Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  “Ah,” said Eldicar Manushan, stepping forward, “a third level manifestation, then. A powerful spell must have been cast in that area.”

  “You have come across such … spells before?” asked the duke.

  “Sadly, yes, sire. They are known as portal spells.”

  “Why third level?” asked Waylander.

  Eldicar Manushan turned toward him. “According to the ancient texts, there are three levels of gateway magic. The third level opens onto the world of Anharat and his demons but summons only mindless blood feeders such as the beasts described by our host. The second level allows—it is said—the summoning of powerful individual demons who can be directed against specific enemies.”

  “And the first level?” asked the Duke.

  “A first level spell would summon one of Anharat’s companion demons—or even Anharat himself.”

  “I understand little of magic and its uses,” snapped the duke. “It has always sounded like babble to me. But a third level spell is what brought these demons, yes?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And how was this done?”

  Eldicar Manushan spread his hands. “Once again, sire, we have only the words of the Ancients, as stored in sacred text. Many thousands of years ago man and demon coexisted on this world. The demons followed a great sorcerer god called Anharat. There was a war, which Anharat lost. He and all his followers were expelled from the earth, banished to another dimension. This very land, which now prospers under your rule, was instrumental in defeating Anharat. It was then called Kuan Hador, and its people were versed in great magic. With the banishing of Anharat and his legions, Kuan Hador began an age of great enlightenment. However, Anharat still had followers among the more savage tribes, and they banded together to destroy Kuan Hador, butchering its people and plunging the world into a new age of darkness and desolation.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the duke. “I have always liked stories, but I would appreciate it if you would leap across the centuries and tell me about the demons who attacked the wagoners.”

  “Of course, sire. My apologies,” said Eldicar Manushan. “It is my belief that one of the spells used in the original battle against Kuan Hador has been somehow reactivated, opening a third level portal. It may be that it was cast again by a sorcerer or merely recharged by a natural event—lightning, for example, striking an altar stone where the spell was first spoken.”

  “Can you reverse this spell?” asked the duke.

  “If we can find the source of it, my lord, I believe that I can.”

  The duke returned his attention to Waylander. “I am told that a party of your friends was attacked recently by these demons but that two of the party had magical blades that held the beasts at bay. Is this true?”

  “That is my understanding,” said Waylander.

  “I would like to see these men.”

  “One is severely wounded, my lord,” Waylander told him. “I will send for the other.”

  A servant was dispatched, and some minutes later Kysumu entered the room. He bowed low to the duke and also to Waylander, then stood silently, his face impassive.

  “It would be a great help, my lord,” said Eldicar Manushan, “were I able to examine the sword. I could then perhaps identify which spells were cast on the blade.”

  “Give him your sword,” ordered the duke.

  “No man touches a Rajnee blade,” Kysumu said softly, “save the one for whom it was forged.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the duke. “I am also a great believer in tradition. But these are extraordinary circumstances. Hand it over.”

  “I cannot,” said Kysumu.

  “This is senseless,” the duke said without raising his voice. “I can call fifty men to this room. Then they will take the sword from you.”

  “Many will die,” Kysumu said calmly.

  “You threaten me?” said the duke, leaning forward in his chair.

  Waylander rose and moved to stand before Kysumu. “I have always found,” he said, “in circumstances like these that there is a subtle difference between a threat and a promise. I have read of these Rajnee blades. They are linked to the warriors who hold them. When a warrior dies, his blade shatters and turns black. Perhaps the same would happen if he allowed Eldicar Manushan to take it from him. If that proves to be the case, then we will have lost one of only two weapons proved to be of use against the demons.”

  The duke rose from his chair and stepped in close to the small swordsman. “Do you believe that your blade would become useless if handled by another?”

  “It is more than belief,” said Kysumu. “It is knowledge. I have seen it. Three years ago a Rajnee surrendered to an opponent and offered his sword. The blade splintered as soon as the opponent took hold of the hilt.”

