Michael A. Stackpole

by A Hero Born

  Kothvir took a step forward, and his tail twitched. “The Chronicles of Farscry reported my death at your hands, and so it has been. Now 1 will return to you the favor you showed me.” With both hands wrapped around its hilt, he raised the sword over his head and closed to striking range.

  I shook myself to clear my confusion. He was speaking to me as if I were my father. A confederate in his lunacy, I was letting nightmares bleed over into memories. How could he think me my father when Cardew was a hero, and I was too terrified to do anything to resist?

  As the blade slashed down, a blurred bolt of silver swept across my sight and bowled Kothvir from his feet. Utterly unbalanced, the Bharashadi warrior scrambled to stay upright. In his struggle with the steel-pelted dog tearing at him, his feet kicked the Staff of Emeterio across the dais. Horror blossomed on Vrasha’s face as the staff rolled toward Roarke and hit the legs of our chairs. In an instant the enchantment woven with the Fistfire Sceptre to hold us evaporated.

  I leaped to my feet and dove toward a pile of loot to grab a weapon to use against Kothvir. Off to my left Kothvir roared in pain and stood. He held Cruach out at arm’s length by the throat. A flap of the Chademon’s pelt hung down from Kothvir’s right shoulder, and Cruach’s mouth ran with Chademon blood. The hound barked and bit at Kothvir’s wrist, but the Bharashadi tightened his grip and choked off Cruach’s voice.

  Glancing over to make sure I was watching, Kothvir pressed the tip of the vindictxvara to Cruach’s belly, then thrust the blade all the way through the dog. Cruach twisted in his grip and squeaked out a mournful howl. He looked at me, his opal eyes full of pain, but I could do nothing to save him.

  Kothvir twisted the blade, then ripped it free of the hound’s body. Finished with Cruach, the Chademon cast him aside as if he were a soiled rag. Cruach disappeared from sight on the far side of the dais, though his whimpers reached my ears easily enough.

  Slashing his vindictxvara through the air, the Bfiarasfiadi splashed a line of Cruach’s warm blood across my chest. “Now I will do for you what I have done for your damned hound. Then I will destroy your beloved Empire!”

  My hound. Unbidden and outside my control, memories of Nob—much younger and much stronger—presenting me the pick of a litter filled my mind. “For you, Master Cardew, a hound to be alert and be hunting the Chademons who hunt you.” Cruach, the hound that had kept me safe during my expeditions to Chaos. The hound that had taken to me when Roarke said he was very particular about people. The hound who ran to me, not Roarke, when we returned from Castel Payne.

  My hound. And the Emerald Horse, my horse. I scattered great handfuls of gold coins as my life and my father’s life fused into an epic that could not have been all of one piece, yet I knew that was exactly what had happened. Madness began to nibble my sight down into a dark tunnel.

  The words I am my son, I am my father echoed through my head without end.

  “Locke, move!”

  Roarke’s yell freed me from my insanity. I dodged left as Kothvir’s overhand chop sliced down at me. The blade pitched coins and jeweled baubles in every direction, then his backhanded slash at me splintered the chair that had been my prison. The force of the blow sent half the chair cartwheeling through the air. It clipped Rindik in the head, knocking him back off the dais and out of my sight.

  I crossed to another of the piles of treasure gathered around the room and closed my right hand around the hilt of a sword. I had hoped for something strong, heavy, and straight, but I got a jeweled sabre. Kothvir leaped down onto floor level with me and let the vindictxvara spin in time with his twitching tail. I got a hand and a half on the sabre’s hilt and aped his hunched stance.

  “You can make it difficult, Cardew, if you wish, but we both know the outcome of this fight.” He dipped the point of his blade toward the loincloth and the rank insignia. “While i have lain dormant here, you have regressed. You could not have defeated me in single combat before. How can you have any hope now?”

  I smiled at him with more confidence on my face than I felt in my heart. “Being in the grave for sixteen years hasn’t made you any smarter, has it? You’re the one bleeding. If Farscry says I am to kill you, and you do not want to count the time I’ve already done it, I am willing to oblige you again.”

