The Warrior King: Book Three of the Seer King Trilogy

by Chris Bunch

  Far distant, I thought I heard a soughing cough.

  The leopard was out there.

  • • •

  I put Perche in the shed with the animals, told him to keep the door braced shut and not come out unless I summoned him … and make sure it was really me who called, although how he was supposed to make sure of that, if it was some shape-changing fiend, I didn’t know.

  I crept to my chosen hut and lay down just inside the doorway and waited. One thing soldiering forces is patience.

  The moon rose, and its light crawled through the door toward me. Dust tickled my nose, but I didn’t cough. A homeless flea from one of the hut’s former residents bit me, and I didn’t move.

  It grew late, and still later. But I wasn’t sleepy, nor restless, for the jungle beyond the village was still silent, listening to the killer in its greenery.

  I don’t know what brought me to full alertness — an almost unheard sound, a smell, something out of the ordinary.

  I looked out at stillness, trying to determine where the leopard was lurking. There, close beside that hut? In the lengthening shadow of the wall, approaching the corpses? To my right, within the village?

  There was a rustle from behind me, from within the hut, a soft thud onto the dirt floor, and a rrrowl. I spun, going for my sword, but late, too late, and a medium-sized, scrawny, abandoned tabby cat meowed plaintively.

  • • •

  Before either my heart stopped or I exploded in hysterical laughter, the night rumbled, and the leopard clawed over the walls.

  There was nothing out there, nothing at all, but then darkness moved. If my eyes hadn’t been flickering here, there, as I’d learned to see at nighttime, I might not have seen it, and the beast slid forward, toward the woman’s body.

  I was up, out of the hut, javelin in my hand, and I cast hard. The spear whipped through the air, buried itself a hands-breadth from the creature. A normal beast would have been gone, but this monster crouched forward toward me, jaws gaping, growling menace. It was big, far bigger than any leopard I’d ever hunted, and I stepped back into the hut, grabbed a short stabbing spear, and started toward it, braced for its leap.

  I vow, in that instant, the stars flickered, as if something had moved across them, and then a voice rumbled across the valley, and I knew the voice:

  “You should have chosen when I gave you the chance,” and the leopard changed, rose to its haunches, grew until it was twelve feet tall, and became a man, but a man with the dripping fangs of a leopard, and its hands were taloned and flames flickered where its eyes should have been. It came toward me, in a strange walk, like a dog trained to cavort on its hind legs.

  I feinted, and it batted at the spear tip, then a clawed arm lashed out. I ducked aside, and the other claw ripped at me, tearing across my chest, and pain seared. I dropped to my knees and rolled, came back to my feet, spear still in hand, and jabbed, one-handed, taking the monster just above the thigh, but no more than a superficial wound.

  Again it slashed, and struck me full on with its pad, sending me stumbling back, spear flying. The leopard screamed, like a woman in anguish, but this wasn’t its pain but mine, soon to come. It dropped to all four legs, was about to spring, and the door to the other hut opened, and Perche ran out, spear leveled like a battering ram. The leopard spun aside, came up with a slashing right into Perch’s guts, and he screamed, went spinning away.

  But his death gave me the moment, and my father’s sword was in my hand. I cut at the leopard-man, and it screamed again, its own agony this time, struck, and I cut at its foreleg, cut it deeply, then jumped back like a fencing master on the mats as the monster’s fangs sliced, didn’t see the lashing paw that knocked my sword from my hand, spinning through the night.

  I jumped back, into the doorway of the hut.

  The leopard was on all fours again, tail whipping, its muscles tensed and it leapt. I ducked under its leap, had that ancient silver blade in hand, rolled onto my back, and drove upward with all my strength.

  The blade caught the leopard above the stomach, stuck in its ribs and snapped. Again the beast screamed, and now the world, the jungle, the hells below screamed with it.

  It crashed against the side of the hut in darkness. I had Perak’s dagger and was on it, cutting, stabbing, flailing into that darkness, and each time I struck the leopard howled, and then I was cutting, cutting, and there was no sound but the thuds of my blows landing.