  “If this is true,” Lord Aric said suddenly, “how is it that your companion carries such a blade? He is not Rajnee, nor was the blade fashioned for him.”

  “The blade chose him,” Kysumu said simply.

  Aric laughed. “Then it must be a more fickle blade. Let us send for that and Eldicar Manushan can examine it.”

  “No,” said Kysumu. “The sword now belongs to Yu Yu Liang. He is my pupil, and since he is still unconscious, I speak for him. The blade will not be examined or touched by anyone.”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” said the duke. “I have no wish to use force here.” He looked at Kysumu. “And I certainly have no desire to bring about either the death of a brave man or the destruction of such a powerful weapon. We are riding out to locate the source of the demon magic. Will you come with us and aid us with your sword?”

  “Of course.”

  The duke turned to Waylander. “I would be obliged if you would offer hospitality to my son Niallad and his guards.” The sound of the name struck Waylander like a dagger blade, but his face remained calm, and he bowed.

  “It will be my pleasure, my lord.”

  “But Father, I want to ride with you,” said the youth.

  “It would be folly to risk both myself and my heir,” the duke said softly. “We do not yet know the nature of the enemy. No, my son, you will remain here. Gaspir and Naren will stay with you. You will be safe.” The youth bowed, his expression downcast.

  Eldicar Manushan approached him. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to look after my page, Beric,” he said. “He is a good boy, but he becomes nervous when we are apart.”

  Niallad looked down at the golden-haired page and smiled ruefully. “Do you swim, Beric?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” answered the boy. “But I like to sit by the water.”

  “Then we will go to the beach while our elders and betters perform their manly tasks.” The sarcasm hung heavy in the air, and Waylander saw the duke flush with embarrassment.

  “Time to be on our way,” said the duke.

  As the men filed from the room, Eldicar Manushan paused before Waylander. “The Rajnee was bitten, I understand. How is the wound?”

  “Healing.”

  “Strange. Such wounds are usually fatal. You must have a highly skilled surgeon.”

  “I do. He found translucent worms in the bite. Most unusual.”

  “A clever man. Is he a mystic also?”

  “I do not believe that he is. He used an ancient artifact, a blue crystal. With this he could see the infestation.”

  “Ah! I have heard of such … artifacts. Very rare.”

  “So I understand.”

  Eldicar Manushan stood silently for a moment. “Lord Aric informs me that there is a priestess currently in residence at the palace. She is said to have the gift of far sight. I would very much like to meet her.”

  “Sadly, she left yesterday,” said Waylander. “I believe she is returning to Chiatze lands.”

  “How disappointing.”

  “Are there sharks, Uncle?” asked the blond page, tugging at Eldicar Manushan’s robe. Waylander gazed down at the boy’s upturned face and saw the love and trust the child had for the magicker.


  Eldicar Manushan knelt by the boy. “Sharks, Beric?”

  “In the bay. Niall is planning to swim.”

  “No, there are no sharks.”

  The boy smiled happily, and Eldicar drew him into a brief hug.

  “I already told him that,” said Niallad, moving across the room. “They prefer cooler, deeper water.”

  Two soldiers entered the room, tough men with grim faces. Niallad grinned as he saw them. “These are my bodyguards, Gaspir and Naren,” he said. “There are no finer fighters in all of Kydor.”

  “Is your life in danger?” asked Waylander.

  “Always,” said Niallad. “It is the curse of my family to be hunted by assassins. My uncle was the king of the Drenai. Did you know that?” Waylander nodded. “He was killed by a cowardly traitor,” continued the young man. “Shot through the back while he was praying.”

  “Praying can be a perilous business,” said Eldicar Manushan.

  The youth looked at him quizzically. “Murder should not be the subject of jests, sir,” he said.

  “I was not jesting, young man,” answered Eldicar Manushan. With a bow he turned and left the room.

