The Heir (Fall of the Swords Book 3)

by Scott Michael Decker

  Between him and Chameleon was a space where another cot had been. In the space stood a small man with iron-gray hair, his sword ready in his hands, one of them strangling the hilt.

  “Yes, Lord. May I ask your name?” Chameleon said, thinking he should recognize the man. (I do! Flaming Arrow thought.)

  “I'm Scowling Tiger.” The bandit general turned his head, as if straining to hear something inaudible.

  “Yes, of course, I thought I knew your name, Lord General Tiger.”

  “I don't believe we've met, Lord.”

  “I doubt we have. Everyone knows who you are, Lord General.”

  “Thank you, Lord Chameleon. I'm glad to hear that my name is recognized.”

  “I want to thank you, Lord, for all you've done for me. I'm not worthy of all this personal attention.” Chameleon gestured at the two medacors.

  “You'll discharge that obligation when the time comes, Lord Chameleon. Are you fit? Have you rested enough? It's dawn now. At noon, I want you to dine with me. Only if you feel sufficiently recovered, eh?”

  Chameleon nodded. (The stupid bandit has invited me for the noon meal! Flaming Arrow thought, excited.) “I'll be fit, Lord General. It would be an honor to dine with you. It's far more than I deserve, Lord.”

  “Yes, it is,” Scowling Tiger said bluntly, genially. “You'll deserve it eventually.” The bandit general rose.

  Chameleon lowered his head, ashamed he couldn't make a proper obeisance.

  Nodding to acknowledge, Scowling Tiger turned and walked off. The smaller gray-haired man led the way, sword still loose in his hands.

  “You'll need to eat now, Lord Chameleon,” Easing Comfort said, stepping forward. “You should try your legs. The Captain who brought you here said you limped. I found a torn tendon behind your right knee. I repaired it, of course, but the leg will be stiff and sore.”

  Chameleon struggled to sit up. “How can that be, Lord Medacor? My talent keeps the talents of others from working.”

  “Oh? All your wounds healed right away, Lord. Then I teleported nutrients directly into your bloodstream. I had no difficulty doing either.”

  Frowning, Chameleon looked at the floor, his face hot.

  Thinking Quick brought food, the portions much larger.

  “Can you eat, Lord?” Easing Comfort asked.

  “I'll try, Lord Medacor. Thank you, Little Lady,” he said to the girl, smiling without happiness.

  “If you need to sleep again, don't worry, Lord Chameleon,” Easing Comfort said. “We'll awaken you soon enough so you can bathe and groom yourself properly.”

  “Thank you, Lord Comfort.”

  The medacor nodded to the other's obeisance, and gestured the girl to come with him as he strode away. Meekly, Thinking Quick followed, glancing back and smiling.

  While eating, Chameleon ruminated on the unbelievable—that for the first time in his life someone's talent had worked on him. The effects were benign, the boy thought. Does this mean I'm also vulnerable to psychic attack? Chameleon didn't know, but did need to find out eventually. (Flaming Arrow didn't know, needing to find out urgently. He considered, then abandoned, the idea of finding out immediately. He decided) to emerge.

  All his life, it seemed (the life you stole from me? Chameleon asked, indignant the other had confined him again), he had been the subject of study and speculation. The most learned scholars in all three Empires had made the journey to see him. An enigma, an anomaly, an archetype they had called him, names he hated but tolerated because secretly he wanted to be like everyone else. To be the Heir ostracized him. To be a psychic freak as well cast him out from the outcasts, a bird wanting wing in a flock not needing leg.

  Oh to be simply a man!

  (You have a penis! What more do you need?)

  Flaming Arrow's pain poured down his face while he ate, the chicken and vegetables flavorful and satisfying but unnoticed even so.

  He tossed the wing bone onto the plate with the other scraps. Remembering Thinking Quick's apt appellation, Flaming Arrow cried, “The bastard!” Not often did he acknowledge the fact. His father was a sterile cuckold. Someone else had impregnated his mother, Flowering Pine. Only the fervent wish to have an Heir kept the citizens of the Empire from denouncing their own Emperor and the bastard whelp of his Consort.

  Sharing complicity with them all, Flaming Arrow was part of the conspiracy. He had never sought his real father, wanting the lie to be true, wanting to be the son of Flying Arrow.

