The Heir (Fall of the Swords Book 3)

by Scott Michael Decker

  “You as well, my friend. Thank you—thank you very much.”

  “I feel privileged to have helped.” Healing Hand nodded and turned.

  Spying Eagle watched the Medacor Apprentice retreat, liking him greatly, honored to have such a friend. Pulling a portable shield off his belt, Spying Eagle turned a dial to set the circumference. Pushing a button to activate all the frequencies, he flipped a switch. A psychic silence enveloped him.

  Only then did he allow his deepest, most personal thoughts to surface:

  My father and sister are bandits. My closest friends are Imperial Warriors determined to exterminate all bandits. Dear Lord Infinite, don't force me to choose!

  Since his father had used him for revenge and scorned him for failing; since Healing Hand was his friend and unable to trust him because once implanted always susceptible; since his sister Thinking Quick loved him as he loved her but was his enemy even so; since he respected, honored and loved Flaming Arrow like a brother; and since Spying Eagle could never be sure his father wouldn't implant him again to assassinate the Heir, silent discordant tears spilled down Spying Eagle's cheeks.

  Chapter 10

  The traffic along this length of thoroughfare is heavy. Nearly all those with business at the Tiger Fortress travel this route. The southern entrance is too close to the border and indefensible against Eastern Empire warriors. The bandit general Scowling Tiger forbade the use of the western and eastern entrances. The northern entrance is thus the only route in and out of the fortress, thousands entering and exiting on any given day.

  A variety of people and products of commerce clog the road. The traffic moves slowly. At a quarter-mile north of the actual fortress entrance is the crossroads, where the north-south road meets the east-west road. Here, chaos reigns. The orderly movement of travelers disintegrates into a throng of pushing, shoving, angry individuals, each moving in a direction different from everyone else. The rich and powerful never experience a problem. Warriors go through beforehand to clear the intersection. While easing the passage for that particular bandit noble, clearing the intersection makes problems worse for those who come after.—The Political Geography, by Guarding Bear.

  * * *

  “Why are they all bowing to me?” Seeking Sword whispered nervously, returning yet another. The pair walked away from the fortress, their progress as slow as all the other travelers.

  “The Lord Tiger honors you,” Thinking Quick replied. Then she giggled, “And Purring Tiger smiled at you.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, bumping the man ahead and muttering an apology. Dust stung his eyes and tickled his throat.

  “No man but you, Lord Sword, has ever complimented her and lived. She hasn't ever smiled at a man and not knifed him immediately afterward.” Someone behind bumped her and apologized.

  Those on the right half of the thoroughfare traveled north, those on the left, south. For this stretch of road with its tight pack of travelers, Seeking Sword had strapped his sword to his left hip, preparing to wield it right-handed, if necessary. Although left handed, he fought equally well with his right. “I don't believe you.” Irritably, Seeking Sword bowed again, silently wishing this nonsense would stop. He cursed the dust and the noise and the new annoyance—honor. He found a reason to be grateful for honor, though. Those around them gave him and the girl a little more room to walk. Their fellow travelers didn't want to jostle someone of distinction, wanting not to offend.

  “If you don't believe me, Lord Sword, ask someone,” Thinking Quick said, grinning.

  Seeking Sword had heard a few stories about Purring Tiger's predilection for knifing men who smiled at her. The young man scoffed. “I refuse to ask anyone such a silly question!”

  “You! Lord Parrot!” Thinking Quick called to someone approaching.

  A middle-aged warrior waved from the south bound side of the road. Bowing as he came abreast, he joined them on the north-bound side briefly. “Eh, Lady Quick? How's your father?”

  “Same old grouch, Lord Parrot. This is Seeking Sword, Lord.” The two men exchanged greetings. Nods sufficed for obeisances on the packed path. “What happened, Lord Parrot, the last time someone called the Lady Tiger beautiful?”

  The older man laughed. “Eh, Lady Quick? I don't know. I do know what happened when my son said to her, 'Your hair is like flowing midnight.' She shoved her sword into his brain from under his chin.”

  “Why did she do that?” Seeking Sword asked ingenuously.

  “Eh, Lord Sword? She said later she didn't want to stain the rug in the Lair.”

