Suddenly, an image of a young boy came to him, a boy—not him as a child, but not so different either—waiting at home for his father. The boy was waiting for his father, excited to tell him about his day without any idea that his father wasn’t coming home, that he was busy laying in some deserted street, breathing his last breaths as those in the nearby houses of the Downs listened but did not hear, watched but did not care.
Before he knew it, he’d dropped to one knee, all thoughts of the other soldiers forgotten. In that moment, his only thoughts were for the dying man staring at him with wide, panicked eyes as he sucked desperately, his hands clawing at his throat. Already, the bowman’s face was beginning to turn a sick shade of blue. “I’m sorry,” Aaron said, meaning it and not knowing why. He drew one of his blades and slowly, gently, slid it through the side of the man’s leather jerkin and into his heart. The man let out a final rattling gasp and was still.
The sellsword withdrew the blade and slid it back into the sheathe at his side. He leaned over and closed the man’s eyes with an almost reverent gesture. Shouts rose from down the street and he looked up to see four of the soldiers and the thin, sharp-faced leader approaching in the moonlight. He blinked, confused, like a man waking from a vivid dream, shaking his head to clear it of the strange, alien thoughts. What in the name of all the gods is wrong with me? While he’d been wasting his time with the dead man, the one who’d tried to kill him, the soldiers had caught up to him. He swallowed hard, furious at the unexplainable lump in his throat.
Studying the approaching men, he rose to his feet and drew his sword. One wounded man against five trained soldiers. Those weren’t long odds; they weren’t odds at all. He considered running but immediately dismissed the idea. With his hurt leg, it wouldn’t take them anytime to run him down, and then he’d be even more exhausted than he already was. Besides, he’d be damned if he gave the bastards the satisfaction of chasing him down in the streets like some rabid dog.
The soldiers drew their swords and fanned out as they approached. Aaron frowned, his gaze turning left then right as he tried to keep all of them in view. “Well, come on then,” he shouted, “who dies first?” The soldiers stopped and stared at him, and a confused moment passed before he realized they weren’t staring at him after all but behind him.
He snatched a quick look over his shoulder and at first saw nothing. Then, as he watched, two forms seemed to materialize out of the shadows. The two figures were dressed all in black, even their faces wrapped around with black cloth so that only their eyes and the dusky skin around them could be seen. “Akalians,” he breathed, his words a hoarse croak. He’d never actually seen one, but he’d heard enough stories about the master assassins to know them for what they were. It was said that the Akalians dedicated their lives to Akane, God of Shadows and closest sibling to Salen, the God of Death, and that they endured a hard, merciless life of training in order to become the most skilled killers in the world. It was also said that they performed dark rituals where they mutilated and tortured themselves in worship of their dark god until they became something more—or less—than human.
Aaron had always thought the stories exaggerations if not outright lies, but seeing them here, floating across the pavement like two phantoms of shadow and menace, he believed. Little was known about the cult of Akane but it was rumored that they came from the desert land of Elanar. Of course, the rumors had never been proven. No surprise, that, considering that most men who saw Akalians up close—as he now did—didn’t live long enough to confirm any theories. “This day just keeps getting better and better,” he said.
It was said that with an army of Akalians, a leader could conquer the entire world, but the soldiers of Akane were exceedingly rare and their services were said to be expensive enough to beggar a king. They were figures out of story and legend, murderers of kings and queens, creatures to be laughed away in the day and watched for in the dark of night, beings feared only a little less than the gods themselves. The appearance of two of them in a shithole like the Downs was beyond belief, and if not for the stiffness in his leg, and the too-real knot of fear in his stomach, Aaron would have thought he was dreaming.
Long, thin blades appeared in the hands of the figures as if by magic, and the two Akalians held them at a low angle to the ground as they approached with fluid, smooth strides so graceful that he could barely tell they were moving at all. Aaron swallowed hard and backed up toward the side of the street, his eyes darting between the Akalians and the group of professional hit men, the handle of his sword now slick with sweat.
