by John Marco
“Get away from him!” he cried.
Akeela just stood there helplessly, as though he couldn’t believe what was happening. “Will?”
Gilwyn shouted, “Ghost, do something!”
Lukien staggered forward, rushing for Trager. The general easily sidestepped him, knocking him aside. Again Lukien skidded across the floor, and again Gilwyn cried out for unknown help. But it was too late. As Akeela stood with his own dagger dangling in his hand, Trager slashed at him, opening a red gash in his neck. Akeela dropped his blade and hovered there, blood filling the slit in his throat. Lukien lay on the floor, frozen in horror. Akeela stood, dazed and drunk, his hands going to his wound. Then he floated like a leaf down to his knees, all the while staring at Trager.
“Die, you ungrateful bastard!” cried Trager.
“Oh, Gods, no. . . .” Lukien got to his feet, intending to charge ahead, but an unseen hand held him back.
“Don’t!” whispered a voice.
“What the . . . ?”
Blood raced down Akeela’s rumpled shirt. He fell forward, his face smashing into the floor. Trager stood over him, his face a twisted mass. He stared down at his wounded king and let the dagger fall from his hand.
“Damn you! You made me do this!” he cried.
Gilwyn hurried toward Lukien, helping him to his feet. “Ghost,” he whispered, “where are you?”
“I’m here,” said the unseen voice. Lukien knew instinctively it was one of the Inhumans. Amazingly he felt the ropes being cut from his hands. “Go now,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of Trager.”
“No!” said Gilwyn.
“Go!”’ roared the voice.
Trager was on his knees beside the gasping Akeela. When he heard the strange voice he turned in its direction. His hand frantically searched for the blade he’d dropped.
“Hurry,” urged the voice. “It’s your only chance!”
“Who is that?” demanded Trager. He got to his feet with his dagger in hand, scanning the chamber. Lukien looked around too, trying to see his unknown benefactor. Now that he was free he could get to Akeela. If he could reach him, pull him away from Trager. . . .
“Ghost, or whoever you are, get Trager!” he cried as he made his way to Akeela. Trager made to stop him but was instantly bowled over by some unseen force. The blow stunned Trager, who looked around in terror for an opponent he couldn’t see. The invisible warrior blocked the way between Lukien and Akeela. Lukien could hear his unseen blade slashing through the air. Amazingly, Trager ducked and parried each one, falling back against the wall, twirling to avoid his invisible enemy.
“Akeela, it’s me,” said Lukien desperately as he reached his fallen king. Blood trickled down Akeela’s neck. He was still alive, though barely. Lukien quickly studied the wound. It wasn’t as deep as it could have been, but it was bad. Akeela looked up at Lukien and tried to smile.
“I die, Lukien. . . .”
“No,” Lukien argued. “I won’t let you. Not here. Not like this. Gilwyn, help me with him. We have to get him out of here.”
“Lukien, he’s finished,” cried Gilwyn. Behind him Ghost and Trager continued battling. breaking everything in the room around them.
“Get out of here!” shouted the Inhuman. “Before he sees me!”
Lukien ignored the voice, struggling to get his arms beneath Akeela. The thought of killing Trager flashed across his mind, but he only had one chance to save Akeela, and he wasn’t going to waste it. With a grunt he pulled the wounded king off the floor and lifted him in his arms, easier than it should have been because Akeela had wasted away.
“Come on, Gilwyn,” he cried. The boy hobbled after him, stealing a last glance at Trager and the still invisible Ghost. The thought of leaving Trager alive was unbearable, but to Lukien the thought of Akeela dying was worse. He knew his king didn’t have much time, but if somehow they could reach Grimhold maybe Minikin could save him.
“Kill that son of a bitch, Ghost!” he cried as Gilwyn pulled open the chamber doors.
“No!” shrieked Trager. Again he tried to lunge for them, and once again Ghost was there to stop him. For a moment Lukien caught a glimpse of him, a frenzied flash of white skin, and knew that whatever magic kept him invisible was fading. But he couldn’t stop to help the albino—a pair of Liirian soldiers were outside in the hall.
Lukien’s harried mind groped for an answer as the soldiers blankly stared, shocked by the sight of their bloodied king in his arms. Gilwyn hurried to produce an explanation.