  “No, no, I meant, 'Why did she kill him, Lord Parrot?' ”

  “Eh, Lord Sword? Why did she kill all those other men? If you don't know and I don't know, then only the Infinite knows—or perhaps Purring Tiger.” The man bent and whispered into the girl's ear. “I thought your friends were a little smarter than this one, eh Lady Quick?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “You don't hate her for killing your son, Lord Parrot?”

  “Eh, Lord Sword? She's done it so many times before that if my son in his Infinite-bestowed stupidity wished to die on her blade then that was his affair, not mine.”

  “Thank you, Lord Parrot,” Thinking Quick said. “My friend was curious.”

  “Eh, Lady Quick? He's the one she smiled at today, eh?”

  “That's him, Lord.”

  “Eh, Lord Sword, the Infinite has already blessed you—twice today! So I won't. Farewell, Lord Sword, Lady Quick.” Squawking Parrot—squawking every time he began to speak—nodded to them both and stepped into the throng moving southward.

  The ravine grew narrower as it approached the crossroads. The dust and crowding increased. Two outcrops defined the end of the ravine. Atop each outcrop, the Tiger Raiders had built a tall tower, each manned by a hundred bandits. Arrow slits cut the walls, and jagged battlements crowned them. Automatically, from long training, Seeking Sword assessed their strategic value, seeing how well they straddled the main access to the Tiger Fortress.

  Looking down from the battlements, guards noticed his assessing.

  Dropping his gaze to the backs of the travelers ahead, Seeking Sword wondered for the thousandth time at how quickly rumor spread. Squawking Parrot had already known that Purring Tiger had smiled at him twice not an hour before. The young man thought what a blessing even a single psychic talent would be. Not having one, he often wondered at his lack.

  Still, he found it difficult to reconcile what he had heard about the bandit general's daughter and heiress against what he had seen with his own eyes. Every time he had interacted with her, Purring Tiger had been a demure young lady. He realized too that he had had limited contact with her, their interactions nothing beyond what was polite. I haven't seen anything to indicate she's a violent woman with a passion for sticking her knife in men, Seeking Sword thought. Not today, and not on the hunt ten months ago when I first met Scowling Tiger.

  He and Thinking Quick pressed through the chaos of the crossroads and onto the least used of the four roads, the north one. “Now we can put some path behind us, eh?” the girl said, leaping forward with long, ground-eating strides.

  Nodding, Seeking Sword settled into a casual lope and soon caught up with her. As usual with travel, his mind began to wander among memories, and he recalled the hunt, and remembered it well, having lost his innocence.

  * * *

  Hunting alone, as usual, Seeking Sword followed a game trail, hoping to pick up a fresh spoor and his evening meal. His skin pale under the late-winter sun, he had tucked his bronze hair neatly beneath his cap to conceal the scintillating strands. The boy followed the trail to a small clearing surrounded by manzanita bushes, the forest floor littered with their aromatic leaves.

  He felt more than heard the thunder of hooves.

  Crouching, he waited. Soon the sounds became audible, coming at him from across ten paces of flat ground between him and a tall, thick stand of manzanita. Not able to see
over the bushes, he mentally tracked what sounded like a huge quadruped—perhaps a moose. He felt the ground shake beneath him. The thrash of brush alarmed him as well, the animal so panicked it created its own path through the forest. His fear grew when he realized that the direction whence the sound was coming hadn't changed. The beast was coming straight at him!

  By then he knew it too late to seek cover.

  The rack and head of the moose appeared above the manzanita. The beast plunged through. In one swift motion, Seeking Sword notched an arrow and let fly, throwing himself as far as he could from the path of the behemoth.

  The hooves missed him by inches, shaking the ground like an earthquake. The moose plowed headlong into a pine tree and died. With the sharp crack of wood splitting lengthwise, the tree groaned mightily, as if bewailing its fate. Then it wavered, twisted and fell, crashing into undergrowth.

  In the silence, Seeking Sword pushed himself to one knee, dizzy. After a moment, he felt steady enough to gain his feet. He stepped toward the moose. The large, foot-wide hooves still shook, the last tremors of death upon the beast. Tangled in one hoof was his bow—now twisted, splintered and useless.

  A single bird ventured to sing.

