The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2)

by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

  I heard voices from inside . . . "brother" . . . "strike" . . . “just women!” . . . wishing I had a moment to collect my mind, my force and my breath but I couldn’t chance it, even now thinking I heard, perhaps I did hear, "from behind!" "from within!" "Danger!" and I stormed into the Private Chamber of the Archons.

  I saw in a blur glass and gold, alembics and scrolls, burning tapers and incense, bones and horrid creatures, but had no time, realizing there could be but one chance for a mortal to confront such sorcerers and that was blinding speed and surprise.

  There, I saw two tall, bearded, vulture-faced men whose malignity marked them clear; hands coming up . . . one stretching a finger like a lance, and something gray black beginning to build to dart at me striking the sword from my hand and I hurled my shield sideways, spinning through the air into his guts, leaping after and there was a great cloud of smoke as I heard a very human screech of pain and a shout from the other and then I touched flesh, flesh became scales, became flesh and the Archon and I smashed to the floor, rolling about and I could feel huge muscles contort, as if I were in the ring against the strongest man I’d ever wrestled and great hands came up, forcing mine to the side and I was rolled over onto my back, as those hands came around my throat, gripping, thank the gods not knowing enough to press the arteries but squeezing my windpipe, world turning black and I struck straight up with my free hand, fingers clawed, stiff like a hawk’s talons into the Archon’s eyes and he screamed and I felt wetness and kickspun him off, both of us on our feet, but blood and fluid seeping through the fingers held to his face but not time for that and I stepped into him, both fists together, swinging sideways like a morningstar’s ball and smashing into his temple and the Archon flipped back in a convulsion and fell, body thrashing, dead but not realizing it.

  My eyes sought, found my sword and I scooped it up. I smashed one foot down on the Archon’s chest, just as a man would immobilize a snake — and struck once, cleanly. My sword struck his head from his shoulders and splintered on the stones. Dead, yes, for a moment at least, but now for the other one and I came back on guard.

  There was no need. The only other person in the room was Sergeant Ismet. "He fled," she said. "He was turning toward you, hands moving to build a spell, and I cast my dagger. It struck him full on the chest, but fell away, as if he were wearing armor."

  "Which way? Where did he go?"

  Ismet pointed to where a small doorway yawned. It was dark, black, just like the burrow Gamelan had promised I’d go down. "Follow me," I ordered.

  "Aye, ma’am. After we cover our rear."

  Before I could snap a "Now!" Ismet had found her dagger, strode to the Archons’ headless corpse, knelt, and made the cut of the eagle. When she stood she held up his dripping heart. Then we were running into that tunnel, after the Last Archon.

  The tunnel was their final escape route. Here there were alcoves where someone could wait in ambush. But no one lurked. There were cunning devices, mantraps, but they were not cocked. My mind kept wondering — why had the other Archon not remained to help his brother? Fear? Panic? Not likely from men, or once-men, who’d ruled so long and so bloodily. I didn’t know the answer, but kept the pursuit, trying to move fast enough so we wouldn’t lose our quarry, but not so fast we’d stumble into a trap.

  The tunnel went on and on, growing narrower and smaller as it burrowed deeper. The tunnel was no longer masonry, but hewn from the living stone. I prayed it wouldn’t grow narrower still so we’d be forced to our knees and bellies, only to find the tunnel taper down to nothingness and a magical escape — a nothingness that’d hold us in a vise in this sea castle’s bowels.

  Then the tunnel ended and there was a moon and star-light. I peered out. We were about ten feet above the surface of the harbor. Above us was the cliff and above that the sea castle we’d left to slip through the rock of the old volcano itself. I saw no sign of the Archon. I flinched, hearing an enormous smashing. I saw that huge chain blocking the harbor snap as if invisible hands had parted it. It came crashing down into the water. Now the harbor mouth was unblocked.

  Sergeant Ismet shouted, "Look there!" and I saw flags snap to the masthead of some of the Lycanthian ships we thought had lain unmanned.