“The king has fallen,” said Gilwyn earnestly. “He’s badly hurt!”
A sudden shout from within the chamber galvanized the soldiers. Trager’s voice echoed over the combat in the room.
“Stop them!”
A large crash finished his words. Lukien heard Trager’s anguished cry. Confused, the soldiers in the hall reached for their swords. Burdened by Akeela, Lukien knew he was finished, but a second later the white-skinned terror exploded from the chamber with a furious scream. The Inhuman called Ghost raced past Lukien and Gilwyn, slamming his sword into the first soldier before his own weapon was drawn. The other soldier fell back in horror at the sight of Ghost, recovering in just enough time to bring up his blade.
“Move!” ordered Ghost as he pressed his attack. “Get out of here, both of you!”
Lukien glanced back to the chamber. Inside was Trager, alive or dead. Over his arm Akeela gurgled with rasping breaths. The awful sound made Lukien’s mind up for him. There were only seconds, and really only one choice. They had to get out. Now. Lukien looked around wildly, desperate to save Akeela but with no way out.
“Did you bring horses?” he asked Gilwyn quickly.
Gilwyn nodded. “Better. A kreel. She’s fast.”
“She’d better be,” said Lukien. “Because we have to run like the wind.”
“But how do we get out?”
Before Lukien could answer the man battling Ghost gave a terrible cry. Lukien turned to see him sliding down the wall, his heart punctured, just as Ghost pulled free his blood-soaked blade.
“Ghost!” cried Gilwyn. “Are you all right?”
The albino man nodded, barely able to breathe. “I’m all right,” he gasped. “We have to move.”
Lukien shot a glance into the chamber. “What about Trager?”
“I don’t know,” said the Inhuman. “Maybe dead, maybe unconscious. I hit him pretty hard.”
“Then we’d better hurry,” said Gilwyn desperately.
“No!” cried Lukien. “We can’t let Trager live!”
“And we can’t let Akeela die, either,” Gilwyn argued. “We have to get out now!”
“How?” cried Lukien. “There’s no way through. The others will see us.”
Ghost grinned through his exhaustion. “Just follow me,” he said, then herded them toward the stairs.
Trager awoke to the faces of worried men. His head throbbed from the blow he had taken, a blow he hadn’t seen coming. As his eyes fluttered open through a stream of blood, he realized that he hadn’t even seen his assailant. It had been one of the gods-cursed freaks from Grimhold. He tried to sit up, then felt a shooting pain in his side.
“Argh!”
“Don’t try to move,” urged one of the men. Trager realized suddenly it was Tark. The old colonel looked concerned. “You took a bad hit in the head. And your ribs again.”
Trager felt nauseous, as though he might faint. He struggled to speak. “Where are they?” he gasped.
Tark looked away, studying Trager’s wound. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “You’ve been stabbed.”
“Tark, where are they?” Trager demanded.
The colonel said haltingly, “I don’t know. They got away.”
Trager’s head fell back, barely able to stay up. He stared at the ceiling, swearing. There were others in the room, mumbling to themselves as they saw his terrible condition.
“General, I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Tark. “King
Akeela’s gone. There’s blood outside and all though the palace. I think they took him.”
“They killed him, Tark,” said Trager. “They slit his throat. I don’t know why they took his body, but they did.” He closed his eyes, feigning disgust. “Probably for some cursed ceremony. Human sacrifice, something.”
Tark looked ashen. “Fate above. . . .”
“It was Lukien, Tark,” he said. “I tried to stop him, but. . . .”
“Shhh, don’t talk,” urged the colonel. “You need rest. And when you’re better we’ll hunt down that king-slayer scum and make him pay.”
“Yes,” said Trager. “We’ll find him, make him suffer. . . .”
As Colonel Tark wrapped a bandage around his wound Trager sat motionless on the floor. Guilt gnawed at him, devouring his thoughts. But Akeela had deserved it. After all he’d done for the king, how could he have turned yet again to Lukien?
“Tark, tell the men what’s happened,” said Trager. “Tell them I’m in charge now.”
“I will, sir.” Tark applied pressure to the wound in Trager’s side, stemming the blood.