  Niallad watched him go. “I will not be assassinated,” he told Waylander. “Gaspir and Naren will see to that.”

  “We will indeed, young sir,” said Gaspir, the taller of the men. He turned to Waylander. “Which is the safest beach?” he asked.

  “I shall have my manservant, Omri, show you,” said Waylander. “And I will have fresh towels and cool drinks served there.”

  “Most kind,” said Gaspir.

  “When will Uncle Eldicar be back?” asked the blond page.

  “I do not know, boy,” Waylander told him. “But it might be after dark.”

  “Where shall I stay? I do not like the dark.”

  “I shall have a room prepared for you that shines with light and someone to sit with you until he returns.”

  “Could it be Keeva?” asked the youngster. “I like her.”

  “It shall be Keeva,” Waylander promised.

  7

  WAYLANDER WATCHED THE duke and his soldiers ride away from the palace, then moved back out onto the terrace. The sunshine was bright against his tired eyes, but the breeze from the bay felt good on his face. Omri joined him there, and Waylander gave him various instructions. The white-haired manservant bowed and walked away.

  Waylander continued down the steps, past the waterfall, across the rock garden, and on to his spartan accommodations. The door was open. Waylander stepped to the porch and then closed his eyes. He felt calm and sensed no danger. Pushing the door farther open, he stepped inside. The priestess Ustarte was seated by the hearth, her gloved hands folded on her lap, her high-collared red silk robe buttoned to the chin. She rose as he entered.

  “I am sorry for the impertinence of entering your home place,” she said, bowing her head.

  “You are welcome here, lady.”

  “Why did you tell Eldicar Manushan that I had left?”

  “You know why.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But how did you know he was the enemy?”

  Moving past her, he poured himself a goblet of water. “Tell me of him,” he said, ignoring her question.

  “I do not know him, though I know his masters. He is an Ipsissimus—a sorcerer of great power. I have felt the emanations of his power for some time now. He has crossed the gateway for two reasons. First, in order to establish allies in this world, and second, to finally break the great spell that prevents their armies from crossing over.”

  “Is he a king of some kind?”

  “No, merely a servant of the Council of Seven. Believe me, that makes him more powerful than many kings of your world. Are you aware that he knew you were lying?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  Waylander ignored the question. “Are you strong enough to withstand his power?”

  “No. Not directly.”

  “Then you and your companions should leave the palace. Find somewhere to hide or return whence you came.”

  “I cannot leave now.”

  Waylander lifted the water jug and left the building, hurling the stale liquid to the flower garden and refilling the jug from the waterfall. Returning to the main room, he offered the priestess a drink. She shook her head, and he filled his own goblet. “What is it that Eldicar Manushan can offer to potential allies here?” he asked.

  “Have you looked closely at Aric?”

  “He seems fitter and leaner.”

  “Younger?”

  “I see,” said Waylander. “Is it real or an illusion?”

  “It is real, Gray Man. Some servant of Aric’s will have perhaps died to supply it, but it is real. The Seven long ago mastered the art of enhancement and regeneration, just as they mastered the vileness of joining.”

  “If I killed this magicker, would it aid you in keeping the gateway sealed?”

  “Perhaps. But you cannot kill him.”

  “There is no one I cannot kill, lady. That is my curse.”

  “I know of your talent, Gray Man. But I mean what I say: Eldicar Manushan cannot be killed. You could put a bolt through his heart or cut off his head and he would not die. Slice off his arm and another will grow. The Seven and their servants are immortal and virtually invulnerable.”

  “Virtually?”

  “The use of spells is dangerous. The summoning of third level demons carries few perils. Once made flesh, they exist merely to feed. But at higher levels the summoning of specific demons of the first and second ranks carries great danger. Such a demon must have a death. If it cannot succeed against the intended victim, it will turn against the sorcerer who summoned it. If Eldicar Manushan summoned a first rank demon and that demon was thwarted, Eldicar would be dragged back into the realm of Anharat and torn to pieces.”

