Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “Shayna!” The nobleborn’s voice was harsh with a harpy’s tongue, the same harshness that kohl and powder sought to hide upon her face. “What are you doing there, girl? Come to my side! Now!”

  The red turned scarlet in Shayna’s cheeks. Face downcast, Shayna – beautiful name –trudged to the noblewoman’s side. “Where are your hurts, milady?”

  “Are you blind, girl? Look at me!” She raised stockings where rips and tears marred the silk. It was clear to all they were flesh wounds. “Are these plain enough for you! Now get out your concoctions! I cannot have these bulls lay their hands on me!”

  “Yes, milady.” The girl’s delicate hands ministered to the wounds with a packet hidden within her raiment. “Tell me where it hurts.”

  “It hurts everywhere, you fool girl! Why do you think I need attention!?” She added under her breath, “Damned Companion. Can’t do anything right.”

  Shayna. Shayna singing the Ballad of Shayna at de Varin’s inn. Shayna who had brought him honey-cakes. Shayna that ran from the cellar in tears. A hundred questions were answered with a coldness that froze the blood. Plenty of heroes had crossed the borders of time and space in numerous adventures. The question was always about pre-destination. Was this an example of the theory? And if it was, how many moments were written in stone? A week? A month? A year? Every year? Mykel shook his head. Such paranoia served no purpose other than to instill doubt and fear. Lazarus would chastise him for the questions that held no answers.

  “Princess Christina Lansplex.” Lazarus’ tone was curiously flat. “It is such a pleasure to greet you in my home.”

  The name ignited the memory. Christina Lansplex. Daughter of Philip of Mace, the grand bloodline that could trace its roots to the ancient lineage of the Lexan, the civilization from which all societies were built. She was to put to marriage to a...a...Damn it, LeKym. You know this. Think!

  “Who is this fool that looks at me without bowing?”

  Shit. Mykel was so entrapped in his own mind he forgot the princess’ irritation. Those moist eyes that spoke of seduction were now daggers seeking the librarian’s heart.

  “No one, Princess.” Orson supplied idly. “Just a librarian we picked up on the way here.”

  “A librarian.” The word was a dismissal; Lansplex turned away to better things.

  “Mykel.” Stromgald’s hand broke the reverie. “Come. The others are waiting.” The librarian nodded, his gaze constantly twitching about, as though the walls had eyes to pierce the flesh to the fear beneath.

  “Lord Lazarus, these are a party of rangers from Kal Jada.” The same man who offered the towel suddenly appeared by the old man’s side, rushing ahead so that his lame feet could keep up with the high lord’s. How the man did this for so many years was beyond anyone’s guess. “They seek an audience with you, concerning matter of great import.” The man edged close and said in his ear, “Royal import sir. Concerning a Succession of Thrones.”

  That stopped the old man in his tracks. Turning, Lazarus fixed his gaze on everyone, his dark-brown eyes like augurs. “Come,” he said, without so much as a blink. With that the Khatari stalked into the warrens. He led them through corridors that held an eerie familiarity. Mykel distinctly remembered the looming stone pillars lining the rough-shod path, but he could not tell whatever the next bend would bring them to the servants’ quarters or to the stable-yard. It was the same with the people. Maids and servants scurrying by with woven baskets of clothes stole with them a snatch of memory, but not a one of them was pleasing. She’s going to have two children that look like pigs. He’s going to run away with a cuckold. Her cousins were always seeking loans and setting tavern tabs. Everywhere Mykel turned he saw ghosts of the people he barely knew. It disturbed him a little, and he didn’t know why.

  Eventually they reached a room large enough to double an inn’s dinner chamber. Long crimson silk bedecked walls and ceiling and floor, unmarked save for the back wall. There a circle of gold twine took up the full height of the silk, pinching needles adorned with tiny silver moons and balls of flame. A wolf’s head thrust from the twine, fur bristling, fangs tightly clenched. It looked ready to leap off the crimson to devour the foolish onlookers.

