Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  The mist shrank back, sliding across the floor and vanishing under the far doorway.

  The temperature in the room began to rise. Gaspir pushed himself to his feet and gathered up his sword. It was no longer gleaming. A faint and fading blue light still shone on Yu Yu’s blade. Yu Yu had fallen to his knees and was breathing heavily. The wound in his shoulder had opened up badly. Blood had soaked through the bandage and was flowing over his bare chest.

  Emrin moved to his side. “Hold on, yellow man,” he said, softly. “Let me get you to a chair.”

  Yu Yu had no strength left, and he sagged against Emrin. Keeva and Norda helped the sergeant lift him and seat him at the table.

  “Are those things gone?” asked Niallad, gazing at the dark stairwells.

  “The sword isn’t shining,” said Keeva. “I think they have left. But they may be back.”

  The young noble looked at her and forced a smile. “That was a magnificent throw,” he said. “I’ve rarely seen a carving knife put to better use.”

  Keeva said nothing. She was staring down at the lifeless body of the old man Omri. A kind and gentle man, he deserved better than to die this way.

  “What do we do now?” asked Gaspir. “Do we leave or stay?”

  “We stay … for a while,” said Yu Yu. “Here we can defend. Only … two entrances.”

  “I agree,” said Gaspir. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that would make me climb either of those stairwells.”

  Even as he spoke a distant scream echoed eerily. Then another.

  “People are dying up there,” said Emrin. “We should help them!”

  “My job is to guard the duke’s son,” said Gaspir. “But if you want to charge up those stairs, feel free to do so.” The black-bearded bodyguard glanced down at the nearly unconscious Yu Yu. “Though without the magic of his sword I doubt you’ll last ten heartbeats.”

  “I have to go,” said Emrin. He started to head toward the door.

  “Don’t!” called out Keeva.

  “It is what I am paid for! I am the guard sergeant.”

  Keeva moved around the table. “Listen to me, Emrin. You are a brave man. We’ve all seen that. But with Yu Yu so badly hurt there is no way we could hold them off without you. You must stay here. The Gray Man told you to protect Yu Yu. You can’t do that from upstairs.”

  More screams sounded from above. Emrin stood for a moment, staring at the shadowed doorway. “Trust me,” whispered Keeva, taking his arm. His face had a haunted look as the screams continued from the floors above. “You cannot help them,” she said. Then she turned toward Gaspir. “We need to barricade the doors. Overturn the far cabinets and push them against the door. Emrin and I will block this one.”

  “I don’t take orders from serving wenches,” snapped Gaspir.

  “It was not an order,” Keeva told him, masking her anger, “and I apologize if it sounded like one. But the doors do need to be blocked, and it will take a strong man to move those cabinets.”

  “Do as she says,” put in Niallad. “I’ll help you.”

  “You’d better be quick,” warned Keeva. “Yu Yu’s sword is beginning to shine again.”

  8

  CHARDYN THE SOURCE priest was renowned for his blistering sermons. His charismatic personality and powerful booming voice could fill any hall and bring a host of converts to the Source. As an orator he was without peer and would in any just world have been promoted to abbot many years before. Yet despite his awesome skill, one small impediment had stunted his career, one tiny irrelevance used against him by men with small minds. He did not believe in the Source.

  Once, two decades ago, when full of youth and fire, he had chosen the path of priesthood. Oh, he had believed then. His faith had been strong through war and disease, through poverty and famine. And when his mother had fallen ill, he had journeyed home, knowing that through his prayers the Source would heal her. He had arrived at the family estate, rushed to her bedside, and called on the Source to bless his servant and touch his mother with his healing hand. Then he had ordered a celebration feast to be prepared for that night, when they would all give thanks for the coming miracle.

  His mother had died just before dusk, in appalling pain and coughing up blood. Chardyn had sat with her, staring at her dead face. Then he had walked downstairs, where the servants were setting fine silver cutlery at the celebration table. In a sudden burst of fury Chardyn had overturned the tables, scattering dishes and plates. The servants had fled from his anger.