The leader of the soldiers whistled sharply and more men spilled into the streets from the nearby alleys until there were at least twenty of them.
The Akalians drew even with him in the street and he tensed in expectation, but they didn’t so much as spare him a glance, and he watched in shock as they glided past, toward the group of nervous, pale-faced soldiers.
“This has nothing to do with you. This man is hunted by his Highness Belgarin himself, and any who aid in his capture will be rewarded handsomely.” The nasally voiced leader shouted at the Akalians, and despite the armed men gathered around him, Aaron was sure he heard a quaver in the man’s voice. The black-garbed figures did not respond, but continued forward with the inevitability of a thunderstorm. “Fine, damnit,” the thin man yelled, turning to the men with him, “kill them and then kill the sellsword. He knows too much.”
I don’t know a damned thing, Aaron wanted to say, but he decided to be quiet. He didn’t want to remind the Akalians of his presence, in case, by the grace of Iladen, they’d somehow forgotten he was there. He backed up again until he fetched up against the wall of a building.
“Excuse me, master,” came a man’s cultured voice at his side.
Aaron cursed and spun, raising his sword. He stopped cold as he took in the short, chubby man before him. The stranger wore a simple brown robe similar to a priest, and his hands were clasped behind him. He bowed deeply to the sellsword revealing a head of thinning gray hair. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
Aaron just stared. “Who the fuck are you,” he whispered harshly, “and what do you want?”
The chubby man bobbed his head in deference, his double chins jiggling, “You may call me Gryle, sir.” He said in a formal voice, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Forgive me for being so forward, but I wonder if you could be persuaded to accompany me to a more … discreet location.”
Aaron glanced meaningfully at the two figures, swathed in black, and the score of soldiers before turning back to the man. “Nah,” he said, “how about we ask all of these fine gentlemen for tea instead?”
The man seemed to consider for a moment then he shook his head, “I do not think that would be wise, Mr. Envelar. I was under the distinct impression that they wanted to kill you.”
Aaron eyed the man for a moment, at a loss for words. Then, “How do you—no never mind that. Let’s go.”
The chubby man looked surprised. “Aren’t you curious as to where?”
“Anywhere’s better than here,” he growled, “now move!”
Gryle glanced up at the two groups, as if he’d only just realized they were there. “Ah,” he said, nodding, “I take your point, sir. This way.”
Aaron followed the man down a nearby alley. As they were turning on another sidestreet the night stillness was shattered by the sound of screaming. Apparently, the Akalians had begun their bloody work. He didn’t think they had a chance against so many soldiers—no matter what the stories said—but he was just as glad that he wasn’t among them. Salen’s bell would ring loudly this night as the Keeper of the Dead called to his new servants, leading them across the fields of eternity.
CHAPTER
FOUR
“Where in the name of the gods are you taking me?” Aaron asked, scowling at the fat man’s back. If his escort heard, he gave no sign as he trod along the broken cobbles of the street, marching purposefully past whore houses
and shady bars with the air of a servant showing a visiting dignitary to his master’s study. I should have taken my chances with the Akalians, Aaron thought, but he sighed and followed after the man. He’d been in Avarest, and specifically the Downs, for several years, and he’d thought that he had a handle on the maze-like huddles of shanties and shacks, the labyrinthine, haphazardly constructed streets and alleyways. He’d been wrong.
He was utterly and hopelessly lost. For a man who, as a matter of course, had plenty of enemies who would be happy to catch him off guard, it wasn’t a good feeling. What’s more, the pain in his leg was beginning to grow worse. “It is not far now, sir.” Gryle answered as if he’d read the sellsword’s mind.
Just when Aaron had decided that he wasn’t going to take another step without some answers, the stranger stopped at a small, indistinct home and rapped on the door once, paused, and rapped twice more. The door swung open, and a thickly muscled, familiar form moved aside to let them in. “Why am I not surprised,” Aaron muttered as he followed Gryle into the house.
