In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  "He tried to kill Josarian," Emelen snapped. "Why should he be spared? So he can betray all of us?"

  "Is this why you freed us?" another man demanded. "Is this what we escaped for?"

  "Tan," Josarian said quietly, coming forward. "Let him go."

  Tansen obeyed instantly. He knew that killing Falian was not the answer, for there were undoubtedly others who agreed with the man; but he didn't know what the answer was. He stepped back and let Josarian come close to the other man, though it took considerable self-control to stay still when Josarian bent down to retrieve the Valdani sword and then handed it to Falian.

  "If you want to use this," Josarian said, "now is the time. I do not want to have to guard my back against my friends, against my own kind."

  Falian's grip tightened on the sword, but he glanced resentfully at Tansen. "The minute you're dead, this roshah will slaughter me."

  "Tansen," Josarian said without looking away from Falian, "promise me you won't hurt him if he kills me now."

  Tansen said nothing, appalled.

  "Promise me," Josarian insisted.

  "I... promise," he muttered at last.

  "He's a man of his word," Josarian told Falian. "Now this is just between you and me."

  Falian stared into Josarian's eyes, his face contorted with anger and fear, his arm shaking as he raised the sword. "We played together as boys. We've worked alongside each other as men. I was bloodcousin to your wife, Josarian." Falian shook his head, still holding the sword ready. "Why? Why did you bring us all to this? Why?"

  "Yes," Josarian said, nodding, "you have questions, good questions." With stunning disregard for his own life, he turned away from Falian and looked at the tense faces around him. "Certainly others here have the same questions." He paused. "Perhaps each of you thinks as Falian does. Even," he added, hearing Lann start to protest, "even if your loyalty to me prevents you from listening to the protests in your heart."

  One of the smaller men came forward. "I... I stand with Falian," he said haltingly. "My life is ruined because of you, Josarian. What am I to do now? Tell me that, if you can."

  "Ruined because of me, Amitan?" Josarian said. "Your father was killed by Outlookers while smuggling grain to Liron where he hoped Kintish traders would offer a better price for it than the Valdani pay us—when they don't simply take it from us, that is."

  "I have a wife now," Amitan protested. "We want ch—"

  "After that," Josarian continued, "your elder brother was taken to the mines of Alizar, and you don't even know if he's still alive. When your mother went to plead for his release, she was attacked and raped by bandits on the road to Alizar. Your youngest sister is spindly and weak-boned from lack of food, because your family has been so desperately poor ever since losing your father and brother and their strong backs." To Tansen's dismay, Josarian handed Amitan a sword, too. "And you can say that I've ruined your life?"

  "I am no assassin, to kill an unarmed man who has always been welcome under my mother's roof." Amitan tossed away the sword. "Only tell me, Josarian, how will my mother, wife, and sisters survive without me now? How am I to keep them fed, if I must live like a hunted animal with you from now on?"

  "Yes, how?" Falian spat.

  "Yes!" Josarian said. "Yes, that is the question!"

  He laughed exultantly, picked up the sword Amitan had tossed aside, and waved it in the air. The men, even those most loyal to him, all looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Tansen wondered what he was up to.

  "Your mother and Calidar are dead," Amitan pointed out. "And your sister has—had—a husband in the house. It was different for you, but—"

  "The question is," Josarian boomed, grinning, "how will we feed them, how will we protect them? How, indeed, will we live now?" He looked around. "Aren't those the answers we seek?"

  The men looked at each other in blank confusion. Josarian wasn't troubled by their lack of response.

  "When have we ever lived as men should?" He ignored the expressions of insulted indignation this comment provoked and continued, "We haven't fed our women and children and parents; we've only done what we could to keep them from starving. And we've never been very successful at it."

  "That's not our fault," Lann growled. "The Valdani—"

  "Exactly," Josarian interrupted. "The Valdani! Why have we borne their yoke for so long? Why have we allowed them to empty this land of all its wealth? Why have we let them take whatever they want when they sweep through our cities, villages, valleys, and farms?" He looked around, his dark eyes glowing in the firelight. "Why have we never taken from them?"

