Ghost King

by David Gemmell

  “I have walked the Mist. My world is far away.”

  “The Mist!” whispered the creature, moving closer, its claws resting on Thuro’s shoulder, close to his throat. “Then you serve the Witch Queen?”

  “I have not heard of her. I am a stranger here.”

  “You know, do you not, that I am ready to slay you?”

  “So I understand,” Thuro replied.

  “I do not wish to. I am not as you see me, boy. Once I was tall and fair like my brother Korrin. But it does not pay to fall into the clutches of Astarte. Worse it is to love her, as I loved her. For then she does not kill you. No matter … go away, I am tired.”

  “Do we live or die?”

  “You live … today. Tomorrow? We will talk again tomorrow.”

  The prince backed from the chamber as the hunched figure settled down in the corner. Korrin was waiting.

  “How did you enjoy your meeting?” asked the woodsman. Thuro looked deeply into his eyes, sensing the pain hidden there.

  “Can we talk somewhere?” The man shrugged and walked back toward the light. In a side chamber containing a cot and two chairs Korrin sat down, beckoning Thuro to join him.

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “This may seem hard to believe, but I and my companions know nothing of your lands or your troubles. Who is Astarte?”

  “Hard to believe? No. Impossible. You cannot travel anywhere on the face of this world without knowing Astarte.”

  “Even so, bear with me. Who is she?”

  “I have no time for games,” said Korrin, rising.

  “This is not a game. My name is Thuro, and I have traveled the Mist. Your land, your world, is new to me.”

  “You are a sorcerer? I find that hard to take. Or are you really hundreds of years old and only pretending to be a beardless boy?”

  “I came here—was sent here—by a man of magic. He did it to enable us to escape being murdered. That is the simple truth—question my friends. Now, who is Astarte?”

  Korrin returned to his seat. “I do not believe you, Thuro, but you gain nothing by hearing me speak of her, so I will tell you. She is the Dark Queen of Pinrae. She rules from ocean to ocean, and if sailors can be believed, she controls lands even beyond the waters. And she is evil beyond any dream of man. Her foulness is such that if you truly have not heard of her, you will not believe her depravity. The girl you helped was one of the Seven. Her fate was to be taken to Perdita, the Castle of Iron, and there to see her babe devoured by the Witch Queen. Think on that! Seven babes every season!”

  “Eaten?” said Thuro.

  “Devoured, I said, by the Bloodstone.”

  “But why?”

  “How can you ask a sane man why? Why does she destroy rather than heal? Why did she take a man like Pallin and turn him into the beast that he is becoming? You know why she did that? Because he loved her. Now do you understand evil? Every day that good man becomes more of a beast. One day he will turn on us and rend and slay, and we will have to kill him. Such is the legacy of the Witch Queen, may the ghosts disembowel her!”

  “I take it she has an army.”

  “Ten thousand strong, though she has disbanded twice that number following her conquests of the Six Nations. But she has other weapons, dread beasts she can summon to rip a man to bloody ribbons. Have you heard enough?”

  “How is it that you survive against such a foe?”

  “How indeed? If she killed us now, how would we suffer? Allowing us to live and watch Pallin go mad—that is wondrously venomous. When we have been forced to kill him and our hearts are broken, then they will come.”

  “She sounds vile indeed,” said Thuro. “Now I understand what you meant about the bond of brotherhood. But tell me, why do the people stand for such evil? Why do they not rise up in their thousands?”

  Korrin leaned back, fixing his dark eyes on Thuro as if seeing him for the first time. “Why should they? I did not—until my wife’s name was drawn from the list. Until they dragged her screaming from our home, carrying a babe I would never see. Life is not unpleasant in Pinrae. There is enough food and work, and there are no enemies any longer across the borders. Now the only danger is to pregnant women—and only twenty-eight of those a year from a nation of who knows how many thousand. No, why should a man seek to overthrow such a benign ruler? Unless his wife and child are slain … unless his brother is turned into a foul monster doomed to be killed by his own kin.”

  “How long has Astarte ruled Pinrae?”

