by John Marco
‘Take it off,’ said Malator with a grin. ‘Find out.’
Lukien laughed. ‘You’re a jester. You’re the great warrior Kahldris thought would save your people? I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ joked Malator. ‘I helped you move that door, didn’t I? Go on – take off the amulet. You have the sword.’
‘Ah, but this is the world of the dead . . .’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malator insisted. ‘In my world, in your world – it’s the same. I will keep you alive, Lukien.’
Lukien accepted the challenge with glee. ‘All right, then,’ he grumbled, taking the amulet from around his neck. He let it dangle at the end of its chain. ‘I don’t want to live anyway. I want to die, once and for all!’
‘Toss it away, then!’ urged Malator.
‘I will!’
With a shout Lukien tossed the amulet as far as he could, watching as the Eye tumbled toward the trees. He raised the Sword of Angels above his head and taunted the sky to strike him down.
‘Hold on to the sword,’ warned Malator. ‘Keep it close.’
‘What if I forget it one day?’ asked Lukien, taunting him. ‘What if I leave it behind and go for a ride?’
‘It won’t be that easy,’ laughed Malator. ‘If you don’t renounce me, you’ll live. Why are you so eager to die, fool?’
Lukien lowered the sword. He felt perfectly fine, and doubted it was just a trick. ‘No man should live forever,’ he said sullenly.
‘I have,’ countered Malator, ‘and I have loved every moment of it.’
‘Sure you have, because you’re here in paradise. Nothing can touch you here. No one you love dies.’
Malator considered this with a frown. ‘You have a story to tell me, Lukien? I would enjoy hearing it.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lukien, not really wanting to tell the Akari too much yet. He spied the trees where he had thrown the Eye of God. ‘Back in the real world I’m still wearing the amulet, right?’
‘That’s right. But you can rid yourself of it, if that’s what you wish. I told you – you have no need for it any longer. I’m your Akari now.’
‘And Amaraz knew that all along,’ said Lukien bitterly. ‘He is a bastard not to have told me.’
‘No, Lukien, that’s not the way things work. Amaraz knew you would find me someday. That’s is why he would not bond with you. But it’s not his place to tell you the future. And what does it matter now? We will bond, Lukien, you and I!’
‘That is a frightening prospect,’ drawled Lukien. He let the sword droop in his hand. Looking around, he could not help but laugh. ‘All of you Akari – all you do is play these games! What if I don’t want to play anymore? What if I just want to walk away?’
Malator shrugged. ‘You could do that. But you haven’t done it yet, and I don’t think you will.’
‘Oh, I will, Malator, I promise you. Just as soon as we are done with your wicked brother. Then I will be done with you as well, and I can die in peace.’
‘If that’s what you wish,’ said Malator, though Lukien’s promise clearly concerned him. ‘But you’ll have to tell me why. I want to know all about you, Lukien.’
Lukien thought about the Akari’s request. ‘It’s a long way back to my land,’ he said. ‘We’ll have all the time in the world to talk.’
He should have been happy, but he wasn’t. He had found the Sword of Angels, the means to defeat Kahldris at last. So why wasn’t it enough? Malator smiled kindly at him, as if reading his mind.
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Not anymore,’ said Lukien. He looked away. ‘It’s your Story Garden.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Malator. ‘Now I understand.’
Lukien shook his head. ‘No, Malator, you don’t. You have no idea what I’ve been through to get here, or what I’m leaving behind. Someday you might understand, if I decided to tell you. But right now all I want from you is the means to save my friend. And I want you to take me back to the land of the living. Now, if you please.’
Malator stepped up to Lukien at last, putting a slender arm around his shoulder. ‘I can do anything you want me to do, Lukien.’
‘Can you defeat your brother?’
‘Yes, I can do that. Or at least I think I can.’
‘How?’
Malator’s smile was mischievous. ‘Let’s save that for the long ride, all right? It’s time for us to get to know each other, my friend.’
‘We’re not friends, Malator,’ said Lukien.
‘We will be,’ promised the Akari. ‘Once you get to know me, you’ll be glad you did.’
‘Take me back, please. Will you do that for me, friend ?’
