Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  Cyrodian stared into Nutatharis’s dark eyes. “Kill him?” His voice was guttural, almost choked—a sound that Cyrodian immediately regretted having made. He hurriedly coughed to camouflage its meaning and continued: “When, Nutatharis?”

  Murder him? he thought. Murder a man who cannot die…?

  The long blade had disappeared halfway into Eromedeus’s body. Cyrodian had felt the mild resistance of organs against steel, felt the sharp edge scrape the spine; yet as he withdrew it, there was no sign of any blood upon the shining metal, and on Eromedeus’s person, there had been only clothing sliced and torn.

  No blood.

  “He cannot die!” the sobbing General Kustos had whispered from the bed. “Cyrodian! He cannot die! He can die only if…another gives up his life!”

  And Eromedeus had laughed cruelly, the wind of his mockery moving the flames of the oil lamps in Kustos’s death chamber

  Murder a man who cannot die…?

  “What’s the matter with you?” Nutatharis asked sharply. “Cyrodian!”

  He was surprised by the giant’s sudden movement. Cyrodian kicked back his chair and rose to his full height. His great shadow, rippling like a thrown blanket, fell upon the long table.

  He snarled.

  Nutatharis stood, as well.

  “Now?” the Athadian rumbled at him.

  Nutatharis laughed openly. “You know where he is, my friend. Dispatch the matter and return. We’ll open more wine and discuss our new strategy for the Low Provinces.”

  Cyrodian, breathing heavily, did not answer but remained standing, thoughts moving behind his eyes, his right hand on his sword pommel.

  “Prince Cyrodian?”

  With an abruptness the king had seldom seen in a man the size of the Athadian giant, Cyrodian slid around the table and lunged for the door, his boot steps a thunder on the stone flags. In a moment he was gone, the wind of his exit flickering the lit candles on the table, the doors left open and creaking gently on their rusty hinges.

  Troubled by this strange behavior, Nutatharis sat again, replenished his cup, and rubbed his forehead. He reached inside his vest and withdrew the latest missive he had received from King Elad.

  Nutatharis had burned the previous two, and he had not yet answered this one. But now, in the wake of Cyrodian’s resplendently odd behavior, he wondered if he didn’t have two madmen in his house. The Athadian had always seemed to be in full possession of himself—perhaps too much so, Nutatharis now realized. Strong men, self-disciplined, often become bowstrings drawn too taut, too apt to snap.…

  Elad’s offer began to seem more appealing. What sort of man, after all, would indeed slay his brother, and perhaps his own mother?

  Gold? More lucrative trade agreements? Weapons? Elad offered Nutatharis his choice of these or any other practical benefits (short of complete international cooperation, of course).

  Nutatharis listened to the creaking door. He stared at a candle on his table and at the words King Elad had sent him. Carefully, he refolded the letter.

  He did not touch it to the flame but replaced it inside his vest.

  * * * *

  It was a human storm that burst into the room.

  Eromedeus, startled, sitting at a table, rose to his feet and dropped back.

  Cyrodian paused halfway across the chamber; he swayed on powerful legs, his body bent in a posture of aggression.

  Eromedeus demanded, “What do you want?”

  The giant stared at this slim man dressed in a robe, weaponless, looking as ineffectual and purposeless as any middle-aged courtier. His table was yellow with papers, with pens and gourds of colored ink, crystal spheres used for magical things, small bowls filled with powders. But there was no one else in the room—no moaning virgins being bled dry, no screaming babies being burnt alive.…

  Cyrodian pulled his heavy sword from the sheath at his side. He held it out before him; it caught the orange glow of the hanging oil lamps and the open hearth behind Eromedeus. It shimmered like a hot brand.

  “You can die,” the giant said. “I know you can, Eromedeus. You tricked me before.”

  “General Cyrodian, don’t do this!”

  “You’re filth! You killed Kustos! You’re a ghost! A vampire! Is that it? Look at me! Something kills you, Eromedeus.”

  Eromedeus nodded. “Nutatharis…has finally learned, has he?”

  “Nutatharis,” Cyrodian said, “doesn’t know a thing! But you’re not doing to me what you did to Kustos!”

