Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  He awoke with a start as the red-robed priestess moved out onto the terrace. “Is he dead?” he asked.

  “No. He will recover, I think.”

  “Then you found all the … eggs?”

  “I had help,” she said, seating herself alongside him. “His soul was being guarded, and power flowed from within him.”

  “Qin Chong,” Kysumu said softly.

  Ustarte glanced across at him. “I do not know the name of the spirit. I could not commune with him.”

  “It was Qin Chong,” said Kysumu. “In legend he is named as the first of the Rajnee. He appeared to Yu Yu in the ruins. But not to me,” he added wistfully.

  “Nor me,” she said. “What can you tell me of him?”

  “Very little. His deeds are lost among fables, oral tales expanded upon or invented. Depending on which story you read, he fought dragons, evil gods, giant worms beneath the earth. He had a sword of fire called Pien’chi, and he was known as the Potter.”

  “Do the legends say how he died?”

  “Yes, in a dozen different ways: by fire, by sword, dragged down into the sea. One story has him walking down into the underworld to rescue his love and never returning. Another even has him sprouting wings and soaring to the heavens. One has the gods appearing at his death and turning him into a mountain to watch over his people.”

  Ustarte fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps Yu Yu can tell us more when he wakes.”

  “I would like to hear more about these Kraloth,” said Waylander. “What are they?”

  “They are meld hounds,” Ustarte told him. “Artificial creations born of dark magic. They are very powerful, and ordinary weapons cannot harm them …” She looked into his eyes and gave a wan smile. “… unless they pierce the skull or the upper neck. As you know, their bite brings a painful death. They are led by a Bezha—a houndmaster.”

  “I caught a glimpse of him,” said Kysumu, “but only the eyes.”

  “He would have been wearing the robe of night,” Ustarte told him. “It is true black and reflects no light. The eye therefore cannot see it.”

  “Why are they here?” asked Waylander.

  “They are the advance guard of two terrible enemies. My followers and I had hoped to prevent their coming. We failed.”

  “What enemies?” put in Kysumu.

  “Anharat’s demons and the sorcerers of Kuan Hador.”

  “I have read the legends of Anharat,” said Kysumu. “The Lord of Demons. I recall he was cast from the world after a war. I believe he had a brother who aided humankind.”

  “The brother was Emsharas,” said Ustarte, “and it is true that he sided with humanity. Great were the heroes who fought against Anharat. Mighty men, men of principle and courage. These were the men of Kuan Hador.”

  “I do not understand,” put in Kysumu. “If these men were heroes, why do we fear their return?”

  “Man never learns lessons from the past,” she said. “It is his curse. My people and I have been trying to discover some evidence of the Great War. What we have found is that there was not one war but two. The first—let us call it the Demon War—saw great horror and devastation. Only when Emsharas aided the humans did the tide begin to turn. But that aid carried within it the seeds of Kuan Hador’s downfall. In order to defeat the enemy, the rebel demon lord Emsharas gave the lords of Kuan Hador instruction in the most arcane secrets of meld magic. Warriors were enhanced, blended with the power of beasts: panthers, lions, wolves, and bears. And they won. Anharat’s demon legions were expelled from the world. Kuan Hador was mankind’s savior.”

  “How, then, did they become evil?” asked Kysumu.

  “By taking one small step at a time toward the dark,” she answered. “For a little while the world knew peace and tranquillity under the city’s benevolent rule. The people of Kuan Hador were proud of what they had achieved. Yet it had cost them greatly. They asked other nations to help bear that cost, and huge amounts of gold and silver were dispatched to the city. The following year they asked for more. Several nations refused. The proud lords of Kuan Hador decided that this refusal was an affront to the world’s saviors and sent their armies to plunder those nations. Kuan Hador had moved from benevolent rule to tyranny. They had saved mankind. Therefore—so they believed—they had earned the right to rule. Nations that rose against them were considered treacherous and were crushed mercilessly by the Kriaz-nor, the meld legions. This was the beginning of the second war, what is now termed the Great War. At first it was man against man. Kuan Hador was powerful, yet it was but a city-state and its resources were finite. By that time Emsharas was gone from the world, but his descendants aided the rebels. Slowly they began to force back the Kriaz-nor legions. In desperation the rulers of Kuan Hador allied themselves with Anharat, opening portals to allow his demon warriors to return to the world.” She fell silent and stood for a moment staring out over the bay.