  “Now that we are here in this abysmal dungeon, can you please explain to me why we could not find better quarters?” The Princess’s face finally cracked in an impatient frown.

  “I have yet to meet a servant who does not trade in gossip.” Lazarus said idly, taking the head seat of an oaken rectangular table, motioning the others to do the same. “I do not think that this is meant for their ears. Now,” he said with a touch of vehemence. “Tell me about this supposed Succession of Thrones.”

  Immediately Christina rose. “I am Christina Lansplex, daughter of Phillip of the Mace Throne, soon to be your Queen. There have been pitiful accommodations that we must address.”

  Lazarus was not impressed. “Why are you not escorted?”

  It was Shayna who answered. “The Companion’s Citadel was destroyed by unknown means. We are the only two survivors.”

  The palpable sense of loss and anguish tightened the air. “How did you come to be here, then?”

  So, Christina told the whole tale to the Khatari, a story full of her ravishing beauty and the tasks she had to endure because of it. Somehow the real tale sprung from time to time, bits and pieces made to emphasize her trials. She would have gone for hours until Lazarus clapped to end the farce. “So, you are soon to be the Queen –”

  “Your Queen.” Christina reminded.

  Silence. “Do you seek asylum within my walls?”

  “Yes, and a full regiment to deliver me to...to –”

  “Paree Vinaz,” Shayna whispered.

  “Paree Vinaz,” Christina said, taking the time to glare at the Companion as if she had made the blunder.

  “As you wish.” Lazarus led them out of the safe-room and went through three or four turns before taking from his jacket a tiny bell worked in silver patterns and rang it three times. Within a breath a servant came into the room from a door on the east side, followed by three more. Lazarus glanced at the soon-to-be Queen, and immediately the bodyguards arranged into a human palanquin about her. Servant and Queen were thus taken to their beds.

  “That takes care of one thing,” Lazarus said half to himself. “Who the hell is this?”

  “Mathias Tolrep, sir.” Mykel twitched in embarrassment. I forgot he’s here. Awkwardly the privateer thrust a hand forward and smiled at the old man’s strength in pumping it. “Privateer Captain of the Tennant. Or at least I used to be.”

  “Tennant? I’ve heard of the boat. Lately it is renowned as a merciless vessel that takes no prisoners.”

  “That’s not my watch, sir. It’s the jackass of my former first mate.”

  “I see. I assume you require help in retrieving your ship.”

  “That would aid my cause considerably, sir.”

  “Very well.” From another hidden pocket, another tiny bell was revealed, which summoned a different pair of servants that escorted the privateer from the room.

  “One last thing,” Lazarus whispered before turning to the rangers. “Now what folly you have to deliver?”

  “The safe return of your apprentice.” Stromgald replied. With his hands folded in a steeple he looked like the abbot who received charity for lectures made. “Our first purpose in coming him was to escort him from Kal Jada to the manor.”

  Shit. Horror painted Mykel white. Shit shit shit! He had forgotten all about that. This spelled trouble. Lazarus would not acknowledge an apprentice he would not have for many years yet, just as De Varin at the Red Boar Inn would not tolerate mention of a death that was a decade in the brewin
g. Only the consequences this time would be far worse than a cracked ass on the pavement.

  “Thank you,” Lazarus said. “I sent him to the capital days ago. He must have lost his way.”

  Shit – He jerked. What?

  “This one is in constant need of my help.” Lazarus continued, chucking a thumb towards Mykel. “I found him straggling on the road. Trying to play a harp, of all things. Can you imagine?” Soft laughter rippled through the ranger unit. “Of course.” Lazarus said, rising. “I wish to discuss this further, but I must attend a tourney. Perhaps in the morning before you leave.”

  “We are well, Lord Lazarus.” John was the very picture of politeness. “If it is to your wishes we will join you. It would be good to enjoy some entertainment.”

