Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  “I understand that,” said Waylander, “but it is also an argument against waiting here to fight demons. What difference will it make if we fight or we run, if we win or we lose?”

  “Fame is fleeting,” said Kysumu, “but love and hate are eternal. I may be but a small leaf in the wind of history, but I will stand against evil wherever I find it, no matter the cost. The demon I slay will not descend on the home of a farmer and murder his family. The bandit who falls beneath my sword will never again rape or kill or plunder. If my death saves a single soul from pain and anguish, it is a price worth paying.”

  Chardyn clambered across the broken rocks and approached them. “Would you like a blessing?” he asked. Waylander shook his head, but Kysumu rose and bowed. Chardyn laid his hand upon the Rajnee’s head. “May the Source cherish you and keep you from all harm,” whispered Chardyn. Kysumu thanked him and sat down once more. “May I join you?” asked Chardyn. Waylander gestured for the man to sit. “You think the demons will come?” the priest inquired.

  “Do you have a spell ready if they do?” asked Waylander.

  Chardyn leaned forward. “No,” he admitted with a wry smile. “My knowledge of demons and exorcism is, shall we say, severely limited.”

  “I admire your honesty,” said Waylander. “However, if you can’t fight them, you should leave. If they come, it will be no place for an unarmed man.”

  “I cannot leave,” said Chardyn, “though I would dearly love to follow that advice. My presence helps the men.” He smiled, but Waylander saw the fear in his eyes. “And perhaps—if the demons do come—I can hurl one of my sermons at them.”

  “If the mist comes, stay close to us, priest,” said Waylander.

  “Now, that is advice I will take.”

  They sat in silence for a while, then Eldicar Manushan strolled over to them. He halted before Waylander. “Will you walk with me?” he asked.

  “Why not?” replied Waylander, rising smoothly. The magicker picked his way through the broken rocks until they were a little way from the others.

  “I think you have misread me,” said Eldicar Manushan. “I am not evil, nor do I seek to do you harm.”

  “I am glad you have told me,” said Waylander. “It will save me many sleepless nights of worry.”

  Eldicar Manushan laughed with genuine good humor. “I like you, Gray Man. Truly. And there is no need for us to be enemies. I can offer you your deepest desires. It is within my power.”

  “I think not,” said Waylander. “I have no desire to be young again.”

  The magicker seemed momentarily puzzled. “Normally I would find that hard to believe,” he said at last. “Though not in this instance. Are you so unhappy with life that you yearn to see an end to it?”

  “Why do you desire my friendship?” countered Waylander.

  “Look about you,” said Eldicar, gesturing toward the soldiers. “Frightened men, small men, malleable men; the world is made up of such men as these. They live to be conquered and ruled. Look at them cowering behind ancient stones, praying that their insignificant lives will be allowed to continue past this night. If they were animals, they would be sheep. You, on the other hand, are a predator, a superior being.”

  “Like yourself?” asked Waylander.

  “I have always loathed false modesty, so yes, like myself. You are rich and therefore powerful in this world. You could be useful to Kuan Hador.”

  Waylander laughed softly and gazed around at the broken stones. “This,” he said, “is Kuan Hador.”

  “It was destroyed here,” said Eldicar Manushan. “This is merely one reality. Kuan Hador is eternal. And she will prevail. This world was once ours. It will be again. When that happens, it would be preferable for you to be our friend, Dakeyras.”

  “If that happens,” said Waylander.

  “It will happen. It will be bloody, and many will die. But it will happen.”

  “I think this is the point where you tell me what happens if I decide not to be your friend,” observed Waylander.

  Eldicar Manushan shook his head. “You do not need to hear threats from me, Gray Man. As I said, you are a predator. You are also highly intelligent. I merely ask you to consider my offer of friendship.”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Eldicar Manushan walked back to the duke and his officers.

  The afternoon was hot and clammy, with heavy rain clouds obscuring the sun. Elphons, duke of Kydor, struggled to appear relaxed. A little way to the west the Gray Man was stretched out on the ground, apparently asleep. The little Chiatze swordsman was sitting cross-legged nearby, eyes closed. The priest Chardyn was restlessly pacing back and forth, occasionally stopping to peer out over the ruins.

