Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  XXII

  Today Lazarus had Mykel face him in a mock-battle that lasted a hairsbreadth of a second. The old man didn’t move, yet he suddenly appeared inches away, cutting away at the librarian’s petty defenses and tapping him, once, twice, thrice. At the fifth try Mykel hurt in more places he thought naught existed. Pride kept him on his feet, though; the same pride of knowing something no one else knew. Sweating, tired, he charged Lazarus again...only to find himself on his back before he completed the first step. Lazarus’ head slid into his vision, smug on the cusp of laughter. “Do you want to continue?”

  Wordlessly Mykel staggered to his feet. He desperately wanted to sleep, but he knew the response of “yes.” It was uncanny how a man’s imagination worked so well with torture. “Come on,” he said with dry, cracked lips.

  Lazarus did not even move. He was there, then he was near; then the world spun wickedly about a breath before the ground smashed into the librarian’s back. “I hate you,” Mykel murmured. “I really, really do.”

  “Good,” Lazarus replied. “You’ve got to harness that hate, channel it into something useful.” The Khatari helped Mykel to his feet, and then turned him about so their gazes met. “Control your feelings. If you don’t they might very well control you. Do you understand?”

  Numbly Mykel nodded.

  “Good,” said Lazarus. “Now let’s work on your agility.”

  The days blurred in a kaleidoscope of events. “The khatar is not a sword. It is less hacking –” Lazarus darted forward, spreading sparks from Mykel’s khatar. “–and more reaction. Strike at me.”

  Mykel did so, but Lazarus slid away from the attack and sprang forward with his own, a thrust that skimmed the leather binding of the gauntlet though it was paper. Lazarus had Mykel forge new ones from his own cache, and even then Lazarus was the teacher. “No, that’s not right. You’re tying them too tight. Try this. It should come out better. Don’t glare at me, boy. If you think your books are teacher enough, then leave. No? You want to learn? Then shut up and do as I say.

  “Khatars are precision. The steel is only as long as a finger’s breadth. You have to be crafty.” One motion that seemed almost a gesture. Mykel felt the shallow cut that wet his collarbone. “You have to counter.” Another gesture, another line of blood. “You have to find the enemy’s weakness and exploit it.” A third cut made a thin, bloody triangle on Mykel’s chest. “It’s not any fancy swordplay, so you drive that out of your head now. It’s not supposed to be a grand duel. It’s supposed to be clean and efficient.”

  Day and night, hot and cold, were all reduced to conditions that Mykel sensed and nothing else. He was aware of the exercises: days of hanging to a tree branch, not moving, not breathing; just holding on, ignoring the acid pouring through his arms. One-night Lazarus changed course to arrive at a backwater village that no one, save for the inhabitants themselves, knew of. There Lazarus found a huntsman and bought the largest hound he had. That night Mykel was told to strap to his legs with large slabs of meat. Needless to say, the dog was piqued. Mykel never ran so fast in his life.

  Buckets of water woke him up, and pain put him to sleep. He was a mass of bruises and sores staggering to his tent. Shayna was waiting each time, giving him cold cloths and ministering his wounds with an expert grace.

  “Are you listening to me, lad?”

  Mykel jerked in anticipation for the cuff that always came, then growled at himself when it did not. “What? Yes, I’m listening.”

  “Really, then.” The Khatari wore a wolfish grin. “Perhaps you would like to tell what kata I used to defeat Shayna just now.” Behind him the Companion wanted to know the same thing. “Perhaps you would like to duplicate it.”

  “Uh...no.”

  The old man’s eyes seemed afire, and Mykel shuddered despite himself. Then Lazarus did something strange. In one motion Lazarus peeled off the red longcoat of the Khatari, the one that he always wore, folded it and tossed it to Mykel. “Put it on.”