Inside, a single, flickering candle gave off enough light for him to recognize the figure standing by the opposite wall. Her features were smooth and soft and held a beauty unlike anything a man would ever expect to find anywhere, let alone in the Downs, the asshole of Avarest. A long mane of dark brown hair framed her face, and he thought he detected a hint of amusement on her blue eyes. “You.” He lurched toward her, but a fresh wave of pain, by far the worst yet, tore through him. His knee buckled and the next thing he knew he was lying on the floor.
I’m sorry, Aaron, the voice spoke inside his head in an exhausted tone, I can hold it back no longer. You are safe, now. From his place on the floor, Aaron glanced at the woman seated at the table, at the chubby, pink-faced man who now stood behind her, as if waiting to fill her cup, then turned his head to look at the two thickly muscled men who watched him silently. He barked a harsh, tired laugh through teeth gritted against the pain. Oh yeah, safe as a baby in its mother’s arms, he thought, and then darkness reached up and took him.
CHAPTER
FIVE
He awoke with a gasp, his body bathed in a cold sweat. He was surprised to find that he was in an unfamiliar bed, and he shook his head furiously in an effort to clear the visions that still lingered there. He’d dreamed of the bowman, lying in the street, choking and gagging on his own wasted throat. His stomach turned threateningly at the memory. What is happening to me?
It wasn’t as if the man was the first he’d killed. A sellsword didn’t survive long without wetting his blade from time to time, but never before had it left him feeling so … guilty. After his parents’ death and his time at the orphanage—where he was administered beatings almost daily—he’d learned that a man must have tough skin to survive in a world where everyone was out to take what was yours.
“You feel.” The familiar voice spoke as the glowing, magenta orb floated into his field of vision.
He jerked up in bed, “You,” he growled, “this is your fault. What are you doing here, and just what in the name of the Keeper’s Bell have you done to me?”
“It is Kevlane’s Bond.”
He frowned in thought. “Kevlane? What in the name of the gods are you—wait a minute. Do you mean Boyce Kevlane?” He barked a laugh, ‘you’ll have to do better than that, firefly. I’m no child to be told a bed time story. Everyone knows the wizard never existed.”
“The same way that they know that talking balls of light don’t?” The voice asked. Aaron frowned at the hint of amusement in its tone but didn’t respond. “You’re wrong,” the orb said after a moment. “Do you remember the story?”
Aaron scowled, “Of course I remember it.”
The orb drifted closer, “Tell me.”
“No thanks. I have better things to do than recite a children’s tale I haven’t heard since I stopped pissing the bed.”
“Fine,” the orb voice answered, annoyed, “I will tell you then. Thousands of years ago—three thousand, seven hundred and sixty three, to be exact—during the Age of Kings, dozens of Warlords fought and warred in an effort to become the ultimate ruler of Telrear. They were selfish, cruel men who cared only about power, and the land and its people fought, bled, and died to feed their ambition. Crops were burned, families starved, and it seemed that there would be no end to it until one rose who wished only to bring peace to the land, to end the killing—“
“Hah,” Aaron said. “Seems fools existed even then.”
“The man,” the orb went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, “was Aaron Caltriss, and it is from him that you get your name.”
Aaron recoiled as if slapped, “How could you possibly know that?” When he was young, he’d made the mistake of telling some of the kids in his home city of Yalet about his namesake, and he’d spent the better part of his childhood being teased because of it. No matter how many fights he was in, no matter how many bloody noses he gave or received, it had not stopped. The teasing had even followed him to the orphanage somehow, but of course it hadn’t been the kids that had taunted him then but the headmaster himself. After one of the regular beatings, when his back was bloody from the headmaster’s switch and tears of anger and pain stung his eyes, the old man would lean down with a humorless smile on his face. You’re no Caltriss, boy, he’d say, and life’s no fairy tale.