  Korrin shrugged. “That is a matter for historians. She has always been queen. And yet to look at her … My brother journeyed to the Castle of Iron to plead for Ishtura, my wife. The queen took him to her bosom, and he fell for her golden beauty. What a price he paid to bed her!”

  “Why do you not flee the land?” asked the prince.

  “To where? Across the oceans? Who knows what evil dwells there? No, I shall stay and attempt all in my power to destroy her and all who serve her. What a burning there will be on that glad day!”

  Thuro rose. “Oil never killed a fire,” he said softly. “I think I will return to my friends.”

  “The fire I shall light will never be put out,” said Korrin, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “I have the names on a scroll of life. And when she is dead, others will be named, and they can follow her screaming into darkness.”

  “The names of people who did not fight her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Names like yours—before they took your wife?”

  “You do not understand. How could you?”

  “I hope I never do,” said Thuro, walking out to the corridor and into the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  Thuro and the others were not called to see the man-beast Pallin during the next four days, and Korrin Rogeur all but ignored them. Prasamaccus was infuriated at the lack of skill shown by the brotherhood’s hunters, who returned empty-handed at dusk each day, complaining that the deer were too fast or too canny or that their bows were not strong enough, their shafts not straight enough. On the fourth day they brought back a doe whose meat was so tough as to be indigestible. Prasamaccus sought out Korrin as the woodsman was setting off to scout in the north.

  “What is it, cripple? I have little time.”

  “And little food … and even less skill.”

  “Make your meaning plain.”

  “You do not have a huntsman in your tiny army who could hit a barn wall from the inside, and I am tired of chewing on roots or meat unfit for a hunter. Let me take my bow and bring some fresh meat to the caves.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Give me someone who has a little patience and will do as he is told.”

  “You are arrogant, Prasamaccus,” said Korrin, using the Brigante’s name for the first time.

  “Not arrogant, merely tired of being surrounded by incompetents.”

  Korrin’s eyebrows rose. “Very well. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “The quiet one who spoke out against Ceorl.”

  “Hogun is a good choice. I’ll tell him to kill you if you so much as appear to be trying to escape.”

  “Tell him what you wish—but tell him now!”

  Thuro watched as the two men left the clearing, Prasamaccus limping behind the taller Hogun. Korrin Rogeur approached him. “Can he use that bow?”

  “Time will tell,” said Thuro. Korrin shook his head and departed with four other men. Laitha sat beside the prince.

  “They brought in three other pregnant women last night,” she told him. “I heard them talking. It seems Korrin raided a convoy they were with: four soldiers killed and several others wounded.”

  Thuro nodded. “It is his only chance to hurt Astarte, rob her of her sacrifices. But he is doomed, poor man, just like his brother.”

  “While he lives, there is hope—so Culain used to say.”

  Thuro nodded. “There is truth in that, I suppose. But there are not more than fifty men here—agains
t an army of ten thousand. They cannot win. And have you noticed the lack of organization? It is not just that they lack skill as huntsmen; they do nothing but sit and wait for Pallin to go mad. There are not enough scouts out to adequately protect the camp; they have no meetings to discuss strategy; they do not even practice with their weapons. A more disorganized band of rebels I have never heard of; they wear defeat like a cloak.”

  “Perhaps they were just waiting for a prince with your battle experience,” snapped Laitha.

  “Perhaps they were!” Thuro pushed himself to his feet and approached the nearest guard, a hulking youngster armed with a longbow. “What is your name?” asked Thuro.

  “Rhiall.”

  “Tell me, Rhiall, if I were to walk from this camp, what would you do?”

  “I would kill you. Would you expect me to wave?” This brought a chuckle from the other three guards who had gathered around.

  “I do not think you could kill me with that bow—not were I ten feet tall, six feet wide, and riding a giant tortoise.” The other men grinned at Rhiall’s discomfort. “What is there for the rest of you to smile about? You!” Thuro hissed, pointing at a lean man with a dark beard and green eyes. “Your bow is not even strung. Were I to run yonder into the trees, you would be useless.”

  “It doesn’t pay to be insulting, boy,” said the huntsman.