  Oh, how Flaming Arrow wished he could slit his belly and end all pain!

  Guarding Bear's words rang in his mind: “To rule, you have to be where you want not, do what you detest, say other than you think. Mostly, you have to endure an infinite loneliness.”

  Strange how the General had forgotten to mention pain.

  In the enemy lair, not a single friend within miles, the Heir Flaming Arrow wept.

  Chapter 14

  The imprint of the Imperial Sword keeps the prefrontal lobes of the Emperor's brain from developing new dendritic branches. The slow accumulation of fibrous astrocytes and the detritus from degenerating neurons retards mitochondrial conversion of glucose into adenosine triphosphate (ATP). Without the energy supplied by ATP, the neurons fire less rapidly, decreasing the Emperor's ability to modulate socially unacceptable behavior and to construct coherent plans, ultimately disabling an Emperor's ability to provide even for his own self care.—The Best and Worst of Talismans: The Imperial Swords, by the Sorcerer Flowing Mind.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, you don't know where he is?” Flying Arrow shouted, detesting his own lack of control, and not understanding it.

  “He left seven days ago to infiltrate the fortress, Lord Emperor,” Aged Oak replied. “We've heard nothing since.”

  “How could you let him take such a risk?!”

  “How could I stop him, Lord Emperor? We both know how implacable he is.” Aged Oak glanced among the group Flying Arrow had summoned. “The Lord Heir is more 'man' than any Easterner I know!”

  Flying Arrow glowered at the Commanding General, knowing him right and knowing his son uncomfortably formidable. By being courageous, Flaming Arrow had put his head into the jaws of the tiger. Soon now the Emperor expected to hear of his son's death. Flying Arrow thanked the Infinite for the foresight to separate the twins at birth. I should summon Lofty Lion now, he thought, and not wait until the bandits kill Flaming Arrow. “If he survives, Lord General, please inform him that he has met his manhood ritual requirements.”

  “Happily, Lord Emperor,” Aged Oak replied, “but that's like telling the wind to stop blowing or the tide to stop turning.”

  The dialect of Cove, the fishing port on the east coast of the Empire, always betrayed the Commanding General of the Eastern Armed Forces as a muckraking fin-puller from the provinces. “What are you saying, Lord General?” the Emperor asked. He'll always be a fin-puller, Flying Arrow thought, not accustomed to the speech.

  “Isn't it obvious, Lord Emperor?” Aged Oak replied. “You tell him to take the heads of five bandits, and he wants to assassinate five bandit leaders. The Lord Heir expects far more of himself than anyone would think to ask. When I tell him he has done enough, he'll say he has just begun.”

  Flying Arrow glowered at Aged Oak, then sighed. “What do you think, Lord Bear?”

  Gray and subdued, Guarding Bear lifted his vacant gaze from the floor. Deep in his eyes was a spark of life now. All his responses were slow with lassitude. Since the day Flaming Arrow had pulled him from the pyre, Guarding Bear had cooperated fully with every request, but had initiated nothing. I wonder why grief hasn't killed him, Flying Arrow thought.

  “Assassinate five, Lord,” Guarding Bear said dreamily. He had taken to calling everyone “Lord,” whether man, woman, servant or Emperor.

  “You, Lady Water?” Flying Arrow asked, shaking his head.

  “I just don't know, Lord Emperor,” Rippling Water said. “What he's done isn't like the ca
utious Flaming Arrow I know. He's different, Lord.”

  “I agree, Lady Water. He has changed. You, Lord Hand?”

  Since Soothing Spirit was treating a ruptured prostate, Healing Hand had come in his stead. “Lord Emperor, the Lord Heir will do whatever he can to kill the most bandits.”

  “You, Lord Eagle?”

  Since a ruptured prostate had prostrated Exploding Illusion, Spying Eagle had come in his stead. “I agree with the Lord Bear, Lord Emperor, except that if convenient, the Lord Heir will assassinate six or seven.”