“Tell them Lukien killed Akeela,” Trager went on. “Tell them we’re going to Grimhold to get the king’s body back and to punish that treacherous filth.”
“I will. Now hold still.”
There was nothing else to say, so Trager closed his eyes and let Tark work. In his mind he saw Lukien defeated, and the amulets of immortality around his own neck. He saw himself returning triumphantly to Koth, to a country without a king and desperate for a leader. If he was clever—if he could lead his men against Grimhold and win—he could have the thing he’d always prized.
The respect of the world.
56
Lukien and the others rode as far and as fast as they could, leaving behind the city and the gruesome shadows of the crucified. They had taken the fleet-footed kreels to the confines of a row of high, sandy dunes, hoping to escape the Liirians with their speed and the aide of Ghost’s remarkable magic. The strange albino had worked his miracles on the minds of the Liirians, getting them out of the palace without being seen. Remarkably, Akeela had lived through the ordeal, silently laying in Lukien’s arms as if he knew they were escaping and wouldn’t make a sound to betray them. Hoping that they could make it to Grimhold, Lukien had let Ghost ride up ahead with Akeela crudely strapped to the albino’s kreel. Since he couldn’t ride a kreel himself he had to share Gilwyn’s, and he wanted to give Akeela the best chance of reaching Minikin and her powerful magics. The amulet would save him, he told himself as they hurried over the dunes. If only Minikin would let Akeela have it. It was a gamble but it was also Akeela’s only chance, and Lukien had risked everything to take it, even letting Trager live. Ghost didn’t know for sure if he had killed the general, offering only vague assurances that he had done his best. But Lukien knew it would be worth it if only he could keep Akeela alive. It was the only thing he wanted in the world now.
Then, when Lukien felt confident they were far enough from Jador to make it safely home, he watched Ghost’s kreel in front of him come to a skidding halt. The albino, exhausted from his magical efforts to save them, looked down at the bloodied figure slumped in front of him in the saddle. Stricken, he turned and called to Lukien.
“Mother of Fate, no,” groaned Lukien. Gilwyn hurried Emerald up to Ghost’s kreel. It was dark and they could barely see Akeela, but the moonlight on Ghost’s white face exposed the Inhuman’s grim expression.
“He’s asking for you, Lukien,” said Ghost. Then he shook his head slightly with a sad expression. “I could barely hear him.”
Lukien dismounted from Emerald’s back as quickly as he could, then went to Akeela and very gently lifted his head. The bandage he had fashioned around Akeela’s throat was filthy with dirt and saturated with blood. Akeela’s eyes lolled back in his head, but on his lips was Lukien’s name, over and over. Seeing him now, Lukien knew that he’d failed. Akeela had lost too much blood and was too near death to make it to Grimhold.
“Gilwyn,” he said softly, “help me get him down. I want to be with him.”
“Lukien, we have to keep going. If there’s any chance—”
“There is no chance, Gilwyn. You were right.”
Lukien began undoing the straps keeping Akeela on the kreel while Ghost dismounted. With the albino’s help Gilwyn was able to free Akeela’s legs and ease him into Lukien’s arms. Cradling him like a withered child, Lukien stood in the moonlight, unsure what to do. Gilwyn and Ghost were watching silently. Realizing that he wanted to be alone with Akeela, Lukien turned and walked off toward the dunes. His companions didn’t follow. Akeela continued whispering his name as he was carried away, occasionally fluttering his eyes, struggling against death.
“It’s all right, Akeela,” said Lukien. “I’m here with you now and I’m not going to leave you.”
He took Akeela far from Gilwyn and Ghost and their waiting kreels, setting him down in the sand and propping his head up with his hand. There he knelt beside the dying man. Akeela’s breath was heavy, coming now in short, choking gasps. He managed to open his eyes just enough to recognize the face hovering over him.
“Lukien . . .”
“It’s me, Akeela,” Lukien reassured him, stroking his face as though he were a child, though Akeela looked impossibly old.
“You came back,” rasped Akeela.
“You knew I would. I had to. You’re my brother, Akeela.”
For the briefest moment the dementia left Akeela’s face. “Brothers fight sometimes.”