  “Very well. I must tarry a bit, I fear. My man will direct you.” Within moments the chamber was clear save for the two of them. The old man’s footsteps coming back sounded like ominous bells all the way back to his seat. “Well now, “apprentice,” what shall I do with you?”

  XIV

  Mykel stayed rooted to his seat. The Khatari was not a generous man. Why would he accept a boy he did not know for a lie he knew – at least for now – to be false? The sound of drumming fingers on wood revived him from the whirling paradox. “Uh, sir. Milord. I – I can explain.”

  “Quiet, boy. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Rounding the table Lazarus snatched up Mykel’s chin and held it to the light. “Hmm.” Lazarus turned the chin as though he were an appraiser searching for the flaws in a fake diamond. “Just like I thought. You’re not from around here.” His glove released him but his eyes did not; dark augurs perched about stone spectacles. Slowly he returned to the head of the table, gloved fingers folding to a steeple. “What year are you from?”

  “I –” Mykel said, then froze as the sentence slammed home. “What?”

  “You heard me. What year are you from?”

  For an eternity Mykel could only stare. “You...you know?”

  “Of course I know. I could sense it the moment you walked into the manor. Time is a rushing river. You can see the pebbles if you know how to look.” For a moment, he looked a bit pleased with himself with the metaphor. “Now, are you going to tell me, or am I to drag it from you?”

  “Uh, no! I’m uh...I’m from 2211.”

  “Ten years. That’s interesting. I didn’t think the Riftgate would gather enough manna to open for another century.”

  “I do not lie. Sir.” He tried to add some dignity to his stance. He failed.

  “Tis good that you don’t.” Lazarus said, laughter slowly fading. “I had thought I was master to an idiot, if he actually told the truth.” Mykel gawked, but Lazarus rode over him. “I assume you are what they say you are? My apprentice?”

  “Y-yes. Why...why did you think...?”

  “That you’re stupid? Why shouldn’t I? You think having an alibi that won’t begin for ten years is smart, do you?”

  “I – that wouldn’t have – it –” Mykel realized he was sputtering and stopped. “It worked out this time, didn’t it?”

  “This time.” Lazarus confirmed grimly. “This was a small matter. Imagine what kind of damage could have been done if I didn’t save you.”

  Mykel didn’t need to imagine. He knew the consequences of being saved quite well already. “I understand.”

  “I don’t think so, boy.” Now the dark augers slid to his bracer. “Now, how did you come across that?”

  Ifirit, floated the thought. “You gave it to me.” Mykel said, harder than he’d wanted. “You said I would be hunted. That my world would be upturned, that I had to keep it safe.” The words came rambling on and on like water from a broken dam. “It...it told me its name was Ifirit.” As if being called the bracer rippled to life with crackling fire, forming the golden-bone khatar.

  Lazarus let out a sigh, and the rancor drained from him like water like a hole-poked bucket. “Ill tidings. Ill tidings indeed.”

  “Ill tidings? That’s all you can say?”

  “Should I be saying something more?”

  “Something...Don’t play...” Again, Mykel forced himself to stop sputtering. “I’m an endem! Human! Endem can’t bond with shiisaa!”

  “You must be an enshou, then.”

  “What?”

  “Shiisaa bond only with Weirwynd. The gauntlet bonded with you. That means you’re a Weirwynd. It’s not that difficult.”

  Mykel could only gape at him.

  “Furthermore, since you’ve bonded with a Fire shiisaa, you are an enshou.” As if it was an afterthought. As if this was an everyday occurrence.

  “Can you...can you...get it off me?”

  “No. I cannot. You have bonded with the damn thing. It will not serve any master but you.”

  “We need to find it a safe place.”

  “It’s safest with me.”

  “Safest?” Lazarus cocked a brow. “Safest, you say. Not a moment gone you looked ready to part with your hand.”

  “I was wrong. Am I not allowed to change my own mind? Besides you said it yourself. It’s my charge. I’m responsible for it.”

  “I’ve never spoken those words.”