  Mykel blinked. Lazarus preferred lessons with examples, so to better correlate the niceties between cause and effect. The coat was too big by half; the sleeves fluttered against his arms in twin red flags. Still...this was the coat of a Khatari! A real life 14th Century coat of arms! Briefly Mykel saw himself on the battlefield, charging the enemy of enemies on a warhorse only the mightiest of men could ride, the longcoat a beacon of the crimson justice that he held. “Does the coat fit?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “The coat, lad. Does it fit?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Good.” Then Lazarus shaped a Fireball into existence and threw it straight at the wayward librarian. On instinct Mykel threw up his hands as a shield, knowing it would not be enough. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die...What?

  Death did not come. There was a whoosh, a heat so prickling close the world became hell for a moment, and then...nothing. Mykel opened his eyes and found himself huddled as a babe behind a mother’s skirts. He felt the smoky haze he was immersed in, but aside from a choking cough he was unharmed. Mykel felt the coalbeds begin to heat. “Uh, hello!” He was glad for a shout; he wasn’t sure his voice would crack or not. “How the hell did I...”

  “You’re complaining?” the old Khatari asked with a rare grin.

  “Well, no...I mean yes—no...I...you know what...What in the hell happened?”

  Lazarus sighed. “I invoked the longcoat. It immediately raises the temperature of the surrounding air in case of danger. If peaked high enough, it can melt steel.”

  Mykel goggled. “It’s a shiisaa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you knew all along it was going to protect me.”

  “In a word,” said Lazarus. “Yes.”

  “Damn you.” Mykel returned weakly. “You didn’t half to scare me half to death!”

  “You wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.”

  “Me? I’ve had demons on my tail for weeks now! I think I have a clear opinion on all things mystic.” Stony silence. Mykel told himself to take a breath before continuing, and it worked. Somewhat. “I still don’t understand. Cloth can do this?”

  “That isn’t ordinary fabric,” Lazarus said. Mykel barely had time to yelp before the knife in the Khatari’s belt flew to his fist and came down upon the longcoat...and bounced off the fabric, shattered as if it were steel. Lazarus shrugged at the twisted remains at his feet. “That’s good styxsteel.”

  The world, Mykel decided, was going crazy. “That’s not steel.” Then how do you explain the coat? The longcoat was perfectly fine, with not a tear or thread out of place. The knife might as well have been paper.

  “Styxsteel.” Lazarus said, taking the longcoat off him. “Shiisaa work when made of common materials, but those materials prove to be poor conductors, poor vessels for manna. They do not have the durability to withstand repeated spells. Only when made of godsmetal, like styxsteel, can a shiisaa last beyond the first invoking.”

  “Godsmetal?”

  “Material imbued with elemental power and thus, elemental properties.” Lazarus replied. “Certain godsmetal work better at making certain shiisaa than others. Styxsteel is about the only thing that makes a decent Fire shiisaa.”

  Mykel shook his head. So simple, yet the effort was making his head spin. “How many kinds of godsmetal are there?”

  “Six.” Six materials, six Elements. The symmetry was so perfect it was sickening.

  Lazarus smiled. “Now watch.”

  The old man’s gloves blossomed in red and yellow and orange, unfolding, shifting, shaping itself with a crackling rumble Mykel somehow knew was only the shadow of its true power. “Willpower is the trigger
of any shiisaa,” said Lazarus as Ifirit faded to nothing. Lazarus with his fireball-producing gloves. “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No one touches the gloves. You can’t even handle Ifirit. It’s just playing along to keep you from ditching it. You didn’t even name it. It told you its name.”

  “You have to name the shiisaa?”

  “Part of the rituals. Names have power because they define power. Armies inspire images of colossal might, do they not? It is the same for everyone.”

  It made sense. Mykel knew Ifirit was Ifirit the moment he took it up. It...did not just sound right but felt right, too.

  “Hey. What are your names? Your shiisaa.”

  “No.” Lazarus started towards the edge of the clearing in a vague attempt for escape. Mykel followed step for step.