  “I guess we all agree that telling him anything is pointless.” Flying Arrow looked down at his foot, not seeing it. “Stubborn bastard,” he muttered. “Always opposing me. Always. Can't get him to do anything against his principles and can't stop him from doing anything he decides to do. Good for a man to stick by his sword. Good, yes, always did so myself. Stick by my sword. Stick my sword in anyone opposed, or in any maiden around. Like sticking my sword in maidens. Have to be maidens, though…”

  * * *

  As the Emperor rambled aimlessly, the others in the eastern audience hall looked amongst themselves, wondering if Flying Arrow would return to the present. The soliloquies had increased in frequency during the last ten years. Having examined the Emperor on many occasions, Spying Eagle knew exactly what the problem was. Knowing the problem didn't mean correcting it. The Imperial Sword stopped all cures. Spying Eagle could only relieve the symptoms. The Emperor Flying Arrow was incurable.

  Finally, Aged Oak ventured, “Uh, Lord Emperor, we were discussing the Heir.”

  “Eh? What?” He looked around, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “The Heir, Lord Emperor. We were discussing the Heir.”

  “Oh, yes,” Flying Arrow muttered. “So he'll do what he'll do. How long until you launch those attacks, Lord General?”

  “Four days, Lord Emperor.” Aged Oak breathed a sigh.

  “What are the tallies so far?”

  “Lord Emperor, we've lost about—”

  “I want bandit losses!” Flying Arrow raged. “I don't care what ours are!”

  “Yes, Lord Emperor,” Aged Oak said, frowning. “The Eastern Armed Forces have killed fourteen thousand bandits.”

  Flying Arrow nodded, looking pleased. “How many warriors will you need for these attacks?”

  Aged Oak looked around the audience hall, as if for spies. Frowning at the two obsidian statues at the forward corners of the dais, he said, “Ten thousand, Lord Emperor.”

  “There must be fifteen thousand bandits guarding those facilities!”

  “There were,” Aged Oak said tersely.

  “What do you mean? What happened to them?”

  “Lord Emperor, if you were guarding one of those facilities, and it looked as if the Heir might assassinate your liege lord, would you stay there or rejoin your band to defend your leader?”

  * * *

  Guarding Bear burst out laughing and pointed toward an empty corner of the audience hall. They all smiled indulgently, thinking him mad, except Rippling Water. Grief tore into her heart.

  Abruptly, he stopped and was as still as before, his stare vacant.

  Rippling Water spoke, her face a mask. “The Lord Colonel Rolling Bear agreed just yesterday to assume the Patriarchate, Lord Emperor, once it comes out of receivership, that is.”

  “Not his, Lord!” Guarding Bear roared, leaning toward her.

  She cringed, her face filling with grief.

  The retired General grinned insanely at his daughter and meekly said, “Check testament, Lord.” Then he returned his gaze to the empty corner of the audience hall.

  Rippling Water struggled to contain her grief. Spying Eagle touched her arm and helped settle her emotions with his talent. Grateful, she smiled at him.

  “Did you check your father's will?” Aged Oak asked quietly.

  “He's not dead!” she protested.

  “The law reads, 'Dead or otherwise indisposed,' Lady Water.”

  “I didn't know, Lord General. Thank you for telling me.” Regretting she hadn't looked into it, she looked at her lap, ashamed her father was little more than a child. The greatest General in all the reigns of the seven Emperors Arrow is now an idiot. I wonder if we can dispatch Father honorably and mercifully.

  * * *

  Flying Arrow watched the exchange with the cynicism of experience. That wily General is playing us all for fools. Behind that facade of imbecility, Guarding Bear still plots and connives to usurp the throne as he has since fighting his way from the Caven Hills. How can I invite my dear Lord Uncle to join the Infinite? Flying Arrow wondered. With a frown he turned his attention to Aged Oak. “What were you saying, Lord General?”

  “The question, Lord Emperor, was whether the bandits guarding the Council facilities would remain at their posts or rejoin their bands.”

  “Why do you ask me? I don't know! The Lord Colonel Gaze is the bandit expert. Why isn't he here?”

  “His presence here would violate the customs of the ritual, Lord Emperor. Collusion, eh?” Aged Oak's voice was calm. “However, I did ask the Lord General Scratching Wolf to come. He's as much an expert on bandits as the Lord Colonel.”

  “Send him in,” Flying Arrow ordered.

  The aged personal servant appeared at the double doors. “The Lord General Scratching Wolf.”