  I sat, still, in darkness for a time, panting wildly, then found the lamp I’d set out, uncovered the slow match I’d hidden, and light flared.

  The leopard lay motionless in the dust, and it looked as if a butcher had been at it with his cleaver. But I took no chances and hacked its head and paws off.

  The Monster of Belya was truly dead.

  Perche had also gone to the Wheel — the leopard’s eviscerating slash had killed him instantly.

  I took a moment to mourn, to curse, for yet another man who’d chosen to follow me was gone.

  Then, working by moonlight, I smashed a hut down, dragged its timbers into a stack, then piled the bodies of the unknown peasants on it, Perche’s body last.

  I found lamps in the huts, drenched the pyre with their oil, tossed my smoking lamp into its midst, and flames exploded upward.

  I waited until the fire was truly ablaze, said prayers to Irisu, Shahriya of the Fire, Jacini, Vachan, Tanis that these men, this woman, these children would be granted favor on the Wheel and rewarded with a fortunate rebirth.

  For sacrifice, I pitched the body of the leopard into the flames, watched the fire roar for a while, then threw the broken pieces of the silver-worked sword next to it.

  I collected my equipment, repacked the animals, and was ready to travel. Now there’d be nothing in the night to fear, the night that was properly alive with sound.

  I’d brought unguents, and now I rubbed them on my wounded chest, although I would visit a seer when I reached Megiddo, for wounds from a leopard’s fetid claws always infect.

  I was almost ready to leave when the tabby cat came out of the blackness, meowing. I took dried meat from my pack, shredded it, gave the cat water.

  It ate and drank hungrily. After it finished, I tucked the animal into one of my saddlebags. It sniffed, purred, and went happily to sleep.

  With a gold coin, there’d be someone in Megiddo more than willing to give it a home.

  I swung into the saddle, bowed to the still-burning pyre, rode though the open gates into the dark jungle.

  Was the leopard always a demon that Tenedos was able to possess?

  Or was it merely a killing creature whose bloody past made it easy for him to take over?

  I did not, do not know.

  EIGHT

  THE DANCING FIRES

  I smelled the burn half an hour’s ride from the plantation. It was charcoal, drenched wood, seared cloth, and another stink I remembered well. Many warriors cannot bear to be in a kitchen where lamb is cooking, because it smells exactly like man.

  I dropped the lead to my pack animals and kicked my horse into a gallop, rounded the last bend and saw what I’d dreaded — Shahriya had been given my home compound. Fire had consumed everything, and not long ago, for the ruins still smoked. A few tottering, blackened roofbeams still stood, but that was about all. Here and there retainers dug through the rubble, looking for I know not what.

  “Magic,” he said, and his face was ruined with tears. I recognized him as Tutuila, one of the overseers of the rice fields. “We had no warning, no warning at all.”

  “Who died?”

  He stared, his mouth opened to frame words, and he burst into tears again. I was out of the saddle, shaking him. “Come on, man! Who died?”

  “Mangasha,” he said. “My friend … the man I loved best of … and Peto’s dying … they saved, saved us all,” and he dissolved in tears.

  I was slammed by an invisible first, tottered, then forced steel down my spine.

  “Take me to him,
” and Tutuila tottered toward the path leading to some stables the fire had missed.

  Peto was terribly burnt, and it was only his iron will, plus spells and pain-numbing herbs a local witch was giving him, that kept him alive, alive and conscious.

  He lay on oil-soaked muslin, on a bed of fresh-cut grass, but each movement sent pain tearing through him. Anadyr and Jeritza stood around him, holding bandages, cool drinks, but he was beyond that. Kassa sat nearby, eyes cold in shock, and she wore bandages on her hands and lower legs. Behind them were Jeritza and Anadyr’s husbands, Daryal and Traptain.

  I knelt, and he opened his eyes and recognized me.

  “Damastes,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to keep them away, that we didn’t stop them from burning everything.”

  “What happened? Was it raiders?”