  "I am no thief," Amitan said sharply.

  "It isn't theft to take back what belongs to you and your kind," Josarian countered. "For two centuries, they have taken everything they could find, more than we could spare, more than they deserve. It's time to say no. It's time to tell them they've taken enough! It's time to start taking back what's been taken away from us!"

  "This is madness," Falian said. "This is not—"

  "This is reality, the new reality of condemned men who are finally free of the yoke, the lash, the burden of saying yes," Josarian insisted. "You want to feed your families? I tell you, you can feed them better than you ever have!"

  "Words do not fill bellies," Amitan argued.

  "No! Grain does!" Josarian answered. "Meat, milk, and cheese do! The produce of a thousand groves does!"

  "But that all..." Lann frowned. "That all belongs to the Valdani."

  "It does not belong to them!" Josarian said fiercely. "This is Sileria, and every crop grown, every animal butchered, and every mineral mined in Sileria belongs to Silerians!"

  "You mean to take it away from them?" Falian said, sounding short of breath. "You mean to start robbing the Valdani on such a massive scale?"

  "Before I die," Josarian vowed, "I mean to make them pay for every single thing they have ever taken from us. I mean to see the women and children of Emeldar grow fat upon the plenty that should always have been ours. I mean to lay the diamonds of Alizar upon every Guardian altar from here to Liron. I will live as a man and no longer as a slave!"

  "By the Fires of Dar, we'll make our own Society!" Emelen declared, slapping Lann on the back. "We'll take what we want—"

  "But only from the Valdani," Josarian cautioned.

  "I can think of one or two toreni who've robbed us for centuries, too." Emelen grinned at Josarian's expression and said, "We can argue that another day. For now, brother-in-law, I am with you!"

  "So am I!" boomed Lann. "May my sons grow strong on food taken from the Valdani! May my daughters wear wild gossamer, and may my wife grow too fat to leave the house!"

  "Do you think it's possible?" Falian asked. "Can it really be done?"

  Lann laughed. "Two days ago, surely the whole world would have said that it was impossible for two men to free twenty prisoners from the fortress at Britar. What is the world saying now, Falian? What is not possible for men who have done such a thing?"

  Excited talk clamored through the cave, and Tansen realized with awe that Josarian had them. He had taken a group of scared mountain peasants who wanted only to go home, who had been ready to turn on him, and he had won them over. They had been ready to break and run, but instead, they had listened to his words and been moved by his courage and his vision. They had chosen Josarian and his way. These men were his now.

  There was only one thing left. Amidst the shouting and laughter, Tansen held up his hand, bound with a now-ragged cloth, showing Josarian the bloodstains seeping through from his still-throbbing left palm. Josarian saw the gesture and nodded. He jumped up onto a large, smooth rock to get the men's attention, raising his own hand so that everyone could see the new mark on his own palm.

  "I have sworn a bloodfeud against the Valdani," Josarian announced. "I ask you to give your blood to our cause." He looked around and added, "You were imprisoned because of me, and you owe me nothing—nothing—for helping you escape. Any man who doesn't want to join me
is free to go his own way tomorrow morning." He leaned over to put a hand on Amitan's shoulder, meeting his eyes with compassion. "If you want to leave, I promise to help you and your family go wherever you want, as far away from here as you need to take them for safety. I'll get some of Porsall's gold back from the Sisterhood to help you start a new life elsewhere."

  Amitan gazed into Josarian's eyes for a long moment while all the men waited in silence for his answer. The small man turned away and picked up a sword. Tansen tensed briefly, then relaxed when Amitan thrust the sword into the ancient Guardian fire. When it was blessed, Amitan drew the blade across his palm and held it over the fire. A moment later, Falian did the same. One by one, the men opened their flesh and began reciting the vow as their blood sizzled in the sacred flames.

  "I swear by Dar, by my honor, and by the memory of my slain kin, your enemies are now my enemies, and I will not rest or be at peace until the blood of every Valdan in Sileria flows as mine flows now."