  Gray at the temples and webs of lines at the corners of his eyes, Scratching Wolf approached the dais, staring straight ahead. At twenty paces, he knelt and bowed.

  “Infinite be with you, Lord General,” Flying Arrow said, nodding.

  Straightening, Scratching Wolf settled back on his haunches. “How may this humble warrior serve the Lord Emperor Arrow?”

  “Repeat the question, Lord Oak.”

  As Aged Oak did so, the General Wolf scratched his armpit, listening to his immediate superior. “I think I can give a general answer to that question, Lord Emperor,” Scratching Wolf said. “I can only speculate about the details, though. Would the Lord Emperor Arrow like this humble warrior to continue?”

  “Please, Lord General.”

  “The Bandit Council, Lord Emperor, exists on the sufferance of all bandits. The individual guards are at the various installations by the direct order of their liege lords, and not by that of the Council itself.

  “Since the Eastern Armed Forces have already annihilated two of the five largest bands, two-fifths of all guards have become masterless, freed of their pledges to their liege lords and by extension to the Bandit Council. In addition, the other three-fifths face a quandary—stay and perhaps learn afterward that their leaders are dead, or return to their bands to defend their liege lords. In this question, we must consider time. Has enough time passed for a leader to have contacted his vassals? If so, what did the leader say?”

  The General Wolf scratched his ear. “Let us estimate conservatively, Lord Emperor. Instead of two-fifths, we'll say one fifth have left their posts. First, two fifths is misrepresentative. Second, some masterless bandits will join another band or continue to guard that particular facility. One-fifth, then, leave their posts because they're masterless.

  “Of the four-fifths left then, how will an individual respond to the quandary? Maintaining our conservative thinking, we can assume that another fifth will decide to abandon the installations to protect their liege lords.

  “Three-fifths remain at their posts.” The General smiled, scratching his forearm. “Seven days have now passed since the last attack. All bandits know the nature of the threat. All the leaders want more than anything merely to survive. To insure they do, they recall vassals stationed elsewhere. They leave the Council facilities to fate because, they reason, 'If I don't survive and if my band doesn't survive, what good can the Council do my band then?' Conservatively, I'd say that only one band will recall its warriors. That, Lord Emperor, would leave two-fifths still on guard.”

  “Thank you, Lord General, for the dissertation,” Flying Arrow said, looking annoyed.
“Two-fifths of fifteen thousand is still six thousand bandits!”

  Aged Oak leaned forward. “Lord Emperor, I'd like to point out how extremely conservative this estimate is. First, dividing the bandits into fifths is only a convenience, and not meant to be precise. The Bandit Council has thirty member bands that share some responsibility for guarding the installations. Second, spies among the bandits report that half the leaders have recalled their vassals. The only exception among the five largest bands is Scowling Tiger.”

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” Guarding Bear shouted.

  Aged Oak continued as if the demented General hadn't interrupted. “Therefore, Lord Emperor, the actual number will be far below our estimate. Third, we must remember how many installations there are. The Bandit Council has ten facilities—ten! Lord Emperor—to guard. Even with our estimate, we can expect a measly six hundred bandits at each.”

  Flying Arrow sat back in relief.

  “Hack! Hack! Hack!” Guarding Bear shouted.

  Everyone laughed this time, sharing the General's sentiment.

  “Lord General Oak,” Flying Arrow said, “you have free rein in the northern lands. All I ask is extermination.”

  “Yes, Lord!” Aged Oak bowed deeply, his chest puffing up like a balloon. “Would the Lord Emperor Arrow consider a humble request?”

  “I'll consider a request, Lord General, yes.”

  “Actually, Lord Emperor, I have three. One, allow me to direct operations myself?”

  “Lead our warriors yourself? Why not, Lord General? The Empire has no better tactician than you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Emperor. Two, allow me to take the Lords Hand and Eagle?”

  “They were most effective on the fortress sixteen years ago. Yes.”

  “Thank you, Lord Emperor. Three, allow me to take the Lord General Guarding Bear.”

  Flying Arrow glanced at the old, wily General with the white, wiry hair. Guarding Bear's face didn't even flicker with interest. “Explain what good it would do, Lord Oak,” the Emperor asked.