  I knew both flags. The lower banner was a long, split, with a sinuous panther in red. The house flag of my family’s feudal enemy, Nisou Symeon! Still worse, the upper banner was the Royal Flag of Lycanth, a black twin-headed lion holding in its paws a crossed sword and wand. Somehow the Archon had made it aboard that ship. There were other ships — I heard Ismet mutter "Nine," — but I paid little attention, watching the small fleet sail directly toward me . . . and the harbor mouth.

  I groaned as I saw the last Archon was making his escape.

  It was if my eyes were given a magical glass at that moment, and I could see, as if they were only yards away, the two men beside the lead ship’s helmsman. The first was Nisou Symeon. I’d never seen him before, but by his fire-scarred face that had once been as fair as any woman — wounds made by my brother and Janos Greycloak. Behind him was the Archon!

  I heard a roar like a hurricane wind coming from that ship and I knew they’d seen me, as well. A flight of arrows arced toward the tunnel mouth. Ismet pulled me back and the arrows clattered harmlessly against stone. I saw the ships sail past and was drawn back to watch. There was no one waiting to stop their escape. Perhaps, if we’d guessed we could have had Cholla Yi’s ships in position, blocking the harbor, but who would have expected such an eventuality?

  The roaring sound grew louder and then from out of the depths snapped a long tentacle. It lashed around my waist. I lost balance, tottered, then found a grip on a rock outcropping and held on as I heard the roaring turn to a bellow of glee. I fought with all my strength, but I was being pulled loose as if I were a limpet being plucked for a seaside picnic. I looked down at the filthy harbor water and saw other tentacles thrash, then curl up to take me in their embrace. I heard the clack from a yellow beak and saw the gleam of a cold eye.

  A dagger flashed past, down toward the water, and the air was a spray of black ink and I was free and the sea was a roil of scum and then there was nothing.

  "I never miss more than once," came Ismet’s voice.

  Both of us were ink-stained from that spray from that cuttlefish the Archons’ last, parting spell must have called up.

  "One fled," I said.

  I saw Symeon’s nine ships as an offshore wind caught them and their sails filled.

  Ismet said nothing, but pointed upward.

  I looked at the sea castle’s battlements just as Orissa’s golden banner floated forth.

  So one of them had escaped, I thought. But what was a magician, even one such as the Archon, without his base, without his charms, without his scrolls?

  The war was over. Orissa had triumphed. Lycanth had fallen.

  The Archons’ rule had been destroyed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE WIZARD’S HEART

  There has never been a victory feast as great as the one that came after the fall of Lycanth. It didn’t matter that one of the Archons and Nisou Symeon had escaped. It was enough, when the new day dawned, that soldiers saw the Orissan banner flying from the highest point of the Lycanthian seacastle. Now they could creep out from their tunnels, and walk freely about under the looming battlements that’d spat death at them for so many months.

  The soldiers were drunk with joy, shouting, singing, whirling about in mad dances. All of our gods were hauled out and bedecked with garlands, looted finery and jewels. The seacastle was looted and real drink found, and the celebration grew wilder still. Beeves, fowls, pigs and pups were sacrificed to the gods.

  Just knowing there’d be life the next day and the day after that was so soul-filling that all discipline was swept away in that joyous storm. Wisely, we officers made no attempt to stem their antics, other than making sure no civilians or prisoners suffered.

  My women celebrated as wildly as any of
the others. Polillo tromped into our encampment with a keg of looted brandy on each shoulder. She broached them with her ax, and the amber liquor flowed into my sisters’ throats. Corais and Ismet stayed reasonably sober, keeping watch on their comrades tempers. Such extreme happiness, mixed with brandy, can be a powerful elixir for the unwary, and the demons of anger are always ready to pounce on the smallest insult. Many a lovers’ quarrel has been settled with a blade after a battle. We had blood enough on our hands.

  As for me, I suddenly found I’d become that oddest of creatures — a hero. The young recruit dreams of such a thing, weary muscles trembling in their sleep after a day of shouting sergeants lashing her from one absurd task to the next, dream of one day standing tall but humble as thousands of voices shout her name; while old soldiers speak in hushed tones when she passes. I dreamed such dreams when I was young.