  “Yet they were still defeated,” said Kysumu.

  “Yes, they were,” she said softly. “The rebels created their own legions—the Riaj-nor, men of noble hearts and great courage, wielding weapons of power. The Rajnee are the last embers of that fine order, and it seems, Kysumu, that of them all only you have been drawn here. Where there once were legions, there is now only a single warrior and a wounded laborer.” She sighed, then continued her tale. “The Great War ended here, the survivors of Kuan Hador retreating through a portal to another world. The city was destroyed by fire, and a sorcerer—or perhaps a group of sorcerers—laid powerful spells on the portal, sealing it against the return of the enemy. These spells have endured the passing of the centuries. Now they are fading. The gateway will soon open fully, allowing legions of Kriaz-nor to invade this land. At the moment it is merely flickering, and only a few can cross. The sorcerers who once protected it are long dead, as are the original Riaj-nor. There is now no power in this world to defeat them if they come in force, which is why I had hoped to replicate the original spell and cast it once more. But there are no clues to be found. There are riddles, verses, and garbled legends, none of which are helpful. My last hope now rests with Yu Yu and the spirit of Qin Chong.” She swung to Kysumu. “It seems that the Rajnee swords retain their magic. Why, then, are more of your comrades not here to fight?”

  “Few now hold fully to the old ways,” he said sadly. “Most Rajnee are now merely bodyguards, seeking to earn riches. They will not heed the call of the swords or journey to foreign lands.”

  “And what of you, Gray Man?” she asked. “Will you fight the demon lords?”

  “Why should I?” he countered, his voice edged with bitterness. “It is just another war, just another group of greedy men seeking to take what does not belong to them. And they will hold it for just so long as they are strong enough to resist the next group of greedy men who desire to take it from them.”

  “This one is different,” she said softly. “If they win, the world will know the nature of true terror: children dragged from their mothers’ arms to be melded into beasts or have their organs removed in order to prolong the lives of the rulers. Thousands will be butchered in the name of arcane science. Magic of the most horrific kind will become commonplace.”

  Waylander shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was cold. “During the Vagrian Wars babes were torn from their mothers’ arms to have their heads smashed against walls of stone. Children were butchered, and men slain in the thousands. Women were raped and mutilated. This was done by men. A grieving mother would not care whether her babe was destroyed by magic or by might. No, I have had my fill of wars, lady.”

  “Then think of it as a battle against evil,” she said.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Do I have a shining sword? You know my life, lady. Does it seem to you that I have been a warrior of the light?”

  “No,” she told him. “You have also walked the path of evil, which gives you greater understanding of its nature. Yet you overcame it. You fought the darkness and gave the Drenai people hop
e by recovering the Armor of Bronze. Now a greater evil looms.”

  “How is it that you know so much about this evil?” he asked her.

  “Because I was born of it,” she said. Her gloved hands moved to her high collar, pulling loose the hooks that held it. With a sudden wrench she opened the silken robe, letting it drop to the terrace. The morning sunlight shone on her slim body, highlighting the striped fur of gold and black that covered her skin. Both men stood very still as she peeled off one of her gloves and raised the hand high. The fur ended at her wrists, but her fingers seemed unnatural and oddly shortened. She flexed the hand, and long silver claws emerged from sheaths at her fingertips. “I am a joining, Gray Man. A failed experiment. It was intended that I should be a new form of Kraloth, a killing machine of great strength and speed. Instead the magic, which created this monstrosity of a body, also enhanced my mind. You are looking upon the future of mankind. Do you find it beautiful?” Waylander said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Her face was human and indescribably beautiful, but her body was feline, the joints crooked.

