Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun

by James A. West

  “Protection,” the Hunter said grimly.

  Leitos took one of the crude necklaces and, mimicking the Hunter, dropped it over his head. It was heavier than he expected. “Protection from what?”

  “Mahk’lar, boy,” the Hunter said, settling the satchel against his hip.

  Leitos could not help but scoff. “There are no Mahk’lar, not anymore. And even if they did still wander the world, how could a bit of rock offer any protection against them?”

  “For the life of me,” the Hunter said, “I cannot understand why the Faceless One bothers to hunt your people so vigorously. If he but let Izutarians alone, they would soon perish of their own stupidity.” He said this in an offhand way, but for no reason Leitos could fathom, he sensed the Hunter knew full well why the Faceless One enslaved his people.

  Leitos eyed the lout with a questioning stare. The Hunter ignored him and strode toward what might have been a wide gate in the previous age, but was now just a gap in the bone-town’s wall.

  “Mahk’lar are fewer than once they were,” the Hunter said, “that is true enough, as they nearly bred themselves out of existence. But not all the Fallen wanted to bind their spirits within the weaker flesh of their get, the Alon’mahk’lar, the Sons of the Fallen.”

  “So,” Leitos said, “even among the followers of the Faceless One, there is rebellion.”

  “I would hardly name it rebellion,” the Hunter retorted. “Rather a covenant that favors the Faceless One. He allows the few remaining Mahk’lar to run loose, but only because it serves his will.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Instead of an answer, the Hunter suddenly fell into a crouch, searching the ruins, head cocked as if he had heard something. Leitos imitated his posture. Up close, the town’s look of abandonment became a palpable sensation expressing complete loss. He neither heard nor saw anything dangerous, but started when the vague shape of a tumbleweed escaped an alley, rolled slowly across the broad roadway, then vanished into another alley. Then, far away, something thumped and creaked … thumped and creaked … then went still. Leitos imagined a door hanging from rusted hinges, opening and closing under the same gentle wind that had set the tumbleweed on its aimless journey. Farther still, a jackal cried to the night, an eerie, high-pitched yowling.

  The Hunter abruptly released the hilt of his knife, straightened, and strode ahead. He appeared at ease, but Leitos knew better. He sensed more than saw a subtle tension in the set of the man’s shoulders, the furtive glances at each and every shadow. Nevertheless, he struck up his discourse again, as if he had never stopped.

  “The Faceless One’s will and desire is to instill fear, and through that he exacts obedience,” the Hunter said. “Far as I know, that is all he desires of humankind—complete submission. Prowling Mahk’lar help ensure he gets it.”

  Thinking of the slaves occasionally taken from the mines, with never a word about where they went, Leitos suspected that the Faceless One had other things in mind for humans. Yet, if he really was after something else, it did not matter as far as Leitos could see, for the result was the same: humanity in bondage.

  For the better part of an hour, Leitos followed the Hunter deeper into the nameless bone-town. The moon rose higher, casting a bit more light. Leitos found himself thinking what his grandfather’s age would be if he had lived before the Upheaval. The answer was impossible to accept. This led to what the Hunter had said, “Men are liars … Your grandfather included.”

  Leitos did not want to believe that about Adham, but could not help but wonder. The explanations he relied upon were merely the repeating of things Adham had told him. In truth, everything that he knew of the world outside of the mines was based on the stories his grandfather had fed him growing up.

  Why would Adham have lied to me? The Hunter’s voice again provided the equally simple and altogether bleak answer. “Lies and smiles, boy—that is how you survive under the rule of the Faceless One and his devils.”

  Can it really be so? Had his grandfather invented false stories in a bid to mask the hopelessness of a life spent chained and toiling? To retain some measure of sanity, had Adham given his life to ensure Leitos’s escape, set him seeking after a shadowy group of men whose existence even he had often seemed to doubt? Or had Adham gone irrevocably mad long before Leitos took that first step?

  Leitos’s head ached with the effort of thinking these things through. More than anything he wanted to stop, throw himself upon the desolate street of this bone-town, and just give in.

