanded the Carthaginian fleet, "will not risk a battle in the darkness."
"Certainly not in this weather," Gaius said, hopefully.
Their fleet was bearing north-northwest. Clinging to the toe of Italy, Rhegium lay south of Messana, so it was before them that any threat would materialize. Claudius gazed toward the northern horizon, satisfied with the increasing gloom. The strait was treacherous in the fairest of weather. Claudius had not wanted to attempt a crossing at night any more than the Carthaginians would have dared contest it. He could not take the risk. With his entire army packed into over one hundred ships, even a single accident would be a tragedy; a large-scale mishap, a catastrophe.
Better to time his crossing as near to nightfall as possible. It was part of the plan he had worked out the previous evening with one of the clever Tarentine captains.
"With darkness descending," the captain had said, "the Carthaginians will have a short timeframe in which to attack us."
Not for the first time, Claudius asked the man to explain. Claudius was a long-time senator, a newly elected consul, a politician. Although he understood the need for sea power, he himself was no naval man. The more he had listened to this particular captain speak, the more he valued his opinion. The captain exuded a natural authority and the other captains and military tribunes who had assembled in Claudius' command tent listened attentively.
"Because," the captain explained, "the Carthaginians are tied to their naval base, here." He showed Claudius a map and pointed to the extreme northeastern tip of Sicily, Cape Pelorias. "At minimum, they have a quarter-day's round trip. Our own journey will take just a fraction of this. Not only must their timing be precise, but they must leave themselves enough time to return to their base before nightfall."
"They will not simply patrol the strait, waiting for us?" Claudius asked. Judging from the inexpertly concealed expressions of the other captains, he felt that it must have been a foolish question.
"Oh, no," the captain said. "Warships simply cannot remain at sea long enough to make an effective blockade. They can attempt to patrol, as you say, but there will be long gaps. Chance alone would put their fleet in our path."
"And why is that?"
"The men need food, Consul. They especially need fresh water. Not even a Carthaginian quinquereme has the storage capacity for these things. You will see on our triremes that there is simply no space. They must put into shore every night, just as we do."
"Oh, yes. Of course," Claudius said, nodding.
"This Hannibal, who commands the fleet, must first be informed of our departure, then deploy his fleet and travel to the strait. Not an instantaneous reaction, to be sure."
So with darkness falling, Claudius felt at least a little comforted that his inadequate war fleet of ten obsolete ships might be required to do little more than delay the powerful Carthaginian fleet, if it showed itself at all.
"By acting aggressively, however," the authoritative captain had gone on, "we might be able to discourage them from attacking. If we make it clear that killing us will not be effortless, they may disengage." The captain smiled at his remark. Unspoken by the group was the fact that, while the destruction of the Roman warships might not be effortless, it was, given Carthaginian inclination, certainly inevitable. The captain might have smiled, but his colleagues listened grimly. Claudius marveled at the bravery of these men. The colonies of Magna Graecia had only been incorporated into the Republic during the previous decade, but here were her men -- Locrians, Neapolitans, and Tarentines -- offering their lives for Roman honor.
So it was ten warships to face the might of Carthage. The captain and his colleagues had then worked out a plan, to Claudius' satisfaction. His faith in these men was absolute.
But now, despite the captain's assurances, Claudius was not so certain they would need the plan after all. The horizon remained empty, and Messana drew near. Claudius' thoughts turned to the problems involved in the deployment of his legions, and his heart quickened. No one was more aware of the momentous nature of his undertaking: the first Roman conquest off the mainland of Italy. He knew there would be more, if he had his way -- and his fleet. But whatever the future held, his name, Appius Claudius Caudex, would forever be linked with the crossing of the historic threshold. The men might have been interested in plunder, but for the senior consul of Rome, the opportunity was for glory, the currency of power.
"When we step off these ships into Sicily," Gaius said. "We are at war with Carthage."
"When we enter Messana," Claudius replied, "Messana becomes a Roman city. If Carthage wants war, she will have it."
They could see Messana now. Diminutive against the massive bulk of the island, the city's structures of white stone and mud brick stood out starkly along the shoreline. In a moment, the Roman fleet drew close enough for the men to make out the wind-whipped flames of torches that burned on the walls along the harbor, their reflections flickering in the water below.
Claudius' optimism was short-lived.
"To the north!" Gaius pointed into the distance.
Claudius turned and saw a warship pulling through the heavy sea toward them. Waves crashed over its bow, exposing its deadly ram. It was a quinquereme, a 'five', so-called because five men, as opposed to three for a trireme, rowed each bank of three oars. The ship was sleek and fast and flew Carthaginian banners. In a moment, Claudius spied another behind it, and then another -- all fives. Even from a distance, he could see that they towered over the smaller triremes of the Roman fleet.
The captain of the trireme rushed to Claudius' side.
"Your orders, Consul."
"Signal the quick-rowing, captain. Send out the covering force."
The captain turned at once and began bellowing orders, putting the Tarentine's plan into action: six ships to confront the enemy, four to remain with the transport fleet. The signalman waved his flag, struggling with the two-handed flagstaff in the strong wind. Claudius heard officers shouting from the rowing deck, and the drumming of the mallet, the "thump...thump...thump..." became "thump-thump-thump-thump" and the oars splashed through the waves to the quicker beat. Soon the entire fleet was moving at the new rapid pace.