‘Of course,’ said Malator, and once again the world went dark.
49
King Baralosus of Ganjor sat at a table beneath the desert moon, balancing himself on a chair as it sank into the warm sand. Around him sat a bevy of advisors, all of them tired from the long day of travel. The sun had gone down hours ago, and the fourteen-hundred soldiers who had accompanied them from the city had begun to bed down for the evening, unwrapping bed rolls among the hastily erected tents. The drowa rested uneasily in the distance, their noise and smell carried to Baralosus by the breeze. He could hear the grunting of the discontented animals over the voices of his men. It had been a good day of travel, completely without incident, and Baralosus was pleased. He had not thought an army could move so effortlessly. Baralosus studied the faces of the men gathered around the table as they drank wine and filled their bellies with food. To the king’s right sat Minister Kailyr, his old comrade. Though Kailyr was not a military man, he had insisted on accompanying his king. And he still insisted there would be no battle with Aztar. Kailyr picked up his goblet, listening to General Rhot’s argument.
‘He has no archers, either,’ Rhot continued. ‘Even if he does decided to fight, we can pick at him for hours if we choose.’
Rhot’s man Kahrdeen nodded in deference, as did the others around the table. Minister Kailyr lowered his goblet and licked the red wine from his lips. He looked tired, but refused to let the argument lapse.
‘How do you know he has no archers? That’s not what Jashien said. Jashien said he didn’t see any archers. Why would he? Do you think the Voruni can’t use bows, General?’
General Rhot laughed like a sceptic. ‘So maybe they do. How many could they have? Jashien saw only a few hundred people with Aztar. People, mind you. Not just men. Women and children, too.’
Kahrdeen, dressed in his black robes, looked peculiarly at Kailyr. ‘What does it matter to you? You say he won’t fight.’
‘He won’t,’ said Kailyr confidently. He gave his king a sideways smile. ‘Majesty, don’t fret about it.’
‘His Majesty isn’t afraid,’ said Rhot, speaking for Baralosus. ‘His Majesty knows I’ve made a fitting army for him. If Aztar decides to fight, we will finish him quickly and there will be nothing left of him but his ugly, scarred hide.’
There was some laughing around the table as the soldiers joked at Aztar’s expense. Kailyr, however, did not laugh. Nor did Baralosus. The king looked down into his wine glass, wanting to go home. He wasn’t like these men, and knew he didn’t belong with them. Like all of his bloodline he had trained in weapons and tactics, studying the arts of war like any good king. But they had been texts and mock battles only. His skills were diplomacy, manipulation, and greed, and these things he excelled at. They had made him a great king, fabulously rich, the kind of man who brokered deals for land and gold and women. Yet being with Rhot and his muscular friends made Baralosus feel small.
To form an army, to march it across the desert, to threaten his one time ally Aztar – all of these things had been thrust upon Baralosus by politics and his stubborn daughter. Salina had refused him, and because she was too beautiful to resist, Aztar had refused him, too, beguiled by Salina’s brown eyes and smooth skin. Baralosus had offered Aztar land and title, but to his great surprise
the desert prince had turned him down, sending back his men empty-handed.
‘Tell them, Majesty,’ said Kailyr.
‘Eh?’
‘What you offered Aztar. Rhot doesn’t believe.’
Baralosus felt annoyed, caught off guard by the question. He shrugged, a little drunk, and snapped at one of the servants to fill his glass again. A boy, shirtless, hurried over with a pitcher and poured wine into the king’s goblet. Baralosus shooed him away.
‘A seat at the table,’ he muttered. ‘Kailyr, you know this . . .’
‘Of course I do. You see, Rhot? Do you really think Aztar would turn that down?’
Rhot laughed. ‘What does that mean to a man like Aztar? He lives in the desert. He’s like a king to the Voruni who follow him.’ He stopped himself, looking sheepish. ‘Well, not a king. Not a king, no. But you see my meaning, Majesty.’
‘I see your meaning, General,’ sighed Baralosus with disinterest. The warmth of the wine began to loosen his tongue. ‘But old Kailyr roped me into this, all of his nonsense. I don’t want to kill Aztar. I have to.’