  While he continued moving along at the heels of the Hunter, his mind abruptly ceased wrestling with itself, letting his eyes see the truth. All around lay the evidence of what had been, the corpse of a place where men and women and children had lived before the Faceless One. Empty now, to be sure, but at one time folk had gathered together, built upon the desert, lived out their lives. If it was true here, then why not other places Adham had spoken of, in lands near and far?

  The names of fallen realms filled his mind. Izutar, Aradan, Tureece, Falseth, Kelren, Geldain. And within each realm there had been many cities, great and small, corrupt and shining and in-between. It was certainly possible that Adham, caught in the throes of some insanity, had invented these places. But with the evidence of the bone-town all around, a city whose sunken foundations kept secret the name it once bore, Leitos had to believe some, if not all, of what Adham had told was real, and it did not matter if he had actually seen them before the Upheaval or not.

  How many more bone-towns exist? Leitos thought then. By the Hunter’s lips, there were at least two lying north of Zuladah. If two, there could just as easily be a dozen, perhaps even scores, all of which had been destroyed by the Upheaval, or later subjugated by the Faceless One, a creature that walked the world in the form of a man, but who was not a man. A creature who had twisted the hearts and minds of humankind to the point that a mother would cut the heart from her living husband, then give over her only child for a loaf of bread, and perhaps a promise of peace.

  Could not a creature such as the Faceless One also convince otherwise strong men that all they knew was a lie, that it was better to betray and hunt their own kind, rather than resist? His captor was evidence enough of that, but how many more were there in the world like him?

  “Boy,” the Hunter snarled. He stood several paces away, peering at Leitos through the gloom.

  Leitos glanced up, stunned to find that he had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had stopped in his tracks. “I thought I heard something,” he mumbled, offering the only response that might convince the Hunter not to question his actions.

  The Hunter tensed. “What did you hear?” he demanded, taking in the shadows.

  He fears the Mahk’lar. Leitos was about to utter some lie, when he actually did hear something … a hushed scraping sound. The Hunter heard it too.

  Though standing well apart, they turned as one, facing an alley heaped with smashed mudbricks, shards of wood from old barrels and crates, and moon-cast shadows. The scraping sound came again, followed by a rattling thud.

  The Hunter drew his knife and inched toward the mouth of the alley. Leitos wanted to stay close, but as he had no weapons, he decided staying put was his best choice. As he watched the man’s broad back pass from the thin light given by the moon into the alley’s gloomy embrace, he again considered making a run for it, but just as quickly abandoned that idea. If left alive, the Hunter would find him.

  The Hunter cursed under his breath, and Leitos moved forward, feet padding lightly over the sand-covered street. The dark of the alley greeted him as readily as it had the Hunter. The upper floor of one of the buildings bracing the alley had tumbled down, crushing a wagon laden with barrels and crates. Three—no, four skeletons lay half-buried under rubble. Doubtless, rescuers had come, hurling aside the bricks in a bid to free the victims, only to find that all had perished. As no one had fully dug out the dead to give them a proper burial, things in the city must have rapidly
worsened.

  When he stood near, Leitos whispered, “What did you find?”

  “Save rats and shadows,” the Hunter said after a time, “there is nothing here. Come. I know a place nearby to rest for the night—”

  The Hunter’s words cut off. Leitos froze at the sight of two wraithlike figures hovering at the mouth of the alley. He shot a glance over his shoulder, but a high wall blocked the other end. Leitos’s hand flew to the amulet at his throat. It was his only defense, but in that moment he feared that the trinket was utterly useless against Mahk’lar.

  Chapter 12

  The two figures closed in, spreading apart as they came. While they made no sound, and advanced with a disturbing grace, they did not float, as Leitos would expect from creatures of spirit. The duo approached as would cautious men, walking in crouches, each step placed precisely. He grew more troubled, thinking that the Alon’mahk’lar had tired of waiting for the Hunter to deliver his quarry, and decided instead to collect Leitos themselves….