  The proportions of the moose awed him. At the shoulders it was almost as wide as he was tall. The rack of antler, one half laying along the ground, the other pointing at the sky, was twice as tall as he. He took off his cap and wiped his brow.

  A squirrel chattered, the forest coming back to life.

  Voices floated from the wake of the moose. Turning, he found a full-grown tiger staring at him.

  Regretting that he no longer had a bow, Seeking Sword stepped away from the moose. The cat just wants to feed, he thought.

  The tiger growled and moved to cut off his escape.

  Odd, he thought, and began to draw his sword.

  The cat lifted a paw and showed him its claws, each as long as a knife.

  Sliding the blade back in the sheath, Seeking Sword on a whim sat down.

  The tiger eased itself to its belly, purring.

  “So,” he said. “How long until your mistress gets here?”

  The big, striped tail thumped three times.

  Laughing, Seeking Sword relaxed, knowing now the tiger was tame. He needed only to wait for the arrival of Purring Tiger, probably her father Scowling Tiger, and certainly the passel of retainers and servants without whom neither bandit traveled.

  The first to appear was Raging River. Laying eyes on Seeking Sword, the old retainer drew his sword and rushed toward him, screaming, “Traitor!”

  The tiger spun and reared, disarmed Raging River with one paw and knocked him to the ground with the other, stopping his charge. Pinning him, the tiger roared to deafen.

  Laughter followed the roar. Scowling Tiger pushed through the manzanita, guffawing at the sight of his vassal helpless beneath the tiger's paws. Then his laughter ended abruptly. He stared straight at Seeking Sword.

  Suddenly, Scowling Tiger and Raging River both twisted in agony. The tiger sped away, as if fleeing from a larger predator.

  “You stupid, muck-eating bandits!” came a curse in the voice of a girl. “He kills where neither of you could and all you want to do is take his head for it!” The girl suddenly appeared a foot in front of Scowling Tiger. Brown of hair and skin, she planted her fists on her hips in defiance. “Is that how you reward someone?”

  “Get out of my head, little witch!” Scowling Tiger groaned, his hands to his head in pain.

  “Promise me you won't kill him!” the girl demanded.

  Behind her, another girl appeared, her black hair pulled tightly back into a braid.

  Purring Tiger, Seeking Sword guessed. Who's the girl tormenting Scowling Tiger? he wondered.

  “I promise but you'll have the Infinite to pay for this!” the bandit general gasped, his eyes a squint.

  “I'll gladly refund your misery,” the girl said, turning.

  Scowling Tiger and Raging River both pulled their hands away from their heads, blinking and wiping at their eyes.

  “Infinite be with you, Seeking Sword. I'm Thinking Quick. You've probably guessed everyone else's name.”

  Standing, the young man tried to make his voice work. He cleared his throat and nearly gagged. “Infinite be with you, Lady Quick,” he said, his voice still thick and slow with fear. “The blessings of the Infinite upon you, Lord General Tiger. Forgive me for ending your hunt so abruptly. I had to kill or the moose would've trampled me. Allow me to offer the humble carcass of this moose, Lord, as a token of my regret.” Dropping to one knee, Seeking Sword lowered his head nearly to the dust.

  “Not to worry, Lord Sword,” Scowling Tiger said genially. “As the Lady Quick said, the moose got away from us. How many arrows did you have to put in him, eh?”

  “I wasn't able to launch but one, Lord,” Seeking Sword replied.

  “What? You brought this majestic beast to its end with one? I'd like to see where you put that arrow.” The bandit general looked up at the puny, twisted, splintered bow hanging precariously from a hoof far above their heads. “May I examine the corpse, Lord Sword?”

  Other members of the hunting party began to arrive: warriors, baggers, thrashers, cooks—and of course many, many servants.

  “Since it's yours, of course, Lord Tiger. I'd never kill an animal so large. There's far too much meat for me to eat.” Gesturing the older man over, Seeking Sword stepped around to the head, backing up to the splintered tree trunk. Feeling carefully, he parted the wiry mane just below the base of the skull, using his fingers to see. Deep in the thick hair, a half-inch of arrowhead protruded.

  “Infinite blast me, severed the spinal cord,” Scowling Tiger murmured. “Where did the arrow enter?”

  The boy shook his head, feeling through the beast's rough beard.