  Beyond him I saw Vrasha and Roarke square off. From his side of the dais, Vrasha thrust the sceptre toward Roarke and sent a flight of four red balls shooting out at him like stones from a sling. With the Staff of Emeterio held in his left hand, Roarke muttered a spell that started a blue light playing along the staff. He slashed it through the balls’ line of flight, letting the energy play out like a flag that engulfed and absorbed them all before vanishing.

  Kothvir came in carefully, then beat my blade aside to the right. Sliding forward, he lunged, but I ducked beneath his sword and withdrew to the right, following my blade. He pivoted in my direction, trying for a horizontal slash that would have cut me in half. Holding my sabre in my right hand only, I blocked the cut and pivoted my body out of the way. I was ready for him to disengage, but he surprised me by maintaining contact with my blade.

  That move shouldn’t have surprised me. He brought the vindictxvara up and over, carrying my blade with it. As with fights with Dalt, since i couldn’t counter his strength, he intended to use it to power me into the position he wanted.

  Having learned from fighting with my brother, I leaped away before he could push me back and got my body out of the range of his blade. Dalt would have bull-rushed me, allowing me to sidestep him and hamstring him with a slash.

  Kothvir did no such thing. He came in with a high slash that I caught on my blade. Sliding to the right, Kothvir shifted the direction of his attack away from me and pressed it against my blade. I felt the jolt as my sabre landed flat against the top of the dais and knew 1 was in serious trouble. Kothvir’s shoulders tensed, then he brought the vindictxvara down with all of his power.

  My sword’s blade broke off with a brittle pop, leaving me with three inches of sword attached to a beautiful golden hilt.

  “You are finished, Cardew.”

  “Don’t mistake me for this sword.” I whipped my right hand forward, throwing the sword-crumb at Kothvir’s leg.

  It hit him in the right knee and bounced off, doing no visible damage. Kothvir snarled and brandished his sword at me, splashing droplets of his blood and Cruach’s over the floor. “You’ll have to do better than that, Cardew.”

  “I’ll do better once I find the right tool for the job.” I took a running step away from the dais and vaulted onto the first of the cavern terraces. I skidded to a halt in a shower of gold coins, then hauled myself up to the next level as the vindictxvara struck sparks from the stone below.

  “Run, Cardew, run. You cannot avoid this blade forever!” Kothvir’s tongue flicked out, and he licked some of Cruach’s blood from the blade. “One touch. One nick, and you will die most horribly! I have waited in the grave for too long to be disappointed now!”

  On the dais itself Vrasha and Roarke continued their sorcerous duel. With a wave of the staff, a flaming azure hawk materialized in the air. It swooped in at Vrasha, but the Chademon quickly described a square with the sceptre. A red cube formed itself around the bird, then fell to the ground. Both spells vanished in a violet flash, but Roarke spelled a snake to life in front of the Chademon, and it lunged at Vrasha.

  As Vrasha spun one of his triangular spells to burn through the beast Roarke had conjured up, I knelt and found another sword. An inch or two longer than I preferred, the blade looked stout enough to stand up to one of Kothvir’s blows. At the same time it felt light enough and well balanced enough for me to be able to put it to gOod use against him. He might not wear rank badges, but Kothvir was quite skilled with a blade. My new sword had a good edge, and I knew I would need it because, unlike the vindictxvara, my sword would require more than a pinprick to kill Kothvir.

  I leaped down to the floor of the cavern and ducked beneath a crosscut
slash. Staying low, I lunged at Kothvir, forcing him back. Drawing myself up to the right, I sidestepped and deflected an overhand blow to my left. Disengaging from his blade, I brought the tip of my sword up and through in a weak slash that managed to catch his left shoulder and open a small wound.

  Kothvir backed away from me and probed the wound with his left thumb. He sniffed at the blood, then tasted it. He smiled at me. ‘After so long, feeling even this is a joy.” He wiped his hand clean on his chest. “Thank you for reminding me even the most tiny of pests can prove difficult.”

  The Chademon drove in, windmilling blows high left and high right. I blocked those 1 could not dodge and actually jumped above one low slash. As I landed, 1 lunged forward and stuck him in the right thigh. Pulling my blade free as he shouted in anger, 1 retreated but did not move quickly enough.