  The men seemed a little more at ease, though Elphons knew their mood was fragile at best. Like himself, they had never fought demons.

  “Will our swords cut demon flesh?” he had asked Eldicar Manushan.

  The magicker had spread his hands. “It is said that the skin of a demon is like toughened leather, my lord. But then, there are many kinds of demons.”

  “You think they will come?”

  “If they do, it will be after dusk,” Eldicar Manushan had said.

  The duke pushed himself to his feet and approached the priest Chardyn, who was pacing to and fro. The man looked frightened, he thought, which was not an encouraging sign. Priests should always be serene. “I hear you have filled the new temple with worshipers,” said the duke. “I must attend one of your services.”

  “Most kind, my lord. But yes, the faithful grow ever more powerful in Carlis.”

  “Religion is a good thing,” said the duke. “It keeps the poor content.”

  Chardyn smiled. “You believe that is its only purpose?”

  The duke shrugged. “Who can say? For myself I have never witnessed a miracle, nor has the Source ever spoken to me. But then, I am a soldier first and foremost. I tend to believe what I can see and touch. I have little time for faith.”

  “You have never prayed?”

  The duke chuckled. “Once I was surrounded by Zharn tribesmen, and my sword broke. I said a prayer then, I can tell you.”

  “It was obviously answered, for here you stand.”

  “I leapt at them and rammed the broken blade through the throat of the first man. As the others closed in, my men regrouped and scattered them. So tell me of your faith. From where does it spring?”

  Chardyn looked away. “I realized the truth about the Source many years ago,” he said softly. “Nothing I have learned since has changed my mind.”

  “It must be comforting to have faith at times like this,” said the duke. He glanced down and saw that the Gray Man was awake. “Only an old soldier would be able to sleep before a battle,” he said with a smile.

  The Gray Man moved to his feet. “If they come, it won’t be a long battle,” he said.

  The duke nodded. “You mean the ice? I saw the dead birds in the woods. Frozen to death. I am hoping our archers will strike many down before they reach us. Then, if the Source is with us,” he added with a glance at Chardyn, “we can finish the rest with swords.”

  “Always good to have a plan,” said the Gray Man.

  “You disagree?”

  The Gray Man shrugged. “The tracks I saw were of creatures far bigger than bears. Forget demons, my lord. If twenty bears were to rush this camp, how many would be brought down by your archers? And how many would be killed by your swordsmen?”

  “I take your point, sir, but you must understand mine: I am the lord of these lands. It is my duty to protect the citizens. I have no choice but to face this evil and hope that strength and courage will hold the day.”

  The Gray Man turned toward the western peaks. “We’ll know soon enough,” he said as the sun began to sink below the mountaintops.

  As darkness fell on the valley, a small bright spark flickered behind a half-shattered column of stone. Dust swirled around it, and moisture from the air was drawn to it. Slowly it took
shape as the molecules of earth, air, and water melded to the spark of fire. A form began to materialize, tall and thin, naked under the new moonlight. The skin, at first speckled, became scaled and gray. Arms stretched from the form, and a flowing, hooded robe of darkness cloaked it. The thin, lipless mouth opened, dragging in air, filling the new lungs.

  Niarhazz became aware of the warm air around him, the soft earth beneath his feet, the silken robe on the naked gray skin of his shoulders. The membrane over his eyes slid back, and he blinked. For a moment he could not move, for the exquisite joy of material existence was strong upon him, causing his limbs to tremble.

  When at last he felt confident of movement, he stretched his legs and stepped to the edge of the stone column, peering around it. Some thirty paces to the east he could see the humans. Lifting his head, he tasted the air in his nostrils. The scent of flesh caused his belly to tighten, but the heady aroma of fear among these pale, pink creatures made him shudder with desire. Instinctively his mouth opened, exposing pointed fangs. Memories of a glorious past flooded him, trembling females exuding the dizzying perfume of terror and younglings’ soft bones yielding sweet marrow.

  Niarhazz quelled his hunger and leaned back against the stone.

  Once he had been a god, stalking the earth and feeding where he chose. Now he was a servant, fed only when his masters allowed it. And as long as they controlled the gateways, he would remain a slave to their ambitions.