  Kysumu stepped up behind the naked priestess and raised her robe from the floor. Ustarte smiled her thanks and drew the garment around her. “My followers and I came through the gateway. Six were killed in the attempt. We came to save this world. Will you help us?”

  “I am not a general, lady. I am an assassin. I have no armies. You want me to ride out alone against a horde of demons? For what? Honor and a swift death?”

  “You would not be alone,” Kysumu said softly.

  “I am always alone,” said Waylander. With that he strolled from the terrace.

  He stared hard at the armor. It shone brightly in the lantern light as if crafted from moonlight. The winged helm was gleaming, and he could see his reflection in the closed visor. The chain mail attached to the nape was impossibly delicate, light glittering from it as if from a hundred diamonds. The cuirass was beautifully fashioned and engraved with runes he could not read.

  “It would look fine upon you, sir,” said the armorer, his voice echoing in the high, domed hall.

  “I do not want it,” said Waylander, swinging away and walking down a long, crooked corridor. He turned left, then right, pushing open a door and stepping into another hall.

  “Try it on,” said the armorer, removing the bright helm from its place on the armor tree and offering it to him. Waylander did not reply. Angry now, he turned on his heel, moved back through the doorway, and stood in the shadowed corridor. Then he walked on. Everywhere there were turnings, and soon he lost all sense of direction. He came upon a set of stairs and climbed and climbed. At the top, exhausted, he sat down. A doorway faced him, but he was reluctant to enter. He knew instinctively what he would find, yet there was nowhere else to go. With a deep sigh he pushed open the door and gazed upon the armor tree. “Why do you not want it?” asked the armorer.

  “Because I am not worthy to wear it,” he told the man.

  “No one is,” said the armorer.

  The scene faded, and Waylander found himself seated beside a fast-flowing stream. The sky was bright and blue, the water fresh and cool. Cupping his hands, he drank from the stream, then sat back, leaning his shoulders against the trunk of a weeping willow whose branches trailed all around him. It was peaceful there, and he wished he could stay forever.

  “Evil carries a price,” said a voice.

  He glanced to his right. Just beyond the trailing branches stood a cold-eyed man. There was blood on his face and his hands. He knelt by the stream to wash. But instead of the blood being cleansed, the entire stream turned crimson and began to bubble and steam. The willow branches darkened, the leaves falling away. The tree groaned. Waylander moved away from it, and the bark split, disgorging hordes of insects, which crawled over the dead wood.

  “Why are you doing this?” Waylander asked the man.

  “It is my nature,” he answered.

  “Evil carries a price,” said Waylander, stepping forward. A knife appeared in his hand, and he sliced it through the man’s throat in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the man fell back. The body disappeared. Waylander stood very still. His hands were drenched in blood. He moved to the stream to wash them, and the stream turned crimson and began to bubble and hiss.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked a voice.

  Surprised, Waylander turned and saw a man beside the dying willow. “It is my nature,” he told him—as the gleaming knife appeared in the newcomer’s hand …

  He awoke with a start. Pushing himself from the chair, he walked out into the sunlight. He had slept for less than two hours, and he felt disoriented. Strolling down to the beach, he found Omri waiting there, fresh white towels folded nearby, a pitcher of cool water and a goblet ready on the small wooden table.

  “You look dreadful, sir,” said the white-haired servant. “Perhaps you should forgo your swim and have some breakfast.”

  Waylander shook his head and stripped off his clothing. Wading into the cool water, he flung himself forward and began to swim. His head cleared, but he could not shake himself from the mood the dreams had left. Turning, he headed back for the beach with long, easy strokes, then walked up to the waterfall and cleansed the salt and sand from his body.

  Omri handed him a towel. “I brought fresh clothes while you were swimming, sir,” he said.

  Waylander toweled himself dry, then pulled on a shirt of soft white silk and a pair of thin leather leggings. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.

  Omri smiled, then poured a goblet of water, which Waylander drank. Norda came running down the steps, curtseying to the Gray Man.