  He had run out into the night and screamed his rage at the stars.

  Chardyn had stayed for the funeral and had even made the soul journey prayer at the graveside when his mother’s body had been laid alongside that of her husband and the two children who had died in infancy. Then he had journeyed to the Nicolan monastery, where his old teacher, Parali, was the abbot. The old man had welcomed him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “I grieve for your loss, my boy,” he said.

  “I called upon the Source, and he did not answer me.”

  “Sometimes he does not. Or if he does, he answers in a way we do not like. But then, we are his servants, not he ours.”

  “I no longer believe in him,” admitted Chardyn.

  “You have seen death before,” Parali reminded him. “You have watched babes die. You have buried children and their parents. How is it that your faith remained strong during these dread times?”

  “She was my mother. He should have saved her.”

  “We are born, we live a brief time, and then we die,” said Parali. “That is the way of life. I knew your mother well. She was a fine woman, and it is my belief that she now resides in paradise. Be grateful for her life and her love.”

  “Grateful?” stormed Chardyn. “I organized a celebration feast to give thanks to the Source for her recovery. I was made to look like an idiot. Well, I will be an idiot no longer. If the Source exists, then I curse him and want no more to do with him.”

  “You will leave the priesthood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I pray you will find peace and joy.”

  Chardyn had spent a year working on a farm. It was back-breaking toil for little reward, and he came to miss the small luxuries he had taken for granted as a priest: the comfort of life in a temple, the abundance of food, the times of quiet meditation.

  One night, after a day of cutting and binding straw for the winter feed, Chardyn was sitting with the other workers around the feast fire, listening to them talk. They were simple folk, and before they ate the roasted meat, they gave thanks to the Source for the plentiful harvest. The previous year, after a failed crop, they had given thanks to the Source for their lives. In that moment Chardyn realized that religion was what crooked gamblers dubbed a “no-lose proposition.” In times of plenty thank the Source, in times of famine thank the Source. When someone survived a plague, it was down to divine intervention. When someone died of the plague, he had been taken to glory. Praise the Source! Faith, it seemed—regardless of its obvious cosmic stupidity—brought happiness and contentment. Why, then, should Chardyn labor on a farm when he could be adding to the happiness and contentment of the world by preaching the faith? It would certainly add massively to his own happiness and contentment to be living once more in a fine house, attended by skilled servants.

  So he had donned the blue robes once more and journeyed across Kydor, taking up a position at the small temple in the center of Carlis. Within weeks his sermons had tripled the congregation. Two years later, the coffers swelled by donations, a new temple had been designed, twice the size of the old one. Three years after that even that imposing building struggled to contain the masses who came to hear Chardyn.

  The adulation of the congregation was in sharp contrast to the low regard in which the church authorities held him. Parali had seen to that.

  Yet it did not rankle unduly. Chardyn now lived in a large house with many servants. He had also managed to put away a sizable sum t
o indulge his tastes for fine foods, expensive wines, and soft women.

  Indeed, he was as content as a man could be. Or, rather, he had been until this morning, when riders from the duke had arrived demanding his presence on an expedition to exorcise demons from the ancient ruins in the valley.

  Chardyn had no experience of demons, nor did he wish to acquire any. However, it would not be wise to refuse the duke’s summons, and so he had swiftly gathered several scrolls dealing with the subject of exorcism and joined the riders.

  The sun was unbearably hot as the company rode down the hillside toward the valley. Up ahead Chardyn could see the duke and his aides riding with Lord Aric and the magicker Eldicar Manushan. Behind them came fifty bowmen, twenty heavily armored lancers, and fifty cavalrymen armed with long sabers.