  “Stop! Do not!”

  But Cyrodian charged him. Eromedeus drew away and almost stepped into the fire in the wall behind him. The long littered table was between them; Cyrodian lurched to move around it but then, in a truculent show of strength, grasped the edge of the oak table with his left hand and lifted it. He grunted. Sweat shot from his forehead and neck; the seams of his leather vest began to rip. The table shook and trembled as the giant let out a howl of wrath—

  “Vampire!”

  —lifted the table completely off the floor and mightily pushed it away. It tilted precariously for a moment before tipping over and crashing to the flagstones with shuddering impact and a hurricane of noise and dust.

  “Now, Eromedeus!”

  Eromedeus stepped away from the hearth; and as the black dust cleared, his deep-set eyes glowed, burned. From his mouth came a sinister hiss.

  Cyrodian charged him, sword up. Eromedeus made no move to escape, and again Prince Cyrodian’s sword sank into the courtier’s body. As Cyrodian shoved it in, he stared into Eromedeus’s brilliant eyes, and a chill blossomed within him.

  “Demon!”

  He pushed his sword in hilt deep, so that the crosspiece sank under Eromedeus’s ribs; the point scraped the hot wall-stones behind the sorcerer.

  No blood.…

  Eromedeus whispered, “Fool,” and showed his teeth.

  Cyrodian jerked the sword back and forth so that it might rend a gaping crater of a wound in Eromedeus’s belly. Yet it was as though he had sunk his steel into a figure of clay.

  “Damn it, die!”

  “I cannot die,” the immortal said to him. “I have lived forever. Don’t you think whole armies have tried to slay me, and failed?”

  A low groan in Cyrodian’s throat erupted as a howl. Holding onto his sword, he threw himself back, staggered, regained his balance, waved his arms, wiped hair out of his face and stared—

  “What are you that you cannot…die?”

  Eromedeus hissed at him.

  Cyrodian grunted and moved forward again—slowly, this time, with his head turned partially aside, as a fearful dog does when barking at intruders. He lifted his sword—but then dropped it to the floor.

  “With my hands, then!” he yelled, jumping at Eromedeus.

  The sorcerer lifted his arms in a defensive stance. Cyrodian slapped them aside and gripped Eromedeus by his shoulders.

  “I’ll…break your back!” he grunted, “Throw you…into the—”

  “Prince Cyrodian!”

  Eromedeus’s gaze moved beyond the giant; Cyrodian held the monster where he was as he turned to look.

  “Cyrodian! Put him down!”

  Slowly the Athadian released the sorcerer, turned, and stared.

  King Nutatharis, dark and angry, stood framed by the stone doorway.

  “Did you see him?” the giant asked, his breathing heavy.

  Nutatharis told him, “I saw.”

  “Sorcery! Sorcery, here in your—”

  “Be quiet, Prince Cyrodian.” Nutatharis, keeping his eyes on Eromedeus, came into the chamber on noiseless feet. “Keep your voice down, or you’ll rouse the guards.”

  “Rouse them, then!” Cyrodian cried out. “Get them down here! You’d better—”

  “Cyrodian!” Nutatharis’s roar was sudden. And when the Athadian, gasping, sweating, had restrained himself: “Please, my friend. Get you upstairs. Leave us.”

  “You want to stay here,” Cyrodian asked, “with him?�
�

  “For a moment.”

  “You’re both—” But Cyrodian left it unsaid as he moved from the room, leaving a trail of echoes behind him in the corridor and up the stairwell.

  Nutatharis observed Eromedeus with the keenness of an inquiring naturalist.

  The sorcerer stood where he was.

  The king tapped his right foot lightly on the floor. “You,” he said coolly, “have much to explain to me, strange one. I am prepared to listen.”

  Eromedeus swallowed a full breath.

  “I am prepared to listen…now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She had walked all the way over to Himn Avenue this morning to do her shopping; she and Adred were in need of fresh fruit, cheap paper and writing ink, as well as sealing wax, and Rhia thought it best not to be seen too often on the east side of the city. She had taken the walkway over the Irol Viaduct and was surprised as she came into Himn Avenue to see crowds greater than usual for the middle of the week. At first she feared more riots. They had become spontaneous lately since the incident in the Oru Square—demonstrations, explosions of temper, and planned acts of violence by splinter groups of Suloskai, or groups calling themselves Suloskai or other names. Tension was high in Bessara; everyone was suspect; double patrols of city guards rode through the streets all night long and throughout day, and the curfew was enforced absolutely. Lord Uthis had not made a public appearance since that afternoon in Oru.