  “Yes you have! Well, the you in the future. For you, at least. To me it’s the present. Or is it my past, since I’m no longer there? I don’t know. It’s all very confusing.” Mykel stumbled back a step as Lazarus leaned towards him, eyes as sharp as daggers. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re smarter than this, boy. I can see that in your eyes. You’re familiar with all the stories and tales. What do they say about possession and enchanted items?”

  “How do you know anything about me? You’ve –”

  “What do they say?” Suddenly the room withered into darkness, and although there was no growth at all, Lazarus’ presence filled the chamber, dark and menacing. “Tell me now, lad. What do they say?”

  “They say –” Mykel’s face grew long with revelation. “They say the enchanted weapons slip into the mind of the host. That eventually...they take over the host...that they replace it.” Thoughts falling like dominoes, clinking towards the conclusion. “It’s alive, isn’t it?”

  “No. It is merely an echo of your emotion. It may snicker and snap towards stimulation, but it only a reaction, no more. Just don’t get too comfortable with it.” A pause. “Mayhap I can do something with the beacon spell.”

  “Beacon?” Mykel asked weakly.

  “You’ve been spell-caught, boy.” Lazarus strode over, and clasped Mykel’s cloak by the heavy sleeve. One slight motion it tore away, revealing...revealing...Mykel did not know whatever to cry or vomit.

  His entire right arm was on fire. Not smoldering his flesh. Not searing the bone. Just...black-charred flesh, wrapped with cragged red veins. The arm should have gone to dust, but it had full mobility. The dead-rot was only an illusion – “Ah!” Suddenly there was an itch, in the undercurrent of the fire, biting softly into his flesh. Not painful, just – Mykel’s mouth gaped in silent pain. For the annoyance of the itch on his fingers, the veins grew the farther up the arm, charring the flesh in its wake. The itch became a storm of angry hornets close to his shoulder, and multiplied at the neck. He had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

  And then it was gone. The leather was wrapped neatly about his arm, closing the inferno on his flesh. “I cannot end the spell that netted you,” said Lazarus. “It can, however, be altered. It will not free you, but it will give you a modicum of control.”

  Mykel wheezed, remembering the heat that seemed to roll across his flesh. “That would be good. More
than good.”

  “Here.” With one deft stroke the Khatari ripped a sleeve and wrapped it about the arm. “There. That should hold till Iga Aithru.” With that he strode from the room.

  “Iga Aithru? I never heard of that place. Where –”

  “I don’t feel the storyteller right now. Besides, I have other arrangements I must tend to.” A pause. “I am attending the tourney. You will come with me.”

  “What? No. I’m tired. I just want to sleep.”

  “An apprentice is always at his master’s side. We must keep up appearances.” It was the tone carved with finality, an unbreakable will that gave no quarter, no path other than what it allowed to be seen. Numbly Mykel gave up. “No, stand up straight. Don’t slouch. You must carry yourself with a dignity. Walk two steps behind me. Don’t glance about.” After a few minutes of inspection Lazarus grunted. “Well, you won’t make it in terms of presence. It will have to do.”

  Mykel seethed. I am not a doll to be dressed! Lady Fenrir suffered the same affiliation. No tunic untucked, no part of hair uneven, no crow’s feet went unchecked. The woman saw a hundred errors, and when she finished, she found a hundred more. The ritual ground upon Mykel’s nerves. He was not allowed to be angry in the house, lest Lord Fenrir unleash his wrath for not being the good son. Mykel shoved the memories away and followed Lazarus out the door. Here’s to you, Mother.

  XV

  Lazarus led the librarian to a wide amphitheater, ringed with wide corridors and set with plush velvet seats. Christina had the ill luck to sit aside the aisle where the peasants and servants sat, where the odor of the fields attacked her nostrils. She might have shouted, but her words were lost in the excitement. Shayna pulled free a handkerchief from out of nowhere. Christina snatched it angrily. The chambermaid paid it no grudge; meekly she met the princess’ many demands before settling into the seat.