Lukien smiled, remembering the many times he had said that same thing. “That’s right. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”
“Thank you for being my brother, Lukien.” Akeela tried to reach up and touch Lukien, but he was too weak. His hand trembled with effort. Lukien took his hand and held it, and knew that it held the very last of Akeela’s strength.
“If I had the amulet I could save you,” he groaned. “I’m sorry.” He fought back tears. “I’ve killed you, just as I killed Cassandra.”
Akeela coughed, his body wracked with pain. “It was me,” he gasped. “I killed us all.”
Then he closed his eyes and his grip slackened in Lukien’s hand. The bubbling of blood around his bandage went on, but his breathing slowed and his face softened.
And then he was dead.
Lukien held his hand and did not let go.
“Akeela?”
When he heard no reply, the tears came at last.
57
In a small, quiet room in a seldom used wing of Grimhold, Minikin knelt with her palms on her knees and her eyes shut. Before her stood an altar of white stone, the only object of any size in the chamber. On the altar stood two glowing candles. Between the candles rested the amulet of the dead Kadar. The Eye of God lent its ghostly red light to the illumination of the candle, bathing the little room in its warm glow. Minikin felt its heat on her face, saw its radiance against her closed eyelids. Physically, she was alone in the room. Mentally, her mind sang with voices. She could sense them swimming through the air around her, their formless feet and hands like wisps of smoke. Her breathing steadied as she completed her trance, raising her mind to the consciousness of her Akari hosts. Their invisible fingers caressed her, taking her into their dead realm. The presence of Amaraz rose from the amulet to greet her. In her mind she could see his wizened face, ancient but gentle, shimmering as it came into focus. She kept her eyes closed and concentrated on him. To a novice at the summoning, the little chamber would have seemed empty. Not so with Minikin; to her it was filled with beings. Amaraz’ presence subjugated the other Akari. Their ethereal bodies drifted to the back of the room and up to the ceiling, anywhere to make room for the amulet’s spirit. Amaraz’ shimmering face smiled at Minikin.
Long since you’ve summoned me, he said. His voice was soothing, gentle. Typically, his first concern was for his sister. How fares Lariniza, Minikin?
Lariniza inhabited Minikin’s own amulet. As the great spirit spoke, Minikin felt his sister pulse within the jewel around her neck.
She is well, Amaraz, replied Minikin. She greets you.
Minikin loved Lariniza. She was her protector, her life-giver. She and her powers had kept disease and age from touching Minikin’s mortal body, just as her brother had long done for Kadar. Together they were not only the rulers of the Akari, but their protectors as well. It was why the amulets had been formed, and their spirits forever encased within them. Now Lariniza spoke to Minikin, gentle, reassuring words. The spirit of the Eye told her not to be afraid. She urged her human friend to ask her questions.
I worry, Amaraz, said Minikin to the incandescent face. About Grimhold. Ghost is still gone, and I have lost young Gilwyn, too. Tell me please, she begged, can you see them?
Amaraz’ face smiled, his teeth like glowing fog. You are a treasure, my Minikin, he said. Do not fear. The albino is well, and the young Liirian. I have been watching them.
Minikin let out a sigh of relief. From the rafters in the ceiling she heard the chorus of spirits do the same. Of all the Akari, only Amaraz could see so clearly. Not even Lacaron, Insight’s spirit, was as powerful as he at seeing the world beyond Grimhold. For Lacaron, the world appeared as a fractured mirror. Not so with Amaraz. His vision was as clear as sunshine.
That pleases me, said Minikin. Thank you, Amaraz.
There is more, said the Akari. Your champion is with them.
Lukien? Minikin was overjoyed. He’s still alive?
They return to Grimhold even now, said Amaraz. They are uninjured.
Are they near? asked Minikin excitedly.
Very near, replied Amaraz. Moment by moment his face grew more clear as the bond between them grew. It was as if Minikin had left her body behind in an alternate Grimhold, and now she was one of the Akari, floating with them in their own preternatural realm. Amaraz stretched out a hand for Minikin, a hand that had almost taken form and flesh. She even felt the warmth of his touch. There is more news, my Minikin, said the spirit. The mad Akeela is dead.