  “No,” he said in a rasping voice. “Magic. I was outside, snarling at a watchman who’d fallen asleep, and I saw flames coming, dancing like fireflies on the wind, coming in waves over the trees to the south.”

  To the south, where Tenedos was.

  I knew that fire well. It had been created by the Maisirian War Magicians; then the spell had been taken for his own by Tenedos. The fires killed almost all they burnt and grew stronger as they did, just as Tenedos’s strength grew with the men he destroyed.

  “But they touched nothing, fed on nothing, but floated free. I had time to scream a warning, and Mangasha came out, a torch in his hand.

  “Somehow that drew the flames, and they clung to him, clung and then ate. I pushed him down, rolled him on the ground, but the flames wouldn’t die, but attacked me.

  “I was screaming with the pain,” he said, “and I guess that gave time for the others to escape. Some of the fires swirled away and ate at the buildings.”

  Anadyr, my oldest sister, nodded.

  “I was still in the fire’s embrace but was able to stumble down, into the fishpond you and I dug, and hid, with only my lips above water.”

  A hand, burnt to a claw by the fire, came out, touched my sleeve. “Do not think me a coward, Damastes, for not being able to fight them, for not saving Mangasha.”

  “You’re not that,” I said. “Not ever.”

  “I made myself stay alive, wait for you. Now I can let go, and go to the Wheel.” Blistered lips pulled into a grimace of a smile. “I’ll not be sorry to go, Damastes. Perhaps I’ll serve your family again, in another time, another life.

  “I would like that,” he said softly. “I would like to see your father, Cadalso, when he was young and whole. And your mother. I don’t remember anyone as pretty as she was, not even your sisters, when they were young.”

  His breath rasped in, out for a time. I squatted beside him, without moving, paying no more attention to the witch’s ministrations, my sisters, or the farmers clustering behind me than he did.

  “Maybe not,” he said, “maybe you cannot go into the past, where it might have been better. That is what the priests say, that the Wheel moves ever forward. But the future might be better than this time, foul with strange demons and kings.

  “Perhaps, when I return from the Wheel, there’ll be peace. Peace and no kings. No kings. Now that is a dream worth dying on.” His breath rattled, and he fought, thrashed, and was gone.

  I stood, not seeing the ancient wood of the stables, the tropic brush behind, nor the ruins of the fire, but the flames themselves as they’d danced death.

  I should have known, my mind drummed. I knew Tenedos would strike, I should have done more, I should have abandoned everything and had everyone move immediately into the jungle.

  But why did he attack innocents? The answer came instantly — as the leopard-demon, he should have killed me, and this fire should have then obliterated my name from the earth. Total war, total revenge. That was his way, the way of someone half a demon, someone wedded to Saionji.

  If Peto hadn’t been outside, and shouted, there would have been no warning at all, and everyone would have died. I wondered what had made Tenedos’s magic slip, so that his flames hadn’t run through the darkness, finding and killing my sisters, but would never know the answer.

  “When shall we build the pyres?” Anadyr asked.

  “As soon as possible,” I said. “For both Peto and Mangasha.”

  Then my stomach roiled at the idea of giving these two men I’d loved into another fire, and I remembered another custom, one used by the primitives of the forest.

  “Clear the ruins of our compound,” I ordered. “Dig deep holes, scent them with all the herbs and flowers Mangasha and Peto loved best, and bury the bodies in them. Drive oxen across the burial grounds, and seed it with flowers, so the gardens will become beautiful again.

  “Let the whole district know these gardens are a memorial for these two brave men, and let them be for everyone, for children, maidens and young men, but allow no warrior, wizard, or man with weapons to enter.”

  “And then what shall we do?” Jeritza asked. “You now head the family.”

  “No,” I said. “For I’m leaving within the hour. Each of you will speak for the family, and all decisions will be reached by agreement. But there are things you must do, to keep the fire from returning. The fire or other killers. Pretend you are no longer my sisters, my brothers-by-marriage. Deny my name, my existence if necessary. The first thing you’ll have to do is go into hiding. Traptain has property, many farms. He’ll shelter you. The supplies Mangasha hid in the forest will help. Cut the rents we charge the farmers to work our land in half, and collect that in necessaries, not gold or silver. Avoid outsiders for a time, and plead ignorance of everything to strangers.”