  “That seems a good weakness to exploit,” said Waylander.

  “It would be. But that is why Eldicar Manushan has the boy with him. He is his loa-chai, his familiar. Eldicar Manushan casts his spells through the child. If anything were to go wrong, the child would be slain.”

  Waylander swore softly. Crossing the room, he sat down in the hide chair beside the hearth. Weariness lay heavy on him. Ustarte sat opposite him.

  “Can he read minds as well as you?” he asked her.

  “I do not believe so.”

  “Yet he knew I was lying about your departure?”

  She nodded. “He would have sensed it. As I said, he is an Ipsissimus and his power is very great. But it is finite. He can summon demons, create illusions, enhance youth and strength. He can regenerate himself if wounded.” She looked at him closely. “I sense your confusion,” she said softly. “What is it?”

  “The boy,” said Waylander. “He obviously loves his uncle. In turn Eldicar Manushan seems fond of him. It is hard to believe the boy is merely a tool.”

  “And because of this you doubt whether the Ipsissimus can be truly evil? I do understand that, Gray Man. You humans are wonderful creatures. You can show compassion and love that is awe-inspiring and hatred of such power and vileness that it could darken the sun itself. What you find hard to accept is that such extremes are in each and every one of you. You gaze upon the works of evil men and tell yourselves that they must be monsters, inhuman and different, because to accept that they are just like you would threaten the foundations of your existence. Can you not see that you are an example of this, Gray Man? In your hatred and your lust for vengeance you became what you hunted: savage and uncaring, callous and indifferent to suffering. How much farther might you have traveled had you not met the priest Dardalion and been touched by his purity of soul? Eldicar Manushan is not a monster. He is a man. He can laugh and know joy. He can hug a child and feel the warmth of human love. And he can order the deaths of thousands without regret. He can torture and kill and rape and maim. It will not touch him.

  “Yes, he may love the boy, but he lo
ves power more. The spells of Eldicar Manushan are great, but when cast through a loa-chai, they become enhanced. The boy is a vessel, a source of untapped spiritual energy.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “I sense both their energies: the Ipsissimus and the loa-chai. When joined together they are terrifyingly strong.” She rose from the chair. “And now you must ride with the duke, Gray Man,” she said.

  “I think I will stay here and sleep for a while,” he told her. “The duke has no need of me. There must be a hundred men with him.”

  “No, but Kysumu will need you. Eldicar Manushan will fear the shining sword. He will see the Rajnee dead if he can. Kysumu needs you, Waylander.”

  “This is not my fight,” he said, though he knew, even as he spoke, that he could not leave Kysumu to his fate.

  “Yes, it is, Waylander. It always was,” she said, moving away toward the door.

  “What does that mean?” he asked her.

  “This is a time for heroes,” she told him, softly. “Even shadow warriors once touched by evil.”

  He watched her cross the threshold and draw the door closed behind her. With a soft curse he pushed himself to his feet and walked through to his armory. From a chest at the rear of the room he removed a heavy linen sack. Placing it on a worktop, he opened it, drawing forth a black leather shoulder guard, reinforced by black mail rings. Returning to the chest, he lifted two other wrapped items, followed by a sword belt hung with two empty scabbards. Carefully he unwrapped the short swords. Each had a round fist guard of black iron beneath claw-shaped dark quillons. The bright blades gleamed with oil.

  Taking up a soft cloth, he wiped them clean, careful to avoid the razor-sharp edges. Buckling the sword belt to his lean waist, he slipped the swords into the scabbards.

  His baldric hung with throwing knives was looped over the back of a chair. Fetching it, he removed each of the six diamond-shaped blades and honed them before slipping them back into place. Donning the chain mail shoulder guard, he slipped the baldric over his head. Lastly he took up his small double-winged crossbow and a quiver of twenty bolts.