  Looking over the heads of the men as they prayed, Tansen met Josarian's gaze. Whatever the future held, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Ten

  The sound of voices gradually roused Zimran from a void of dreamless darkness. The instincts which had kept him alive in many precarious situations now governed his actions; he held himself absolutely still, waiting for his senses to sharpen and his mind to clear.

  He was aware of the insistent pain in his left arm. It bewildered him for a moment. Then recent events started crystallizing in his mind: the terrible beating he'd endured in the widow's house in Emeldar; imprisonment in that stinking dungeon; Josarian's miraculous rescue of the prisoners; escaping in the dark with his cousin. But his memory was blank after that. What had happened next? Had they been captured again? Were they still in danger?

  Realizing he must have been unconscious for a while, Zimran remained immobile, eyes closed, and tried to discern what he could about his surroundings without revealing that he was awake. He gradually recognized that he was warm and dry, resting on a thin pallet and surrounded by a woolen blanket. Moving his right hand surreptitiously beneath the blanket, he examined his wounded arm and found it to be neatly splinted and bandaged.

  He forced his disoriented mind to focus on the conversation taking place nearby. A man and a woman were talking. Much to Zim's relief, they were speaking common Silerian, so he knew he wasn't among Valdani. Since they weren't speaking shallah dialect, though, he wondered if he was still in the mountains.

  "Do you really think we're safe now?" The woman's speech was slightly clipped, as if she came from the east.

  "Even Verlon's power doesn't extend this far from Liron." The man's accent was smooth and educated, almost like a toren. "I'm safe enough."

  "But Cheylan," she said, "he can ask another waterlord to destroy you for him."

  "He doesn't know where we are," the man—Cheylan—replied.

  "He doesn't have to," the woman insisted. "All he has to do is spread word throughout Sileria about you. You are very easy to identify, after all."

  "True. But I don't think he'll tell others about me."

  "Why not?"

  Cheylan hesitated before answering. "It's personal."

  "Personal?" When he didn't reply, she prodded, "What do you mean by personal? I thought it was simply because you're..."

  "No, not entirely."

  "What, then?"

  "It's not your concern." The curt tone was clearly intended to end the conversation. It failed.

  "Oh, yes, it is," said the woman. "I—we all—have had to flee halfway across Sileria because of Verlon's bloodvow against you, one of our own circle. That makes it my concern."

  Sweet, Dar! Enemies of the Society? Zimran almost thought he'd be better off with the Valdani.

  Where am I?

  As Cheylan and the woman continued arguing, Zimran risked opening one eye. His vision was foggy at first, but things gradually came into focus around him. He was in a small cave. Bright firelight flickered off the low ceiling. The two people on the far side of the fire were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't even glance in his direction. The fire...

  Zimran made a sound of surprise upon seeing that it burned with no wood, no coal, no fuel of any kind. The woman heard him and, abandoning the argument, came to his side. He didn't realize he was trying to rise until he felt her gently pushing him back down.

  "Shhh... You're among friends," she murmured.

  "Guardians!" he blurted. His head throbbed when he spoke aloud, and he gave into the woman's urging to lie down again.

  His gaze remained locked on the woman—who was passably pretty, he noted—as Cheylan said, "Your cousin Josarian left you with us. He asked us to keep you safe until he could return for you."

  "Is he safe?" Zim asked, closing his eyes again.

  "We don't know," Cheylan admitted.

  "May Dar shield him," the woman added.

  "Dar shield us all," Zim muttered. The Outlookers would want revenge for what had happened at the fortress. He couldn't even imagine how many bribes and gifts it would take before things could return to normal in Emeldar. He was glad to be alive, glad Josarian had saved him from certain death at Britar; but it made him sick to think of how the Valdani would retaliate.

  So he tried not to think about it. Instead he asked, "Where am I?"

  "We're in the mountains. East of Britar."

  "Guardians," Zimran repeated. They would take care of him, but he questioned how safe he'd be here. They were hunted by the Valdani, enemies of the Society, and visited regularly by shades and spirits. He could think of company he'd rather keep.

  "I'll go get you some broth," the woman offered.

  She left the cave, and the man named Cheylan came forward to take her place at Zimran's side.