  Once they reached flat ground, Chardyn pulled the first of the scrolls from his saddlebag and began to peruse it, trying to memorize the incantations. It was far too complex, and he put it away. The second scroll involved the use of holy water, of which he had none, so that, too, was thrust back into the saddlebag. The third spoke of the laying on of hands to remove demonic possession from someone suffering from fits. Chardyn resisted the temptation to swear, screwed up the scroll, and threw it to the ground.

  He rode on, listening to the talk of the men around him. They were nervous and frightened, emotions he began to share as they spoke of the massacred wagoners and the attack on the Gray Man and his Chiatze companions.

  A lancer rode alongside him. “I am glad you are with us, sir,” he said. “I have heard you speak. You are blessed by the Source and a true holy man.”

  “Thank you, my son,” said Chardyn.

  The lancer removed his silver helm and bowed his head. Chardyn leaned over, placing his hand on the man’s hair. “May the Source bless you and keep you from all harm.” Other soldiers began bunching around the priest, but he waved them away. “Come, come, my friends, wait until we have reached our destination.” He smiled at them, exuding a bonhomie and confidence he did not feel.

  Chardyn had never before visited the ruins of Kuan Hador and was surprised by the vast distance they covered. The duke led the riders deep into the ruins, then dismounted. The soldiers followed his lead. A picket line was set up, and the horses were tethered. Then the bowmen were ordered to take up positions on the camp’s perimeter. Chardyn moved across to where the duke was conversing with Aric, Eldicar Manushan, and a short, slender Chiatze warrior wearing a long gray robe.

  “This is where the last attack took place,” said the duke, removing his helm and running his fingers through his thick black and gray hair. “Can you sense any evil here?” he asked Chardyn.

  The Source priest shook his head. “It seems merely a warm day, my lord.”

  “What of you, magicker? Do you sense anything?”

  “Sensing evil is not my forte, my lord,” said Eldicar Manushan, glancing at Chardyn. The priest met his eyes and saw amusement there. Something akin to mockery, he thought. Eldicar Manushan swung to the little Chiatze warrior. “Does your blade shine?” he asked.

  The man half drew his sword, then thrust it back into the black scabbard. “No. Not yet.”

  “Perhaps you should move around the ruins,” said the magicker. “See if the evil is present elsewhere.”

  “Let him stay close for the time being,” said the duke. “I do not know how swiftly the mist can appear, but I do know the creatures within it killed the wagoners in a matter of heartbeats.”

  Eldicar Manushan bowed. “As you wish, sire.”

  The sound of a galloping horse came to them. Chardyn turned and saw the Gray Man riding his mount across the valley. He heard Lord Aric curse softly and noted that the amused look had vanished from Eldicar Manushan’s face. Chardyn felt his own good humor rise. He had once gone to the Gray Man for a contribution to the new temple and had received a thousand gold pieces without even a request for the Gray Man’s name to be added to the roll of honor or for the altar table to be named after him.

  “The Source will bless you, sir,” Chardyn had told him.

  “Let us hope not,” the Gray Man had said. “Those of my friends he has blessed so far are all dead.”

  “You are not a believer, sir?”

  “The sun will still rise whether I believe or not.”

  “Why, then, are you giving us a thousand gold pieces?”

  “I like your sermons, priest. They are lively and thought-provoking, and they encourage people to love one another and to be kind and compassionate. Whether the Source exists or not, these are values to be cherished.”

  “Indeed so, sir. Then why not make it two thousand?”

  The Gray Man had smiled. “Why not five hundred?”

  Chardyn had chuckled then. “The thousand is ample, sir. I was but jesting.”

  The Gray Man dismounted, tethered his horse, and strolled across to the little group. He moved, Chardyn noted, with an easy grace that spoke of confidence and power. He was wearing a dark chain mail shoulder guard over a black leather shirt, leggings, and boots. Two short swords were strapped to his waist, and over his shoulder was slung a small double-winged crossbow. There was not a glint of shining metal on him, and even the chain mail had been dyed black. Although Chardyn had chosen the priesthood, he had been raised in a military family. No soldier, in his experience, would pay extra to have his armor dulled. Most wanted to stand out, to shine in battle. The Gray Man’s garb achieved the opposite effect. Chardyn flicked a glance at the steeldust gelding. The stirrups and bridle and even the straps on the saddlebags had been dulled. Interesting, he thought.