  But no, neither of the figures’ eyes glimmered beneath their hoods, and they stood far too short and too slender to be the offspring of the Fallen. In addition, the figures each bore a sword that would have been no larger than a dagger in the hand of an Alon’mahk’lar.

  The Hunter abruptly straightened up to his full height. “After our last meeting,” he growled, “I did not expect to see the likes of either of you again.”

  The two dark shapes halted. “How did you know it was us and not mere rogues, or greedy treasure seekers on the prowl?” the man on the left said. Friendly sounding or not, the man did not drop the tip of his sword. If anything, there was an almost imperceptible firming of his stance.

  “He knew,” the other figure said dryly, “because only Hunters could possibly catch a Hunter off his guard. Isn’t that so, Sandros?”

  Upon hearing the second figure speak, Leitos’s mouth dropped open, and a strange tingling rippled over his skin. Though he had never heard a woman’s voice, his grandfather had frequently spoken of their attributes—at least as often as he talked of freedom—and held them in high regard. But those wistful musings had in no way prepared Leitos for the stirrings he felt in his middle at the songlike tones of female speech. He imagined he could sit in the sand and let her run that sword of hers through his heart, if only she kept talking.

  “Why are you here?” the Hunter demanded. “If I do not like your answer, I will string your guts from the eaves of this city.”

  Unlike Leitos, he seemed unmoved by the man’s pleasantness or the woman’s voice. If anything, he too seemed more on edge. For Leitos, that last shattered the spell of hearing a woman speak for the first time, and he backed a careful step behind Sandros. Distractedly, he thought he would never be able to apply that name to the man he knew only as the Hunter.

  “Sandros,” the woman said, feigning shock even as she sauntered closer, “are threats anyway to meet old friends?”

  “You are no friend, Zera,” the Hunter said, pivoting a little in her direction. “And neither, Pathil, are you. That you have come together troubles me all the more.”

  “Oh, come now!” Pathil said, jamming his sword into the scabbard hanging at his waist. “Enough posturing. Let us spend this night under a common roof, and take pleasure in our company.”

  “As I remember it,” the Hunter said, “the last time we shared a roof, I awoke with you trying to poke that sword of yours through my heart.”

  “A youthful blunder. Surely you do not still hold that against me—it is not as though I succeeded in marring even a single hair on your head.”

  “Only because I broke your arm,” the Hunter said.

  “And his nose,” Zera laughed, sheathing her own blade. “And nearly his neck.”

  “See there?” Pathil said, his good humor sounding forced at the reminder. “You have nothing to fear. Besides, we all know you are and have ever been the best of us … maybe even the greatest Hunter ever to stride Geldain. Even against me and Zera, were we of a mind to attack you, I dare say you would shame us.”

  Leitos listened to the odd banter, but suspected that what he was hearing was secondary to what was truly going on. “All men are liars,” the Hunter had said, and from another conversation, “They sent word to all their spies and Hunters to keep an eye out for a fleeing slave boy, and offered a fair reward to anyone who captured you.”

  Zera glanced at Leitos, a bare shifting of her hooded head. Though he could not see them, he felt her eyes on him, a prolonged, invasive study. “Is this the boy the Alon’mahk’lar seek?” she purred. “Do not bother denying it,” she added, before the Hunter could do just that.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Pathil edged closer, coming abreast of Zera and passing her by, before halting no more than five paces from the Hunter. Like Zera, he moved with an unnerving grace.

  Unaccountably, the Hunter seemed to take no notice, and went so far as to tuck his knife away. “Very well,” he said, visibly relaxing. He dropped a heavy hand on Leitos’s shoulder “It appears we will have guests this night.” He eyed Pathil and Zera. “I trust you have something to eat?”

  Zera nodded. “The best fare to be had in Zuladah.”

  “Which,” Pathil snorted, “is not so grand, but surely better than those boney, sun-cooked lizards we all ate together south of Loe-Sati.”