  Yet when hero’s garland really was bestowed on me that day, I did not find it so pleasant. The fast ship that carried news of our victory to Orissa, also bore flowery descriptions of my deeds and the deeds of the Maranon Guard. The battle-blasted landscape echoed with my praises. Wherever I walked crowds of soldiers parted before me. Some reached to touch my tunic as if it were sacred cloth, instead of a rough soldier’s weave. Gifts were heaped before my tent and the mound grew so quickly I had to post a guard to politely turn their bearers away.

  There were marriage proposals by the scores. Men begged to father a child with me. Women — even those who’d once turned their noses up at me — left intimate things in my path, and whispered hot entreaties from the shadows to share my cot. It was said a day would be named in my honor, with all the special sacrifices and ceremonies that sort of thing entails.

  I did not find it pleasant, Scribe. I still do not. It is a false thing, a deadly thing that can turn a happily common mortal into a demon of vanity. Heroes belong in the grave. It is the only place they can be safe from themselves — and their worshippers.

  The worst thing about my sudden leap to sanctity, was Jinnah’s hatred deepened as he saw himself being robbed of the hero’s crown he’d coveted. Somehow word leaked that Jinnah had been forced by Gamelan into carrying out my plan. Within hours after the last Lycanthian surrendered, there were jokes being made at his expense. The long, bloody siege was being dubbed "Jinnah’s Folly," and there were those who cursed him bitterly for letting the fight go on so long, and for so many addle-brained decisions which, they charged, had cost thousands their lives.

  To be fair, the Lycanthians had been the toughest of foes, and the Archons so powerful they nearly bested our own Evocators. Still there were many things Jinnah would have to answer for; not here, but when he returned to Orissa and stood before the Council of Magistrates. It was apparent that some god would have to take a sudden, and very great liking for Jinnah if he was to save himself from a shame that would last into the ages.

  Jinnah’s luck, however, changed that very night. It rode in on a furious storm that sank our encampment in a sea of mud. The rain was blinding. The seas raged high, crashing over the rocky shore in waves three times the height of a tall woman. Then Jinnah sent word that I was to come to him — immediately. Not to his tent, but to the seacastle and to the Private Chamber where I’d killed the Archon’s brother.

  As I entered the vast room I couldn’t help but grip the little amulet Gamelan had given me. I took comfort the awful odor that had betrayed the Archons’ presence was gone. As I looked about, shielding my eyes from the white hot glare of sorcerous torches rekindled with Orissan magic, I saw with much surprise there was no sign of the struggle that’d taken place just hours before. Everything seemed to have been put back into pristine order by Gamelan and his Evocators. I saw white-sashed novices sweeping up the last bits of broken glass. They were given to yellow-sashed apprentices who shook sweet smelling smoke on them, whispered enchantments, and the bits reformed themselves into jars, or vials, or crystal bowls, etched with sorcerous symbols. Other wizards and their helpers were moving quietly about, replacing things on tables and benches and hand-carved shelves.

  The whole thing was being directed by several red-sashed senior wizards, who seemed to be working from parchment maps of the room that Gamelan, or an assistant, had used spells to recreate. To one side, near a large golden urn, I saw Jinnah and a knot of aides. They were watching Gamelan, who had set up an odd apparatus on a portable altar. He was making some adjustments, but no sooner had I entered than he looked up — his yellow eyes darting about until they found me. He made a signal — as if in warning. Before I could make clear his intent, Jinnah saw me.

  "Ah, Captain Antero," he said. "The hero of the hour." There was venom in his tone. "Come here, if you please. We have need of your assistance."

  I knew jealousy and hatred had mated in Jinnah’s breast, but as I joined the group I was startled to see a look of pure delight in his eyes. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the look reminded me of our old kitchen cat when she had a rat at her mercy.

  "General," I said. "What is the trouble?"

  "It seems we may have won the battle," Jinnah said, with odd relish, "but not the war."

  "Well put, sir," his toady, Captain Hux, said. Then to me: "We fear all your bold actions may have been for naught."

  I looked at Gamelan. "The Archon?" I asked.

  Gamelan nodded, grave. "The General sent Admiral Cholla Yi after him," he said. "But the Archon raised the storm we are now experiencing, and forced him to give up the chase."