  The Gray Man nodded toward Chardyn and gave a courteous bow to the duke.

  “Your company was not requested,” said the duke, “but I thank you for taking the trouble to join us.”

  If the Gray Man registered the mild rebuke, he did not show it. He glanced at the screen of archers. “If the mist appears, it will swamp them,” he said. “They will need to be more closely grouped. They also need to be told to shoot swiftly at the first sight of a black hound. Their bite carries vile poison.”

  “My men are well trained,” said Lord Aric. “They can look after themselves.”

  The Gray Man shrugged. “So be it.” Tapping the Chiatze warrior on the arm, he led him deeper into the ruins, where they sat in close conversation.

  “He is an arrogant man,” snapped Aric.

  “With much to be arrogant about,” put in Chardyn.

  “What does that mean?” asked Aric.

  “Exactly what it says, my lord. He is a man of power, and not just due to his wealth. You can see it in his every movement and gesture. He is—as my father would have said—a man of dangerous ashes.”

  The duke laughed. “It is a long time since I heard that phrase. But I tend to agree.”

  “I have never heard it at all, sire,” said Aric. “It sounds meaningless.”

  “It’s from an old tale,” said the duke. “There was an outlaw named Karinal Bezan, a deadly man who killed a great many people, most of them in one-on-one combat. He was arrested and sentenced to be burned at the stake. When the executioner stepped forward and applied the torch to the tinder, Karinal managed to get one hand free. He grabbed the man and dragged him into the flames, and they died together, the man screaming and Karinal’s laughter ringing above the roar of the blaze. Some time after that the phrase ‘You can burn him, but walk wide around the ashes’ came into use to describe a certain kind of man. Our friend is just such a man. With that in mind, I suggest you move your men closer to the camp and pass on his warnings about the black hounds.”

  “Yes, sire,” said Aric, struggling to control his anger.

  The duke rose and stretched. “And you, sir,” he said to Chardyn, “should walk among the men and offer them the blessing of the Source. They are far too nervous, and it will stiffen their resolve.”

  And who will stiffen mine? thought Chardyn.

  Kysumu listened quietly as Waylander t
old him of his conversation with the priestess. The Rajnee tapped the black hilt of his sword. “There is no proof that he is the enemy. If there was, I would slay him.”

  “Ustarte says he cannot be killed.”

  “You believe that?”

  Waylander shrugged. “I find it hard to believe he could survive a bolt through his heart, but then, he is a magicker, and such powers are beyond my understanding.”

  Kysumu glanced around at the archers, who were taking up fresh positions. “If the mist comes, many will die here,” he said softly. Waylander nodded and watched as the priest Chardyn strolled among the men, administering blessings. “You think Eldicar Manushan plans to kill us all?”

  “I don’t know what he plans,” said Waylander. “But Ustarte says he is looking for allies, so perhaps not.”

  Kysumu sat silently for a while, then looked into Waylander’s dark eyes. “Why are you here, Gray Man?” he asked.

  “I have to be somewhere.”

  “That is true.”

  “And what of you, Rajnee? What makes you desire to fight demons?”

  “I have no desire any longer to fight anything,” said Kysumu. “When I was young, I wanted to be a great swordsman. I wanted fame and riches.” He gave a brief smile. “I was like Yu Yu. I wanted people to bow down before me as I passed.”

  “But not now?”

  “Such are the thoughts of the young. Pride is everything; status must be fought for. It is all empty and meaningless. It is ephemeral. Like the leaf on the oak tree. ‘Look at me, I am the greenest leaf, the biggest leaf, the finest leaf. None of the other leaves have my majesty.’ Yet autumn beckons, and winter mocks all the leaves, the great and the green, the small and the stunted.”