The signalman then flagged the warships and a small group of triremes and pentekonters split off from the main force. They sped toward the onrushing enemy in two files, oars pounding the water. In the distance, more Carthaginian ships came into view. Their mainmasts were empty, sails stowed for battle, but the little foresails billowed in the increasing wind as the vessels, in line abreast, bore down fast on the approaching triremes. Even as Claudius and the tribune watched, the Carthaginian crewmen began removing the foresails as well, with practiced efficiency.
"Now we'll see how Tarentines and Locrians fight," Claudius said. "They are skilled rowers. Not like Romans."
"Will they fight?" Gaius asked. "That is the question."
"We will find out soon," Claudius said. "They need only hit them hard once, and then beat a retreat. That should give us time to reach the harbor. If our Tarentine captain is correct, the Carthaginians will have no stomach for a fight. The triremes are smaller but more agile. That will have to see us through."
"Even now darkness falls," Gaius said hopefully.
In all, seven Carthaginian quinqueremes rowed out of the gloom to the north on the roughening gray sea, their oars perfectly aligned, beating soundlessly. Claudius watched their implacable advance in awe and fear. Their empty mainmasts towered above their decks, sticklike crosses. They looked like an approaching line of scarecrows.
To Claudius, they looked like harbingers of death.
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I was determined not to miss a single shred of evidence, however minute. I started by inspecting the walls on my way down and even the steps themselves as I trod upon them. Naturally, I found nothing, but I could see where a fine film of dust had once coated the stairs as well as the floor below. "Footprints, you damned Gessler!" I muttered under my breath. Hundreds of feet had long since obliterated any traces of the murderer's shoes. This did nothing to discourage me, however. On the contrary, I felt certain that the same carelessness that had destroyed evidence would have unwittingly preserved some for me as well.
The main chamber of the basement, a bustle of activity just the day before, now bore the abandoned, spirit-haunted air of an ancient ruin. The battered aperture in the brick wall was only slightly larger than I had last seen it, extending to about three feet above the floor and of sufficient diameter to comfortably manhandle a corpse through it. As I thrust my lantern forward, the jagged edge made by the broken bricks cast a shadow within the cavity that looked like the gaping mouth of a sharp-toothed beast. I was loath to reach my hand inside, assuring myself that even Gessler would have thoroughly examined the space within. I did not come here to repeat Gessler's investigation, but only to conclude it.
Thus, I did not concern myself with the obvious. No, it was the obscure reaches of the crime scene that interested me.
I turned my lantern away from the hole and was disappointed to find little of interest apart from a worktable set against one of the walls. I walked over to it and found an assortment of carpenter tools laying among untidy stacks of dried-up lumber. I put my lantern down on the table and, expecting little, examined the implements in more detail. It was plain by the dust that covered them that they had not been used in some time, a fact that disclosed to me as well that Gessler's men had not handled them, either. This made the table a trove of potential evidence and I immediately began to scrutinize the objects with increased interest.
My vigilance was rewarded almost at once, for among the planes and the bit-less drills and the saws I chanced upon a trowel. An odd tool, I thought, to find on the worktable of a carpenter. Without touching it for fear of spoiling any evidence thereupon, I bent low over the object and inspected it closely. I quickly found that not only was it free of the dust that covered the other tools, meaning that it had been recently handled, but that it bore on its blade fresh-looking smears of brick mortar!
Gessler, the fool, had missed it! The very implement used to commit the murder, found not ten feet from the body itself! I wondered what else he had managed to overlook. I set about making a thorough search of the table, fearing only that it might take more than Dupin to counteract Gessler's vast incompetence, which ran much deeper than even I had suspected.
I didn't have far to look. Stashed behind a jumble of desiccated two-by-fours, I found a little glass vial. I saw at once that it too was free of dust and my pulse quickened. I brought it out from its hiding place and held it close to the light of my lantern. It was unstoppered and empty and bore a hand-written label. The label was torn and one corner of it had curled away from the glass, but I smoothed it out and read. "Laudan..." The paper had torn right through the 'n', but I knew what it was. My heart raced. This was exactly what I had told Gessler to look for. And here it was: Laudanum.
This was a discovery even greater than that of the trowel. The murderer had no doubt used the drug to sedate his victim, allowing him time to entomb the man within easy reach of his unbound hands. I was all too familiar with the stuff, for Dr. Coppelius had often administered small doses to Virginia in her final days to calm her suffering. I passed the vial under my nostrils, but the bottle had been so long empty that the substance within had left no trace of a scent behind. Being also familiar with the taste, I was just about to touch the rim of the vial to the tip of my tongue when a faint sound reached my ear from out of the darkness beyond the range of my lamp. I paused, listening.
I didn't move a muscle. I strained to hear the sound again. When it failed to recur, I resumed my effort to taste the vial - when there it came again. This time there could be no doubt what it was. My hand shook violently in my fright and I nearly dropped the precious glass.
It was the sound of jingling bells!