  The Hunter’s abrupt laughter startled Leitos. In the next moment, the foursome were walking together, all outward hints of danger fading like water sinking into burning sand. Where the three Hunters chatted, Leitos coiled within himself, forced to accept that no matter what happened, he would not gain his freedom this night. Killing Sandros now, with the presence of two other Hunters, would be impossible.

  It took little time to reach a large, domed building with a columned portico set upon the highest point in the center of the bone-town. Leitos suspected the decrepit palace had not been the Hunter’s original destination, as his previous hideaways had been uninviting and nearly undetectable. The place they entered stood out, an obvious beacon to anyone seeking shelter.

  With unvoiced caution, they crept into the halls of the palace, passing a dozen or more partial skeletons, most of which had been scattered by scavengers many years gone by. They came to a vast and shadowed inner chamber, over which curved the palace’s cracked dome. Through a large gap, Leitos made out the light of a few stars, and wished he was out on the open desert, instead of trapped within the confines of what amounted to a massive tomb.

  The Hunter laid a fire from previously gathered barrel staves, broken crates, and smashed furnishings. Whether the palace had been his destination or not, the Hunter’s familiarity of the place and its stores suggested he had been there before.

  While the fire labored to push back the gloom and the night’s coming chill, the foursome dragged once plush chairs near the flames. Zera and Pathil shrugged off their hooded cloaks, hued in the same drab, desert tones as the Hunter’s garb, and Leitos momentarily forgot all his anxieties.

  Rooting through a satchel similar to the Hunter’s, Pathil’s easy grin was made all the whiter by his smooth, sable skin. Black, close-cropped hair capped his head in small, tight curls. Where the Hunter was a large man, Pathil was slender. His corded arms poking out of his close-fitting, sleeveless tunic spoke of a quick, deadly strength. Leitos had a rough understanding of Pathil’s ancestry from Adham’s favorable stories of the races of southern Geldain who, before the Upheaval, had commonly produced companies of skilled mercenaries called Asra a’Shah.

  As interesting as Leitos found Pathil, he considered Zera all the more so. Where her voice had stirred something unfamiliar and dangerously exciting within him, her olive-toned features held him captive. Of course, he had never seen a woman, but judging by Pathil’s and the Hunter’s frequent, admiring glances in her direction, he supposed Zera must be counted as attractive.

  Like Pathil, Zera’s lithe arms held an uncommon strength, but they moved with far more natural and leth
al grace as she drew a large round loaf of bread from her satchel, followed by a skin bloated by some sloshing liquid. Completely indifferent to the furtive looks of the other three, she turned away. Where Pathil wore a simple tunic and loose trousers, Zera’s clothing, a mix of cloth and leather, snugged against her body like a second skin. Besides her hands, neck, and face, no other part of her was uncovered. Leitos did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  He focused on her hair to avoid looking at the rest of her, noting that she had woven it into a long, glossy black braid. In a deft movement he nearly missed, she brought her palm to her lips, as if sneaking a bite of food, then spun around, catching Pathil and the Hunter off guard. They hastily looked away, avoiding her eyes, which flashed and glimmered in the firelight. She placed the loaf and the skin on her chair, then went back to digging in her satchel.

  Leitos barely noticed her movements now. He stared into the flames, his mind fixated on the vision of her eyes. He had never seen such color, a liquid, shimmering green flecked with gold around the pupils….

  All at once Leitos felt a lingering pressure upon him, and he glanced up to find the Hunter and Pathil looking his way. At his blush, they laughed aloud. Zera’s attention locked on Leitos. His lower jaw, dangling loosely, sprang shut hard enough that his teeth clicked. For the barest moment, her eyes narrowed. In the next, they softened. Her lips parted in an open, inviting smile. It was then that he realized she could be no more than a handful of years older than he, if that. Leitos fell into a state of near panic under her prolonged scrutiny, but in the back of his mind he wondered how such a young woman could have become a Hunter.

  “Were your people not so few and far-flung, Zera,” Pathil said with a rueful shake of his head, “I dare say they could compel the hearts of men the world over to join in battle against the Faceless One.”