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Please?”

  Lazarus threw up his hands. “You’re not going to shut your teeth until I tell, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Mykel could not help a smile.

  “Fine.” The Khatari bent close as if to impart a closely guarded secret. “The coat is the Coat of Impervious Flame Barrier, and the gloves are the Gloves of Atrocious Fire.”

  “That’s it? That’s your shiisaa?” Mykel fought back the laughter.

  “They were gifts from my master.”

  “So, the shiisaa can be handed down. It can be wielded by others than its makers.”

  “Only if you are able to control the manna.” Lazarus eyed the librarian as though sizing him up for the scales. “Technically, my shiisaa are not shiisaa. Not ordinary shiisaa.”

  “Oh.” Mykel tried his best not to arch an eyebrow.

  “There are special kinds of shiisaa called oz’shiisaa. Oz’shiisaa are a set of shiisaa that work in tandem towards a specific purpose. Such shiisaa are also called Families.”

  “Ah.”

  “It takes years of training to master Families.”

  “Do you think Ifirit is part of a Family? I mean, Sutyr already has that butcher-sword of his. You’d think he’d be content with that.”

  “It is possible. But unlikely. And may I remind you you’re unexperienced, boy. Ifirit is too much for you. The very fact you are able to wield it makes you dangerous as it is.”

  “Dangerous?” It was the first anyone had called him thus. There was no jest in Lazarus’ voice, though. Just cold, hard precision.

  “I will not tolerate any dangers to this timeline. There must be as little change as possible. I do not want to face any children who should not have been born.” He did not move, nor his voice drop an octave, but the air held a chill as if the Khatari had leaned in close. “Do not make me face any children that should not have been born.”

  Mykel tried to swallow and couldn’t. Face? Face was used for politeness’ sake. Mykel closed his eyes against the imagined happenings of Lazarus’ true words. “I won’t,” he managed. “Nothing will change, I swear it.”

  “Good.” Again he smiled. “Get some sleep. It will be a hard ride tomorrow, and we must rise early in the morn.” With that he left, red longcoat swirling in his wake.

  I cannot dream. The thought was an odious one. Then what can I do?

  The night had no answers, so he retreated to a bunk he shared with Shayna. She gave greetings and smiles, but to Mykel they were but drones in his ear. He will kill her if he must, and then me. The librarian did not have to wonder if the Khatari could do as he vowed at the critical moment. He would. Sure as the cold that soaked him in dread. He would do it. I am a dead man. Ashen-faced, Mykel staggered into his bed, hoping he might never wake up.

  The sun was quite insistent, however. Golden light burned through the eyelids to the point until the librarian realized how much of a jackass he was being. Ignoring the sun wasn’t going to break the silence steeped with awkwardness, or stubborn wills too hard to admit there was a problem in the first place. The morning was spent with eyes shifting as though poising apologies, then quickly retreating at gazes briefly matching. Finally, Shayna exploded.

  “God! Can you two be any more childish! You expect to spend the rest of this quest glaring at each other? You’re both sorry! That’s it! You’re telling me you can’t say those words? Because if that’s the case I’m leaving right now! I’m not about to be the nursemaid to you sulking babies! Now say it!”

  “I’m sorry, lad.”

  “Good. Now you Mykel.”

  “I’m...I’m sorry.”

  “Good. I’m glad we can act like mature adults here. Now come on. We have some ways to go before stopping for lunch.”

  “Lunch” proved to be much more elusive than any of them thought. The afternoon found the three in a nowhere tavern in a nowhere town, drinking nowhere swill besides nowhere people.

  “I do not like this place.”

  “This is not a place to be liked, Shayna.” To keep up appearances, the librarian downed generous gulps of the tavern’s cheap swill, though his face twisted into a grimace afterward.