  “Wrong,” Thuro told him. “It does not pay to insult men. What are you, runaway servants? Clerics? Bakers? There is not a warrior among you.”

  “That does it!” said the lean man. “It is time someone taught you a lesson in manners, boy.” Thuro stepped back, allowing the man to draw his longsword; then the prince’s gladius snaked into the sunlight.

  “You are right about lessons, forester.” The prince leapt lithely back as the huntsman raised his sword and charged, slashing the weapon in a vicious arc toward Thuro’s left side. The prince blocked the sweep with ease, pivoted on his heel, and hammered the man from his feet. The huntsman’s sword flew through the air to clatter against the trunk of a nearby tree. “Lesson one,” said Thuro. “Rage is no brother to skill.”

  A second man came forward more carefully. Thuro engaged him, and their blades whispered together. He was more skillful than his comrade, but he had not been trained by Culain lach Feragh. Thuro stepped forward, rolled his sword over his opponent’s blade, then flicked his wrist. The huntsman’s sword followed that of his comrade, and the man backed away, but Thuro sheathed his gladius. “Laitha, come over here!”

  Scowling, the forest girl obeyed. Thuro turned to the guards. “I will not lower myself to best you with the bow, but I’ll wager my sword against your bows that even this woman can outshoot you.”

  “I’ll take that wager,” said the lean man.

  “I’ll not play your games,” stormed Laitha. Thuro swung on her, lashing his open hand across her face; she staggered back, shocked and hurt.

  “This time you will do exactly as I say,” Thuro snapped, his eyes blazing. “I have had enough of your childish outbursts. We are here because of your stupidity. Act your age, woman! And think of Culain!”

  At the mention of his name, Laitha’s anger flowed from her and she walked to the nearest man. “Name a target,” she whispered.

  “The tree yonder,” said Rhiall.

  “I said a target, not a monument of nature!”

  “Then you name one.”

  “Very well,” Leaning forward, she deftly scooped Rhiall’s dark cap from his head and walked to the tree he had indicated. There she drew her hunting knife and plunged it through the hat, pinning it to the trunk. Then she paced out thirty steps and waited for the men to join her.

  Rhiall strung his bow and notched an arrow. “That was a good hat,” he grumbled as he pulled back the string, aimed, and loosed. The shaft glanced from the trunk and vanished into the forest. The second man’s shot missed the hat by a foot; the third man clipped the rim, bringing applause from the others. Lastly the lean huntsman took aim; his shaft hit the handle of Laitha’s knife and failed to pierce the target.

  “Shoot again,” said Laitha. He did so and scored a full hit in the crown of the hat. Laitha took Rhiall’s bow and paced off another ten steps. She turned, drew back the string, froze, released her breath, and loosed. The shaft slammed through the crown of the hat alongside the lean man’s arrow.

  He sniffed loudly and walked to her mark, then took aim and released the string. The arrow creased the rim. Laitha moved back another ten paces and pierced the hat again. Then she approached Thuro, dropped the bow at his feet, and leaned in close.

  “Touch me again,” she whispered, “and I’ll kill you.” Turning her back, she returned to her place near the circle of rocks. The lean huntsman stepped forward.

  “My name is Baldric. Perhaps you would teach me the move that disarmed me.”

  “Gladly,” said Thuro. “And if you wish to live beyond the spring, you should practice your skills. One day soon the soldiers will come.”

  “It’s not the soldiers we fear,” said Baldric, “It’s the Vores.”

  “Vores? I have not heard the name.”

  “Great cats. They can crush an ox skull in their jaws. Astarte uses them for sport—hunting the likes of us. Once they are loosed in the forest, we are truly lost.”

  “If the beast is mortal, it can be slain. If one can be slain, ten can die—or a hundred. What you need is to plan for the moment the Vores are loosed.”

  “How can you plan to fight a creature that runs faster than a horse and kills with either paw or fang? There used to be Vore hunts when I was a boy: twenty men with bows, another ten on horseback with long lances. And still men would die in the hunt. And here we are talking of twenty Vores, or thirty. And we have no hunting horses and no lances.”