  “I see no injury at all with my talent.” Scowling Tiger gestured him aside to examine the corpse himself.

  “Oh, Lord?” Seeking Sword said, slowly concluding—

  “You shot him in the mouth, Lord Sword!” Thinking Quick said.

  Scowling Tiger's eyes went wide. “Show us what happened.”

  Seeking Sword walked over to where he had crouched and narrated events.

  “You had the bow in hand when you saw the beast?”

  “Yes, Lord Tiger. I was ready, having heard it approach.” He lied, deciding not to say his bow had been on his back.

  “I want to see you shoot,” Scowling Tiger said. “That's your bow?” he asked, pointing upward. At Seeking Sword's nod, the bandit general turned. “Raging River, give him your bow!”

  “Lord Tiger, I humbly ask permission to keep all my weapons that I may guard you better.” Having retrieved his sword, he now carried it loose in his hands and twisted it slowly.

  Scowling Tiger cast a baleful look at his vassal.

  “Please give me permission to kill this boy despite the cretin's demand!”

  “You will obey and give him your bow!”

  “No, Lord Tiger,” Raging River said. “I'd rather fall on my knife.” The gray-haired bandit knelt, unsheathing a blade.

  “Stop him,” Scowling Tiger said calmly.

  “Yes, Lord.” Thinking Quick extended a hand. Raging River froze, immobilized by her talent.

  “Keep him that way until he learns his error.”

  “With pleasure, Lord,” Thinking Quick said, grinning.

  “Lord Blade,” Scowling Tiger barked. A brown-haired man approached, his hand smoking. “You're in command until the Lord River comes to his senses. We'll camp here tonight. Get the Lord Sword a bow—and put out your hand, by the Infinite!”

  “Yes, Lord Tiger,” the man said, turning. He extended his smoking hand toward the unlit wood in the firepit. Flames leaped from the hand, setting the wood alight. Dropping the hand to his side, he began to issue orders. The hand appeared normal, not burned, not smoking, the hair not even a singed.

  A servant brought Seeking Sword a bow. He
tested the strength and resiliency of the wood, unstrung it and restrung it, checking the rawhide thong for imperfections. It wouldn't betray him while he used it. “It's a fine bow, Lord Tiger. How about that tree there, with the split in the bark?”

  Stepping up beside him, Scowling Tiger sighted along his own bow, his outstretched left arm as still as stone. “A good target, Lord Sword, I'd guess three hundred thirty feet away, eh? The bow's yours.”

  “Your giving it to me is an honor, Lord Tiger. I wish only to borrow it, as I have others at home.” The weapon was far better than the one he had lost to the hooves of the moose. Despite having none at home, he felt obligated already to the bandit general and wished to incur no further debt. “How many can you launch before the first one strikes the target, Lord Tiger?”

  His black hair salted with gray, the bandit knelt on one knee, the other foot extended in front for balance. “Seven, young Lord,” he said.

  His stance opposite because of his left-handedness, Seeking Sword aped him and chose a smooth spot on the trunk. His senses slowed. He saw nothing but that spot. His left hand reached back of itself. The arrow slid smoothly from quiver. Between fore and middle finger rested the slot. The shaft sank slowly toward the bow hand. The slot slid onto string. The left hand began the pull. At his ear stopped the hand. A feather brushed the adolescent down on his cheek. He measured the wind. He adjusted his aim.

  Then, in a reversal of perception, as though in dream, the target rushed toward the line of arrows. As if a woodpecker had started feeding, an even percussion of eight straight beats rattled off. Following a pause, seven more arrows struck.

  A loud cheer went up from the members of the hunting party behind the two.

  Entranced, Seeking Sword didn't move. This harmony of spirit, this simplicity of thought and perception, this being one with the elements, was a state to cherished. It was a communion with the Infinite.

  Scowling Tiger was immobile also.

  Activity in the camp became subdued, most waiting to see what they would do.

  A few minutes later, an eternity having passed, Seeking Sword lay down his bow, moving with the speed of a sloth. Sitting back on his haunches, he looked around, noticing the luxuriant green of wild grasses, the piquant smell of pine pitch and the soothing sound of singing starlings. Picking up the bow, he examined it. Nothing had ever transported him in such a way.