  “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Curiosity tugged the librarian’s eyes to the new patron. A rugged fellow with a narrow face and almost womanly features. Set above a square nose were the eyes of a viper, oily confidence slathering a penetrating stare, as though a single glance could dissect a man from his secrets.

  “You have good taste.” Mykel knew naught why he was talking to a stranger when stealth was the key to their travels. Something about the man’s eyes, he decided. Like a viper, he remembered thinking. It was disturbing how easy the effort was made, being so out of character.

  “If you move, the girl dies.”

  “What?” The sudden prick at his side stiffened the librarian. Sheep-brained idiot!

  “Barkeep, your finest room!” Knife still poised beneath the ribs, the would-be assassin draped an arm about Mykel’s shoulder in an intimate manner. Worse still, the bastard announced so loud that even the denizens fucking the tavern whores could hear.

  Don’t move, he glared at Shayna. There’s a footpad on you. You’ll be killed.

  The pair ascended the first few steps when the assassin grunted in surprise, and the dagger fell from suddenly cold hands. For a moment, the bastard teetered on the step’s edge, then collapsed on the dusty floor. The arrow protruding from his chest was long enough and more to make the inn a nest of chaos.

  “You! You’re mine!” Mykel glanced upward to see the first assassin’s killer, a hulking man with the biggest longbow any mortal had ever seen. The arrows fired were easily the size of tree trunks.

  Mykel scrambled from the first arrow – so fast the air moaned in its wake – and narrowly dodged the second. He dived under the barkeep’s counter, wincing as more arrows thudded the wine rack, sprinkling a light shower of glass shards. When that tactic failed the arrows punched wooden thorns into the counter’s back. Above it all came the raw bellow of the monstrous archer.

  “Come on, boy! You don’t want all these people to die, don’t you?” Again came the thrum of a longbow’s song, once, twice, thrice, each time followed by a scream. “I can do this all day, boy!”

  There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation. “Hold! I’m here!” The arrow-point swiveled to meet the librarian so quickly his forehead began to grow beads of sweat.

  “Good choice, boy.” The arrowhead lurched closer with each massive step, backed by a dark, grinning face. “Hm. You don’t look like a murderer of nobles. Oh well.”

  Murderer of nobles? What is he – Memory bugged hi
s eyes from the sockets. Shayna, raped. The bastard, blue-blooded, the one immune to treason. The satisfaction of hearing bone crack under his fist. The way the bastard’s eyes glazed with the sensual blend of fear, anger and disbelief. The images were so lucid he wanted to drink in every detail...and then the archer’s words snapped him from his trance.

  “Me, personally, I don’t like the nobles. Put them in one room and set them afire, I say. But that’s not how the money flows, and here we are.”

  Money? Mykel swept his gaze across the room, brimming with moans, tears and blood staining a wayward path across walls and floor. All of this, for money?

  “Oh, don’t get so upset, boy. Can’t make a living without stepping on some ants –” A crash thundered upon the brittle silence. Like the man before him, the gargantuan archer swayed, stumbled and keened backward with the crack of wood splintering. He landed a few inches shy of Shayna’s feet, whose hands were spotted with pottery shards.

  “Thanks.”

  “You are welcome.” Before she could say more Lazarus’ head thrust past her shoulder, eyes curiously flat at the carnage laid about him.

  “Get to the horses. We leave now.” Something in the Khatari’s voice compelled the pair to the stables without a second thought. The trance broke with Lazarus’ entry, making Mykel wonder if he had gotten the ill end of the exchange. Then he had to kick his horse to a gallop, for the Khatari had already become a dot upon the horizon.

  Lazarus drove the beast hard enough for white flecks of lather to flow off both mane and nostrils like foam rasping from a waterfall. They traveled across half a dozen minor rivers, thundered across ferries and the ferrymen who leapt to the river for safety. They rode until dapple clouds slithered from the albino moon, and even then, only after stalking tents in the rook of a small mountain deep enough that light could not penetrate, did they stop.