Aaron could hear the bastard’s voice even now, harsh and raw from his poorly hidden addiction to his Tamarang pipe, could see his hunched form holding the bloody switch, smiling as he scratched the puss-filled sores long use of the drug produced. Still, the beatings hadn’t been the reason Aaron had killed the man in the end. The truth was, the headmaster had been right; life was brutal, cruel, and there were no happy endings. Hard lessons but important ones. Some people didn’t learn them until they were much older, until one of their children died from the wasting sickness or the nobles raised the taxes so high that they could barely feed their families. As for Aaron, he’d learned them at the end of the old man’s switch, and in a way, he knew, he should be thankful for that.
No, it wasn’t the beatings that had made him kill Headmaster Cyrille. If he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t even the old man’s sick use of the young girls under his care—though the cold, dead looks in their eyes had certainly paid for his death a thousand times. Aaron had been young then, too young to understand the depravities the children were forced to endure. A good reason to kill a man, but it had not been his. He had not killed Cyrille for all of the children; he’d killed him for one of them. Owen. The name came to his mind unwillingly, and he fought it down with a will. Some memories were better forgotten.
“I know it because you know it,” the orb said simply, pulling him away from his dark thoughts. “Caltriss fought the armies of the barbarian kings in several pitched battles, but despite the fact that his army was much smaller and ill-equipped, he always managed to win.”
“He led his army across the width and breadth of Telrear, engaging the vicious legions of the barbarian kings in quick, fluid skirmishes instead of the large-scale conflicts they were accustomed to and disappearing with his smaller force before the mighty armies of the kings could corner and destroy him. It wasn’t long before the name of Aaron Caltriss began to spread and soon people were searching him out in order to join his army, or to join the city of Palindra, the city it was said he’d created in the deep tracts of the Olindash forest in the west of Telrear.”
“You see, people didn’t join Caltriss just because he won victories—all of the barbarian kings won great battles against the others in the Time of Blood. No, people flocked to Caltriss because of who he was, because of what he believed in. In those days, as in most, when a city was sacked or conquered, widespread looting, rape, and killing were common. The armies of all of the kings took their toll from any city they occupied—all except for Aaron’s. He left the people in peace. Instead of setting his men to theft and murder, he set them to rebuilding homes and businesses, to help
ing those who needed it, to fixing the damage that the war had caused, and the people loved him for it.”
The orb paused then, and for a moment, Aaron thought it would not continue. When it finally did, its voice was soft, almost wistful, “Caltriss was more than a man. He was hope in a hopeless world, rest to the weary, peace to men and women whose entire lives were stained with blood. The citizens of those ancient cities came to him in search of something better until his numbers swelled to rival even those of the greatest barbarian kings. It seemed, then, as if it was only a matter of time before he united the entire continent.”
“Fearful of his gathering numbers, the barbarian kings united their armies against him. Caltriss tried to fight, but despite his growing numbers, the combined might of the kings was too much, and soon his armies were forced back to the city of Palindra, surrounded by hordes of bloodthirsty men.”
Aaron shook himself. Listening to the orb, he’d felt himself being drawn into the story despite himself. “You talk as if you were there,” he said with a laugh.
The orb’s light grew pale and weak, almost sad. As if a lightning bug can be sad, he thought. When the orb didn’t answer, he sighed, “Why are you wasting my time telling me all of this anyway? Everyone knows the story. Boyce Kevlane, Aaron’s most powerful wizard betrayed him. He killed Caltriss and the barbarians took the city. They call it Kevlane’s Folly because he thought that betraying Caltriss would grant him favor with the barbarian kings, but they threw him from the castle parapets as soon as they entered the city.”
You know nothing! The voice hissed, and Aaron winced at the words seemed to burn in his mind. “Kevlane never would have betrayed Aaron.” It continued out loud, “they were friends since childhood, closer than brothers. No, in their darkest hour, when the barbarians crouched outside the city, hungry for blood, Caltriss called for Kevlane and his seven greatest apprentices. Kevlane and the others had spent years working on a spell that would bind into a normal man those virtues that they believed made the perfect warrior and commander: Strength, speed, intelligence, charisma, perception, adaptability, and compassion.”
A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 4