The men around the table glanced at each other. Rhot smiled.
‘And we will, Majesty,’ he promised.
Baralosus put down his goblet, leaned dangerously back in his chair, then let out a loud curse. His eyes burned from the day of hot sand, and the insipid talk between his aides had given him a headache. The air smelled of drowa dung and sweaty men. He felt like vomiting.
‘We should reach the Skein in a day or two, yes?’ he asked, addressing no one in particular.
‘Yes, Majesty. No more than two days,’ said Rhot.
Baralosus rubbed his eyes hard, then opened them to skewer the general. ‘And you’ll make quick work of Aztar? I want your promise on this, Rhot. No surprises.’
‘There will be no surprises, Majesty. Aztar is weak. His men have no means to stand against us. When he sees what he is up against, he will give up your daughter.’
Baralosus wanted desperately to be assured. ‘And if he doesn’t, you will defeat him easily?’
‘Easily, Majesty.’
Rhot’s words came out with such confidence it almost offended the king. Of all of them, only Rhot took glee in the coming battle. While most of Ganjor admired Aztar, Rhot thought him a brigand. And a threat to Ganjor’s throne. There was a glint of arrogance in Rhot’s eyes as he sat across from Baralosus, a kind of gloating that silently said ‘you should have listened to me, Majesty.’
King Baralosus took up his wine glass again and sipped at it, inviting the others to talk again. They all remained quiet. Kailyr, always the friend, offered Baralosus a smile of warning.
‘What is it?’ Baralosus grumbled at him.
‘It’s hot,’ said Kailyr. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
Baralosus belched and turned away. Throughout the camp he saw fires wavering, lighting the dunes with a pale flickering. His army moved around the fires, settling in for meals or sleep or quiet conversation. The moon seemed impossibly bright, huge and alabaster. The din of the army faded in the enormity of the desert.
‘I’m tired,’ pronounced the king.
‘Yes, get some sleep,’ agreed Kailyr.
‘No,’ said Baralosus, getting out of his chair. ‘I mean I’m tired of listening to all of you. I’m going for a stretch. I need to breathe.’
‘Breathe?’ Kailyr stood up beside him. ‘No, Majesty. Sit. Or let me take you to your tent.’
Baralosus shook his head. More than anything, he wanted to be away from his aides. ‘You sit. Keep on arguing. I’m going.’
As Kailyr began to speak, Baralosus walked away from the little table. The guards around him started to follow, but Baralosus barked at them to keep back. All the attention was making him feel like a child. Pulling his garments around himself, he trudged along the sand to where the soldiers were bedding down, keeping his face in shadows. Because he’d known the trek would be difficult, Baralosus hadn’t dressed in his usual finery. Instead a wore a gaka made of tanned drowa skin and a pair of riding boots that hiked up to his knees. A headdress of scarlet cloth spun around his skull, but his face remained uncovered. Still, it was nearly impossible to make out his features in the darkness, and none of the men bothered looking up as Baralosus moved through their ranks.
When he was a comfortable distance away from Kailyr and the others, Baralosus slowed a bit. He was unsure where he was going, and he knew that the wine he’d drank was playing tricks with his brain. He felt happy and deliriously sad both at the same time, on the verge of laughing and crying. His feet shuffled through the dirt, kicking up a tiny sandstorm behind him. The cooking fires carried the smell of meat to his nostrils. Baralosus took a deep breath of it. He looked around, sure that he was lost, but it didn’t really matter. Anyone of these men could escort him back to his tent, if Baralosus didn’t mind looking like a fool.
Then, from the corner of his eye he spotted a single, familiar figure sitting alone by a campfire. The man had a boot in his hand, carefully lacing it with long strands of gut. Baralosus paused, waiting for Jashien to notice him, but the man was too entranced by his careful work to look up. The others in Jashien’s company had gone to their tents, leaving the fire for Jashien to enjoy. Around him the camp sparked with life, but young Jashien worked without regard for any of it, slowly looping the lace through each of the boot’s holes.
Baralosus could not bring himself to leave. Watching Jashien reminded him instantly of Salina, and why he had come to this place at all.