  Zimran took one look at the man's face and tried to get up again—this time to escape. A fire-eyed demon!

  "Going somewhere?" Cheylan's voice dripped with contempt.

  Zimran fell back dizzily, his vision darkening for a moment. Panic warred with embarrassment. That lava-bright gaze chilled him, but the expression on Cheylan's face filled him with hot shame; the Guardian thought he was a coward.

  Zim's blood thundered through his head as he stared at the man. "I..." He swallowed, his mind racing from one thought to the next. "Are you..."

  "Yes?" Cheylan prodded.

  No wonder the woman had said Cheylan was very easy to identify! But the woman was not afraid of him, and Zimran would not shame himself by fearing something that a woman did not. He closed his eyes and summoned his courage.

  He helped Josarian. He helped me.

  Zim forced himself to open his eyes again and meet that withering gaze. Still at a loss for words, he crossed his fists—moving his injured arm awkwardly—and bowed his head.

  "Thank you for your hospitality and protection," he said formally.

  "Ah." A slight smile curved Cheylan's mouth. It was more arrogant than friendly, but it nonetheless helped ease the tension between them. "Now that's better."

  Shamed and humiliated, his broken nose throbbing, Myrell stood before Commander Koroll in Cavasar and recounted the hideous events of the prisoners' escape four nights ago. When he was done, Koroll's first question was not the one he was expecting.

  Koroll fingered the bloody Moorlander tunic and asked, "Josarian claimed this belonged to Porsall?"

  Myrell blinked. "Yes, but he lied. I stopped at the toren's estate on my way here. He's there, quite well, and was astonished at my concern for his—"

  "Of course this tunic never belonged to Porsall, you incompetent fool!" Koroll snarled. "One lone outlaw, one filthy Silerian peasant has made a laughingstock of the Empire thanks to you!"

  "He could not have been alone, sir," Myrell protested. "Someone had to have freed the prisoners. Josarian must have had an accomplice."

  "By the Three, do you think it makes it better that there were two of them?" Koroll thundered
. "Are you suggesting that two is a reasonable number of men to attack one of our fortresses, free our prisoners, and slaughter more than fifty of our men? Is that what you're trying to say, you blundering idiot?"

  Myrell swallowed, swamped with shame, unable to choke out an answer. What was there to say, after all? No one in all of Valdania had ever been as disgraced as he was. There was no question that he'd be discharged from the Emperor's service; in fact, he'd consider himself lucky not to be executed. How he hated this godsforsaken country! How he hated these barbaric people! Over fifty of his men had been led to their deaths in the mountains!

  The day after the attack, as his surviving men patched up their wounded, buried the Outlookers killed during the prisoners' surprise attack, and salvaged what they could from the burned wreckage, Myrell had sent patrols out after the troops which had failed to return from or report on their pursuit of Josarian. Led by a Silerian criminal who stayed out of the mines in exchange for serving the Valdani as a guide and interpreter, they had tracked the troops and eventually discovered... Oh, Three Into One, he couldn't even bear to think of what his men had found! Over fifty men and horses were found dead out there, most lying twisted, broken, and bloody at the bottom of some vast, ancient quarry.

  The first dozen Outlookers to fall over the precipice in the dark probably hadn't realized, not until the very last moment, what was happening. The rest of the men, however... They must have heard the screams of terrified horses and dying men even above the thunder of their own mounts' hoofbeats. There must have been a moment when they'd tried to rein in, to halt beasts born to a herd mentality and ruthlessly trained not to hesitate in the face of violence. There must have been men among them who knew they were racing straight for their deaths and could do nothing about it.

  A few bodies had remained on the cliff's edge. Some were hideously trampled, maimed beyond recognition: panicked riders who had thrown themselves from their mounts, only to be killed by the horses behind them. There were several corpses, though, that hadn't been trampled. These riders had undoubtedly been at the very end of the column. Each of them had been killed by a sword. One of them, discovered later in the day, had fled the cliff's edge and been hunted down in the dark; his body was found at some distance from the carnage, his sword-arm severed and his throat cut.