  “You are a pitiful bunch, to be sure. The Vores eat meat?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then set traps. Dig pits with sharpened stakes at the foot. A man is never beaten until the last drop of his blood drips from the wound. And if you haven’t the heart to fight, then leave the forest. But do not dither in the shadows.”

  “What is your interest?” asked the hulking Rhiall. “You are not one of us.”

  “Happily true. But I am here, and you need me.”

  “How so?” asked Baldric.

  “To teach you to win. Savor the word. Win.”

  A terrifying roar came from the cave mouth, and the men swung toward it. There, stark against the rock face, was a towering bear with no semblance of humanity. It saw the men gathered around Thuro, dropped on all fours … and charged.

  The beast that had been Pallin moved at ferocious speed, hammering into the group before they could run. Rhiall, the slowest to move, was hurled ten feet in the air to land unconscious by a tall rock. The others were thrown to the ground, where they scrambled to their feet to sprint for the relative safety of the trees. Thuro dived to his left, rolling on his shoulder and rising as the beast reared up on its hind legs, its great talons raking the air. The prince drew his gladius and backed away. The bear advanced, dropped to all fours, and charged again. This time Thuro leapt high, coming down on the beast’s back with sword raised, but he could not plunge it into the creature’s neck, knowing what it once had been. The bear began to thrash around, seeking to dislodge the young warrior. In his efforts to hold on, Thuro dropped his sword; it fell to the beast’s back and a blinding white light blazed from the blade. The bear dropped without a sound, and Thuro jumped clear of the falling body. The bestial features softened, and the young Briton watched as the fur shrank back to reveal the half-human face he recalled from the first meeting deep in the caves. He retrieved his sword, noting the heat emanating from the blade, and the answer came to him.

  “Laitha!” he shouted. “Come quickly!” She ran to him and gazed in horror at Pallin’s deformed features.

  “Kill it quickly before it recovers.”

  “Give me your bracelet. Now!” Swiftly she pulled the copper band
clear, and Thuro took it and held it to the twisted face. Once more light blazed, and Pallin’s features softened further.

  “What about the arrows?” whispered Laitha. “Culain touched those also.”

  Thuro nodded, and she raced across the clearing to fetch her quiver. One by one Thuro touched the arrowheads to the stricken half beast, and each time more of the man emerged. At last the magic was exhausted and Pallin’s face was clearly more human than before, but the taloned paws remained, along with the huge sloping, fur-covered shoulders. His eyes opened.

  “Why am I not dead?” he asked, his anguish terrible to hear.

  The guards ran forward and knelt before him.

  “This young man restored you, lord,” said Baldric. “He touched you with his magic sword. Your face …” Baldric swept off his brass helm and held it before Pallin’s eyes. The man-monster gazed at his distorted reflection, then turned his sad blue eyes on Thuro.

  “You have only delayed the inevitable, but I thank you.”

  “My friend Prasamaccus has another twenty arrows that were touched by magic. When he returns, I will bring them to you.”

  “No! Against Astarte we have no magic. Keep them safe. I am doomed, though your aid should grant me another month of life as a man.” He looked down at his terrible hands. “As a man? Sweet gods of earth and water! What kind of man am I?”

  “A good man, I think,” said Thuro. “Have faith. What magic can do, magic can undo. Are there no Enchanters in this world?”

  “You mean the Dream Shapers?” answered the man Baldric.

  “If they work magic, yes.”

  “There used to be one in the Etrusces—mountains west of here.”

  “Do you know where in the mountains he lived?”

  “Yes; I could take you.”

  “No!” said Pallin. “I want no one to risk danger for me.”

  “You think there is less danger in these woods?” Thuro asked. “How long before the Vores or the soldiers rip your brotherhood to pieces or drag your people before Astarte to suffer your fate?”

  “You do not understand: this is all a game to the Witch Queen,” said Pallin. “She told me she could see my every movement and would watch me being slain by my brethren. Even now she has heard your plans and therefore has negated it. The Dark Lady watches us at this moment.”