  He continued making adjustments to the apparatus, which was a complicated thing — with spidery tubes and wires and glass retorts filled with multi-colored liquids set to a boil by some magical force. Colored steam issued from them, but, there was no odor.

  I shrugged. "It can’t storm forever," I said. "We’ll catch him soon enough. No land will take him in, now that he’s lost his armies and his homeland. Our spies will soon ferret him out."

  But as I said this, I felt a chill at my spine, and involuntarily touched Gamelan’s amulet. The old wizard caught my motion and nodded. "We can’t risk our future to chance and spies," he said. He made a wide gesture, taking in the vaulted room. "We’ve re-created every detail of this chamber at the moment before you so boldly entered, Down to a cockroach that had just investigated the contents of a wizard’s pouch."

  Gamelan lifted up a small, leather bag. The leather was rich and scored with symbols. He undid a gold tie, pinched out a bit of dust and held it over one of the glass retorts. "This was one of the ingredients for a spell. It’s made of ground bone and the stalk of some vegetation. But it is bone and plant life that none of us have ever encountered."

  He dropped the dust into boiling liquid. Then he corked the retort and pushed a piece of copper tubing through a hole. The tubing ran into the maze of tubes and glass that made up his apparatus. Gamelan spun the blades of a small prayer wheel set up next to the device. We heard the faint sound of bells, as the wheel began its automatic chant.

  I knew little of magic then, but had no doubt the machine, linked somehow to the prayer wheel, was born from my brother’s and Janos Greycloak’s discoveries in the Far Kingdoms.

  Gamelan made no explanation. He turned back to us as if the apparatus had nothing to do with our conversation.

  "Tell her the rest," Jinnah urged. "Tell her what you have learned."

  Without preface, Gamelan said: "We have found unmistakable evidence that the Archon and his brother were only days away from creating that weapon we all so feared. What’s worse, the Archons had prepared for possible defeat by making duplicates of all their equipment and notes. Those things were placed in special trunks that cannot be penetrated by any natural or sorcerous force. When our friend fled on Lord Symeon’s ships those trunks went with him."

  My innards gave a lurch. I turned to Jinnah, angry. "Storm, or no storm, we should be out there right now hunting him down. What possessed Cholla Yi to turn back? Symeon didn’t have much of a start on him. And I’ve no doubt that pirat
e has faced worse tempests before."

  "Admiral Cholla Yi did his best," Jinnah said. "But he did not have the means to press the chase."

  "He wanted more money, I suppose." I did nothing to disguise my disgust.

  Jinnah nodded. "Naturally. We fight for ideals. He fights for coin. Besides, he needs more ships, supplies, and a greater force so that when we catch the Archon, we can finish the job."

  It suddenly came to me the general was being altogether too casual. What was the purpose of this meeting? Why was he wasting time telling me all this? I was but one of his officers. Instead of telling me his plans, Jinnah should have been issuing the pertinent orders. An expedition needed to be mounted immediately. The greater the distance the Archon and Symeon put between us and their ships, the more difficult it would be to capture and defeat them.

  As we spoke an Orissan commander of sea-experienced soldiers should have been readying his men to board Cholla Yi’s ships to resume the chase, just as I should be putting my women in motion for a quick march home to take up guard in case the Archon somehow found the means to threaten Orissa. All the talk of doomsday weapons and slippery wizards reminded me of the Maranon Guard’s historic duty to keep Orissa safe.

  Then it began to dawn what Jinnah had in mind.

  Before the realization was fully formed, he said, in the most oily manner imaginable: "You’ll be pleased to know, Captain, that I’ve decided the Maranon Guard should have the honor of this most vital mission."

  "That’s foolishness, sir," I retorted. “My soldiers are more battle-weary than any others in our army. Or are you forgetting today’s battle?"

  "Of course I haven’t, dear Captain," he oozed. "It was your courage and theirs I had uppermost in my mind when I made my decision."

  I knew instantly what he was about. He was as transparent as any courtesan’s dancing veil. With me out of the way, Jinnah would be able to shift the glory my Guard had won onto his own shoulders. As well as a jackal pack’s worth of the booty from our defeated enemy.