  His right arm came around with a backhanded slash that caught me with more flat than edge. Despite the sloppy delivery, it sliced through flesh and muscles over the ribs on my right flank. In addition to opening up my side, the blow landed solidly enough to knock me sprawling and crack ribs. I fought to keep my sword in hand as 1 fell, knowing I would be dead without it.

  But he cut me with a vindictxvara. I’m dead already.

  Rolling to a seated stop, I clamped my right arm down over the wound. I felt my sweat stinging and burning in the wound. I slid my left hand beneath my sword arm and winced as warm blood oozed between my fingers. I could feel shredded muscles and bone spurs. Breathing hurt because of broken ribs, but that mattered not at all. I had been hit with a vindictxvara forged specifically to slay me! I had seen what a mere dagger had done to Tyrchon. Kothvir promised this blade would make me burst into flames. My left hand sought any spark, any hint of unnatural warmth kindling in my chest. Maybe I can smother it.

  Kothvir had withdrawn and glanced down at the gash leaking blood over his right leg. He pressed his right hand to the wound as if anointing it with the blood from his shoulder would heal it. When it did not, he wiped his hand across his belly, then looked up at me. “Your last blow was a good one. You are better than I expected. Pity. I smell your blood from here. 1 cut you. Thus ends the story of Cardew, scourge of the Black Shadows.”

  He stared at me intently, as if he could make me combust by force of his will alone. I returned his stare, filling it with all the venom 1 could. I determined I would show him no fear, give him no satisfaction. It didn’t matter who I was, or who he thought I was—I was going to die a man.

  As I steeled myself against death, I realized I wasn’t dying. I felt no fire in my wound. I felt nothing but the normal stinging ache of a cut and the sharp pain from broken ribs. I’d felt it before, and I knew I’d survived it before. I may be going to die, but not right at this moment.

  I reached up with my left hand and grabbed the edge of the terrace behind me. I got a good grip despite the slippery blood and pulled myself to my feet. “That’s where you’re wrong. 1 am better than you ever dreamed. And I am not Cardew.” I waved him forward with my bloody hand. “Come on, Kothvir, we have both outlived our rivalry. Let us end it now.”

  He stared at me, confusion swirling through his eyes and setting his face in a snarl. Wiping my left hand on my loincloth, I stalked forward. I could feel blood trickling down my side, but I felt no fear about the wound. I even let him glimpse it, taunting him with it, then I came at him as I had come at Dalt and Geoff and even my grandfather. 1 stole from him the role of executioner and forced him to play the victim.

  I feinted high, then slashed low. Kothvir whipped his sword around in a circular parry. 1 pulled my tip back, sliding free of his parry in a hiss of metal, then stabbed forward as his blade passed. My point hit him in the upper chest on the right side, then 1 withdrew—but not far—as he swept his sword back in a late parry.

  Wounded and bleeding, are you as strong as Dalt?

  Kothvir grunted at the wound, then took a half step forward, placing him well within striking range. He lunged, and I parried. Sliding my sword up along his blade, I locked our hilts. Shoving upward, I drove our blades high, then I twisted my whole body and pirouetted beneath his right arm. His blood-slicked grip surrendered his sword and sent it spinning off into the air. Before it hit the ground, and before he could recover from his lunge because of his wounded leg, I thrust my sword through his armpit, skewering both lungs and his heart.

  I released my sword and tried to jump away, but he spun and pitched me across the dais with a swat from his right paw. I hit hard and rolled to a stop on my knees, scraping them the way his claws had scored my chest. Weaponless, I balled my fists and waited for the Bharasfiadi to come after me.

  Kothvir took one strong step toward me, then staggered and sank back. He slipped in his own violet blood and fell against the dais steps. A hideous cough racked his chest, and his last words pooled into lavender bubbles on his lips. Whatever he said, the magick did not translate for me, but it mattered not. His dying eyes filled with hatred, and 1 got his message.

  Between us, the magickers’ duel continued on the dais. Vrasha spun the sceptre into a circle and made a shield against the azure lightning bolt Roarke cast through the staff in his left hand. The two spells mutually annihilated each other in a brilliant burst of white light. Vrasha set himself for another of Roarke’s assaults, then smiled as Roarke gestured with his right hand and a blue bat launched itself at the Bharashadi sorcerer.