Jashien continued working a few moments longer. Then, with that sense one always gets of being watched, he looked up at Baralosus. A hint of confusion crossed his face, then recognition. He stood, boot in hand.
‘Majesty?’
Baralosus stepped closer, coming into the light. He wasn’t sure what to say, or even why he wanted to speak at all.
‘I’m wandering,’ he said, then realized how silly that sounded. His voice slurred badly. He cleared his throat. ‘I needed a stretch. Too much sitting about.’
Jashien smiled awkwardly. ‘Yes. It was a long ride today.’
‘May I join you?’ asked Baralosus.
‘Me?’ Jashien looked around at his meagre camp. ‘I haven’t anything to offer you. I can fetch some food and wine . . .’
Baralosus put up a hand. ‘No. I’m quite good.’ He sauntered up to the fire, feeling its heat against his face. Jashien was staring at him. The king looked around, not wanting anyone to overhear him. There were things on his mind, the kind of things kings rarely talk about. For some reason, Jashien seemed the perfect foil.
‘Sit,’ he directed the young man. ‘Go on with what you were doing.’
‘I was lacing boots, Majesty.’
‘Then go on with it,’ the king insisted. He waited until Jashien sat himself back onto the sand. Jashien shrugged and placed his boot in his lap, but his hands moved distractedly this time. He grimaced uncomfortably.
‘My lord has something he wishes to say?’ he ventured. ‘Your pardon, Majesty, but you look troubled.’
‘Why would I be?’ asked Baralosus. ‘Because my daughter has left me? Because I have to go kill a hero? Because I have sand in my shoes that’s making my feet ache?’ He flopped down onto the ground and angrily began unlacing his own boots. He didn’t care what Jashien thought of him or how ridiculous he looked. When he had his first boot off he tossed it aside, undid the other, then began massaging his feet with a sigh of utter satisfaction. ‘I have been drinking.’
Jashien spoke carefully. ‘Then you should rest, Majesty. Sit here with me.’ He smiled. ‘It is a fine night. Quiet.’
Baralosus looked around. ‘Yes, it is quiet. Is it always so quiet out here, so far from the city?’
‘Oh yes, Majesty, always. This is a good place for a man to come and think.’
‘And to get bitten by a scorpion. Take no insult, Jashien, but I prefer my palace to all this sand and drowa dung.’
‘But it is
peaceful here, Majesty, and here you can get away from all the others. This can be a palace, too, if you know where to look. Even the moon is different here. Look how grand she is.’ Jashien gestured toward the bright orb. ‘It is like she has come out only for us. Don’t you think?’
Baralosus stared at the moon. ‘Yes . . .’
He felt old suddenly. He saw Salina’s face in the moon.
Jashien put down the boot, setting it down beside him. He had come back to Ganjor twice with bad news, both times delivering it to the king himself. Baralosus knew him for what he was – a good man, loyal and devoted to the throne. But there had always been a hint of admiration in his voice when he spoke of Aztar. Aztar’s strange glamour worked on men like Jashien, and Baralosus did not know why. The king stretched out his legs and leaned back against his palms, still looking contemplatively up at the moon.
‘Kailyr and the others – they’ll come looking for me soon,’ he said.
‘Not much time, then,’ said Jashien. ‘Will you tell me what troubles you, Majesty? I think that’s why you came here.’
‘I want to know about Aztar,’ said the king. ‘What do you think of him, Jashien?’
The question set Jashien off balance. ‘Aztar? He is a fool, Majesty. That is what I think.’
‘And what else?’ probed the king.
‘I think he has made a mistake.’
‘And what else?’
‘Majesty?’
‘No, Jashien, don’t do that. Don’t tell me what I want to hear.’ Baralosus sat up and glared at the man. ‘I came to hear the truth from you. I want to know what you think of Aztar, and what you think he’ll do.’
‘Majesty, I can’t say what is in the man’s mind. Or in his heart. He does love your daughter. That is what I think.’
‘Kailry says he won’t fight. He says Aztar is merely playing games with us, still, and that he wants more from me than what I’ve offered.’
Jashien shook his head. ‘No.’