  “There is a large party of horsemen coming up the hill, sir,” she said. “There are knights and lancers and bowmen. Lord Aric is at the head. Emrin thinks the duke is riding with them.”

  “Thank you, Norda,” said Omri. “We shall be there presently.”

  The girl curtseyed once more, then ran back up the steps. Omri glanced at his employer. “Are we in some trouble, sir?” he inquired.

  “Let us find out,” said Waylander, tugging on his boots.

  “Might I suggest a shave first, sir?” offered Omri.

  Waylander rubbed a hand over the black and silver bristles on his chin. “Doesn’t pay to keep a duke waiting,” he said with a smile.

  The two men strolled up the terrace steps side by side. “Mendyr Syn said to tell you that the Chiatze warrior is sleeping more easily now. His heartbeat has steadied, and the wound is healing.”

  “Good. He is a brave man.”

  “Might I inquire how he came by the wound?” asked Omri.

  Waylander glanced at the man and saw the fear in his eyes. “He was bitten by a large hound.”

  “I see. The servants are all talking about a massacre in the woods by the lake. Apparently the duke came upon the scene and is now leading a company of soldiers to investigate.”

  “Is that all the servants are saying?” Waylander asked as they mounted the steps.

  “No, sir. They are saying that there are demons abroad in the land. Is it true?”

  “Yes,” said Waylander. “It is true.”

  Omri held his hand over his chest, made the sign of the protective horn, and asked no more questions.

  “Have you ever met the duke?” Waylander asked Omri.

  “Yes, sir. Three times.”

  “Tell me of him.”

  “He is a powerful man in both mind and body. He is a good ruler, fair and not capricious. He was originally of House Kilraith, but once he became duke, he renounced—as is the custom—all claims to leadership of Kilraith, the title passing to Aric. He is married to a Drenai princess and has several children, but only one son. The marriage is said to be happy.”

  “A long time since I heard the words ‘Drenai princess,’ ” said Waylander. “There are no kings in Drenan now.”

  “No, sir, not now,” agreed Omri. “The duke’s wife, Aldania, was the sister of King Niallad. He was murdered
by a foul assassin just before the Vagrian War. After the war, so the story goes, the despot Karnak refused to allow her to come home. He confiscated all her estates and moneys and issued a decree of banishment. So she married Elphons and came to Kydor.”

  The two men reached the entrance hall. Beyond the double doors Waylander could see horses and men waiting in the sunshine. Ordering Omri to organize refreshments for the riders, Waylander walked into the long reception room. Lord Aric was there, wearing breastplate and helm. The black-bearded magicker Eldicar Manushan was standing by the far wall, his blond page beside him. A youth dressed in dark riding clothes and wearing a chain mail shoulder guard was standing close by. His face was familiar, thought Waylander. He felt a small knot of tension form in his belly as he realized why. This was the grandson of Orien and the nephew of Niallad the Drenai king. For a moment only, Waylander saw again the tortured features of the dying monarch. Pushing the memory away, he focused on the heavyset man sprawled in the wide leather chair. The duke was powerfully built, with great breadth of shoulder and massive forearms. He glanced up at Waylander, his cold eyes locking onto the Gray Man’s dark gaze.

  Waylander offered the seated man a bow. “Good morning, my lord, and welcome to my home.”

  The duke nodded curtly and beckoned Waylander to the seat opposite. “The day before yesterday,” said the duke, “some forty wagoners and their families were murdered less than two hours from here.”

  “I know,” said Waylander. “I rode over the ground late yesterday.”

  “Then you will also know that the killers were … shall we say … not of this world?”

  Waylander nodded. “They were demons. There were some thirty of them. They move upright, and the distance between the tracks suggests that the smallest is around eight feet tall.”

  “It is my intention to find their lair and destroy them,” said the duke.

  “You will not find it, my lord.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I followed the tracks. The demons appeared in a circle some two hundred paces from the wagons. They disappeared in another circle, taking the bodies with them.”