  I’d seen Traptain’s expression when I gave my orders and went to him, standing very close. His eyes widened in fear.

  “You will do as I’ve ordered,” I said, in a near whisper, “and not worry about the rents you’ll be losing. If you do not treat my family, and my retainers, as if they were your own, you’ll face my anger when I return. And if I die, I’ll return and deal with you as a demon. I vow this in the name of Tanis, Vachan … and Saionji herself!”

  He quailed at my anger and the death-goddess’s name and nodded obediently I would not have to worry about him.

  “How long do you think we’ll have to stay in hiding?” Daryal asked.

  “Until the one who calls himself Laish Tenedos is dead.”

  “How will we know if … when he’s gone? When it’s safe to come out of hiding?” Jeritza asked. “You’ll know,” I said.

  “And you,” Kassa said. “Where do you go?”

  “South,” I said. “South, to war.”

  NINE

  MOVING SOUTH

  I rode fast for the first three days, putting a state and a life behind. I broke out of Cimabue’s jungle then, onto the rolling savannas of Tagil. The roads were winding dirt lanes at first, then became wider and in some places cobbled outside the towns as I swung easterly, toward the Latane River.

  There were other travelers — traders, farmers heading for market, mostly older or very young people as I’d seen between Kaldi and Cimabue, riding together for protection.

  But there were other men on the trails I’d not seen before. The first type was most unsettling: discharged soldiers, traveling in pairs or in small groups. Some were mounted, some afoot. Most wore some remnants of their uniforms, and quite a few were armless, legless, without an eye, or scarred. All were armed and had the hard gaze of men who’d seen too much death.

  I chanced spending the night with five such men, although I kept my sword close at hand and my hidden dagger ready.

  Where were they going? They weren’t sure. Maybe toward Khurram, maybe south into Chalt. What were they looking for? Work, one said, and another’s mouth twisted wryly.

  “There’s work enough if you’re not particular,” he said. “Any farmer’d be glad of a strong back. But that’s what we left behind, when we enlisted.”

  “And we’re not goin’ back to it,” another added.
>
  “Why not?” I asked. “That’s an honorable life.”

  “Fuck honor,” a third said rudely. “I’ll leave that for the nobles and generals that dumped us into the shitter in Maisir and hope they fuckin’ choke on it.”

  “I’ll ask,” I said directly. “What are you seeking?”

  He started to say something, stopped, and was silent for a time. He prodded at the low fire with a stick.

  “Dunno,” he said finally. “It’s like war cut something in me, so there wasn’t any home when I went back to where I’d come from. The people kept staring, real wary, as if I was some sort of uncaged beast, about to spring on them.

  “Maybe I am. So I left. Met up with these other shitbrains on the road, and we’re all looking for what we don’t know together.”

  “You could go back under the colors,” I suggested, then added, cynically, “there’s enough of them to choose from, between the Peace Guardians, the former emperor, or those who don’t want him to regain the throne.”

  “Fuck all of ‘em twice,” another man put in. “Man can get killed listening to generals. You look like you was an officer, anyway some sort of soldier. Didn’t you learn that?”

  I had to laugh. “Not well enough.”

  “We could always go to banditry,” another said. “Live high for a year or so ‘til they hunted us down and cut our guts out. You got any suggestions?”

  I shook my head.

  “So where are you bound?”

  I told them.

  “You was right. You didn’t learn nothin’.”

  I slept carefully that night, but none of them tried anything. I would’ve been surprised if they had, for in spite of their weapons, rough dress, or rougher speech, I recognized them as the sort of soldiery I’d once been proud to lead.

  I shared what was in my saddlebags for the morning meal, then reloaded my two pack animals and mounted.

  “Again I’ll make my offer,” I said. “If you find there’s nothing out here for you … come find me. I’ll find a place for you.”

  “You never give us your name.”