  Contemptuously, Vrasha brought the sceptre up in the square motion he had used to stop the magical bird Roarke had created. The cube cage flashed to life, but the bat sailed through the red enclosure and raked its claws across Vrasha’s face. The Bharashadi sorcerer screamed and batted at the winged rat with the sceptre. The magical creature sank its fangs into Vrasha’s right hand and tore off a bloody strip of pelt. The Black Shadow screamed in pain and lost his grip on the Fistfire Sceptre.

  As it fell to the ground, Roarke leveled the staff at Vrasha Packkiller and murmured, “I want his heart.” Tethered to the staff by a thin thread, a blue claw the size of my hand shot forward, it punched through the sorcerer’s chest, then retracted. Disbelieving, the sorcerer looked down, probed the gaping wound with his hands. His eyes flicked up, then he reached for his still-beating heart.

  Roarke smiled. “Allow me.”

  The heart burst into flame the second before Roarke stuffed it back into Vrasha’s chest. The Bharashadi’s scream ended in fiery jets shooting from his mouth and nostrils. Trailing smoke from face and chest, Vrasha teetered backward and crashed onto the dais.

  Beyond him an unsteady Rindik rose up and stepped onto the dais with his sword raised. Before I could move, or Roarke could cast a spell to deal with him, two arrows sank to their fletching in the Bharashadi warrior’s chest. 1 looked back up at the tunnel through which Vrasha had come into the cavern. Kit and Osane had already fitted new arrows to their bows while Eirene and Donla let fly at the other Bharashadi in the cavern. Two of the twelve drummers toppled from their perches, and the others died rapidly as the rest of our company picked them out from the slowly wakening Bharashadi dead.

  Once they had eliminated the living threat, our compatriots started to come down toward the dais. I held my hand up to stop them. “No, stay there. We will come out to you. Secure the way.”

  1 turned to Roarke, who knelt breathless on the dais. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  He smiled at me. “You mean about how no spell from the staff would get through defenses raised by the sceptre? Yes. That’s why I pressed the attack and made Vrasha get careless. He was choosing defensive spells that had no relation to the attacks 1 made on him specifically because the defense didn’t matter. When 1 made my warbat, I did not use the staff, and his defense failed.”

  “Not that, Roarke. You knew about Cruach, that Cruach was my dog. And about the Emerald Horse and why I knew where the Umbra was.” I swallowed hard. “You knew 1 was Cardew all along.”

  Roarke nodded very slowly. “When Jhesti rescued me from Fialcha
r he took me to where Cruach stood guard over you. He said Fialchar had lured you into a zone where time ran backward, and that you had regressed to the age of two or so. We brought you back to the Empire, leaving only those boots behind for the Bfiarasfiadi to fret over.

  “About what had happened to you, we told only a few people—Audin, Evadne, your wife Merle, Ethelin, and the Emperor. I think he has since confided in the Warlord. We needed you to become Cardew again, as you had become Cardew once before, so we tried to recreate your training and your life as exactly as we could.”

  I stared at him, speechless. “Why?”

  “So you could fulfill the prophecy made in the Chronicles of Farscry.”

  “But I had already killed Kothvir.”

  The sorcerer shook his head slowly. “Not that prophecy, but another that indicated the slayer of Kothvir would destroy the Necroleum.”

  Suddenly uncounted coincidences and strange circumstances fell into place. Cardew and I both traveled to Herakopolis to attend the Emperor’s Ball on Bear’s Eve. We both had the same Bladesmaster, yet my training differed this time because Kit had left and Audin did not have two daughters to distract me from my studies. I was forced to read all the books my father had owned, but 1 was never allowed to see his journals. As a child I dunked a wooden horse in green paint because I remembered the Emerald Horse from when I used to ride him through Chaos, and the whistle to which I had trained him to come was the same 1 had used to train Stail.

  It was an impossible task—to make me once again what I had been forty years before, when 1 first came to Herakopolis. Yet they undertook it because of its importance.

  “I understand.” I reached out and took the Staff of Emeterio from his hands. “Get them out of here.”