  Rhia entered Himn Avenue apprehensively. Caught in the crowds, she tried to ascertain what the commotion entailed, but people around her grunted only fragments of informa­tion—”the king’s declaration,” “the revolutionaries have only hurt themselves with this,” “perhaps Elad’s dead after all and they’re keeping it secret.” Yet no one seemed frightened. Rhia pushed her way toward the Oblut Exporting building, one wall of which was used for posting public notices. A solid crowd had gathered there. Rhia lifted her head to see what they were reading, but before she could catch a glimpse of anything, someone thrust a square of paper into her hands and moved on.

  Rhia looked to see who it was and noticed several young men—low-level city service recruits—working through the throng, distributing the handouts. She began to read the one given her—and gasped when she saw what it proclaimed:

  SULVO

  ad opo d. O Dovo.

  Kale Athadis im Porvo.

  Elad olios o. iv odo : 22 Grem d. iv ari 1879:

  anibu opodi ki.…

  ANNOUNCEMENT

  By Order of the Throne

  May Athadia Live Forever

  King Elad on this day, 22 Grem of the Year 1879, hereby commands that the following procedures be implemented at once by the Governors or Appointees of Acting-governor­ship of all Cities, Towns, Villages, and Districts within the Athadian Empire, as well as the Governors or Appointees of Acting-governorship of all Cities, Towns, Villages, and Districts within all Provinces or Territories maintained by the Imperial Atha­dian Throne:

  iru 1: Any person arrested on or after this date of 22 Grem 1879 is to be held in arrest by the authorities in whose jurisdiction the alleged perpetrator’s crime or crimes were committed, while all charges of Felonious or Seditious Acts against the Empire brought against these persons are to be held in suspension pursuant to further Edicts issued by the Imperial Throne;

  iru 2: Each Governor or Appointee of Acting-governor­ship in each City, Town, Village, and District within the Athadian Empire, as well as within all Provinces or Territories maintained by the Imperial Athadian Throne, will immediately appoint not less than seven but not more than twelve individuals to sit as a Committee, which Committee will follow the Rules and Guidelines as set forth in the Imperial Law Code Revised, Book Fourteen, Chapter Seven, Idri 5-12, to submit proposals for the institution of Workers’ Sirots, these Sirots or Business Advisory Committees to be—

  Stunned, Rhia nearly dropped the announcement.

  Sirots?

  —administered by Representatives chosen by the Masters and Supervisors of the Trade Guilds and other Public Assemblies recognized by the Throne, its Offi­cials and Sponsors—

  It was true!

  Slowly, as astonished as she was, Rhia rolled up the announce­ment, clutched it tightly, and began making her way out of the heavy crowd. All around her lifted spontaneous cheers, and roaring voices came in waves up and down Himn Avenue. Rhia heard the city guards calling for order, blowing their trumpets and loudly warning the collected crowds to move on once they had read the edict.

  —in accordance with the Guidelines of Imperial Advisory Statute Number Thirty-seven, Imperial Law Code Revised, Book Twelve—

  Breaking free, Rhia ran down the avenue, hurrying back toward the Irol Viaduct. She paused in an open area beside a fish stand to reread the notice.

  It was true.

  What could possibly have caused King Elad to agree to such a radical innovation?

  Perhaps he was, after all, dead, and this edict was only a ruse to—

  “Move along, move along!” cried one of the mounted patrol.

  His horse came close by, and Rhia, deep in thought, looked up at him quickly and stepped out of the way. She stared straight into the eyes of the officer in the saddle.

  “Is this true?” she asked him.

  “It’s true.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded this dark-haired woman carefully. “It’s true. Now move along.”

  Rhia rolled up the announcement once more and hurried to the viaduct.

  Behind her, the mounted guard waved a gloved hand to two other soldiers coming down Himn.

  * * * *

  “Adred!” she exclaimed, back in their apartment. “It’s a trick! It must be! What’s he doing?”

  “Give me— Please, let me—” He lay back on the bed, knees up, scrutinizing the notice.

  “We can’t even be sure that this came from Elad, can we? Uthis might be trying to—”

  “Rhia, please!”

  —while all charges…are to be held in suspension.…

  “It’s not a trick,” Adred told her, looking up. “Abgarthis assured me that Elad might make some kind of reform. Or begin to make reforms. He’s being so cautious with this that it seems unresolved. He’s left it in the hands of the guilds. This isn’t what we’re after at all.”

  “I don’t trust it.” Rhia shook her head. “Adred—I just don’t trust it.” She was at the window, looking out at the crowds on the streets. Now she walked to the bed and sat beside him. “I think it’s time you and I left Bessara. This is some sort of trick by Lord Uthis. I’m afraid.”

  “Even if it is, Rhia, as soon as Elad discovers it—”

  “But that’s what I mean! In the meantime, Uthis can start arresting everyone in sight, cut off as many heads as—” She stopped, not comfortable with what she had just said.

  But Adred disagreed. “This is official,” he insisted. “Look at it. It’s printed in blue ink; these marks imprinted in the paper can only come from the capital.”

  “I still don’t—”

  She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Giving a look to Adred: “Who’s coming by?”

  “No one.”

  Rhia continued to stare at him.

  “Rhia! It’s only Theïs or some of Mirhu’s friends! They’re as surprised by this as we are!”

  A heavy fist hammered again on the door.

  Adred nodded to her; Rhia stood, crossed the room, pulled open the door—and swore.

  Adred sat up and looked directly into the eyes of a sergeant of the city patrol.

  “Stay where you are!” He was a big man in government colors, with one gray glove resting on the sword at his hip. He moved past Rhia and walked to the center of the room. “Anyone else here?”

  Two more guards stepped in, one of them urging Rhia to stay where she was.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she nearly screamed. “You can’t come in here!”

  One of the recruits in the doorway tried to grab her arm;
Rhia shook him away and hurried to Adred, who moved from the bed and got to his feet.

  Adred said to the sergeant, “What’s this about?”

  “You’re under arrest for—”

  “Under arrest?” Adred exclaimed.

  “Under arrest!” the sergeant said strongly. “That’s the word for it, young man!”

  “Still think this is legal?” Rhia asked Adred.

  “Quiet!” the sergeant ordered her. “You are both under arrest on suspicion of seditious activity. You’re to come along quietly.”

  “You can’t arrest us!” Rhia told him, lifting her chin. She retrieved the public notice from the bed and waved it in his face. “You can’t! Elad has—”

  “Rhia!” Adred took hold of her shoulders. “They can arrest us! They just can’t—”

  “We can’t execute you,” the sergeant interrupted. “At least not until we receive word from the capital. Now come along. You’re rebels, and we can’t leave you free to walk the streets with lawful citizens.” He nodded to one of the recruits in the doorway. “Pri­vate.”

  The young man stepped up to Rhia. “Lift your arms above your head, please.”

  “I don’t have any weapons! If I did, I’d have used them by now!”

  The sergeant lent Adred a stern look, a warning to him to keep his woman under control.

  “Rhia, it’s a formality. Don’t resist.”

  But he said no more; and Rhia, defiant but cornered, raised her arms. The young private quickly, and somewhat self-consciously, ran his hands down her body and legs. He found the knife she wore strapped to her thigh and removed it. Then he told her, “Step this way, now.”

  The sergeant produced a pair of manacles from his belt. Rhia walked to him and put her hands behind her back; the sergeant locked her wrists together.

  Adred was weaponless; the private asked him to turn around, and he was manacled.

  “You’re an aristocrat, aren’t you?” the sergeant asked him as he led Adred and Rhia down the stairs of the apartment house.

  “Yes. How could you tell?”

  “I can tell. After a while…you can tell. Let me tell you something. I don’t like doing this. I don’t want to see any more blood and people screaming and everything else like what we saw. But I don’t understand why you get in this at all. Aristocrats.”