  Still, food was food …

  Niarhazz flipped his hood of darkness over his head, drawing it like a veil over his face. Then he moved to the far side of the rock and sought out the warrior with the bright sword of death. He was sitting on a stone, the vile weapon in his hands. Another human stood close by, tall and garbed in black. Niarhazz watched him. This one was dangerous, too. He could feel it, though he sensed no magic emanating from him.

  Take no risks, he told himself. In spirit form Niarhazz was immortal, but clothed in flesh he could die like any of these primitive creatures.

  Stay away from the sword, he warned himself. Do not let them see you.

  Crouching down, he extended his hand. Seven sparks leapt from his fingers, and began to dance and swirl in the shadows of the column, forming into huge Kraloth hounds, their massive jaws dripping venom.

  Niarhazz toyed with the idea of directing them at the swordsman, but he had already seen the man destroy several of his beauties the night before. No, the Ice Giants could rend and tear the man. His Kraloth would sacrifice their lives to kill the humans carrying the weapons of far death. He gestured to the hounds, and they slunk away, keeping to the shadows, moving silently ever closer to the archers.

  The sword in Kysumu’s lap began to glow. The Rajnee climbed to a rock and held the blade aloft. “The enemy is close!” he shouted.

  Men scrambled to their feet, soldiers drawing their swords and hefting their shields, archers notching arrows to bowstrings. Chardyn peered out among the shadow-haunted ruins. “There!” he bellowed, pointing to the west.

  The first of the giant black hounds charged at the archers. Shafts flew at it, most hissing by its hurtling black form. One struck it high on the back and glanced clear without marking the skin.

  “Neck or head!” shouted Waylander. Six more of the hounds came in sight, moving at great speed. The first beast reached the broken wall behind which the archers crouched. It leapt, clearing the barrier in one bound, its curved fangs closing on the face of a bowman. The crunching of bone that followed made Chardyn feel sick.

  All was pandemonium as the Kraloth leapt in among the archers.

  “Kill the hounds,” Waylander ordered Kysumu. “I’ll find the houndmaster.”

  Kysumu sprinted across the ruins, his sword blazing. The Gray Man vanished into the shadows.

  Chardyn stood alone.

  In the distance he saw a wall of mist seeping across the valley.

  The smell of blood in the air caused Niarhazz to tremble with hunger. Now is not the time to feed, he told himself. Later, when the Ice Giants had finished the slaughter, though he hoped to be able to drag at least one live victim clear of the mist before the flesh froze. Meat should slide around the mouth, its juices rich and savory, not break into icy pieces as fangs closed on it.

  Niarhazz moved silently to the edge of the broken column and risked a glance. The small warrior with the shining sword was in among the archers now, but he was hampered by the crush of bodies as men panicked and attempted to flee. Even so, he had killed two of the hounds, curse him! Offset against this, more than a dozen of the archers were down, most of them dead, although two were screaming. The sound was delicious!

  It was almost as good as feeding. Niarhazz filtered the raw emotions, various degrees of terror ranging from stomach-tightening fear to bowel-loosening panic. He blinked suddenly, a sense of shock touching his soul. Amid all the fear there was an emotion subtly different. Powerful, yes, but not sweet to the senses … He knew he had sensed it before, thousands of years ago, when last he had walked these night-dark lands. Niarhazz focused on the emotion, separating it from those flowing from the carnage.

  Then it came to him.

  It was rage. But not the boiling, extravagant rage of the fighting man. No, this was cold, controlled—and close!

  Niarhazz did not move.

  There was a man close by. Very close! He guessed it to be the tall man he had seen standing with the swordsman. Fear touched Niarhazz. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling, for it made him more aware of the joys of physical reality. Very, very slowly he turned his head.

  The man was some twenty paces to the right. He was searching the shadows and facing away from Niarhazz.

  It was so long since Niarhazz had felt his fangs close on living flesh, the warm blood running down his throat.

  Keeping his night cloak around him, he drew on his power, then raised his feet from the ground, floating silently in the shadows. The man took several steps toward a jagged wall, then turned again. Now his back was toward Niarhazz.

  The Bezha floated toward the man, his arms extending, talons sliding from his fingers.

  “Time to die,” the man said softly.

  Niarhazz barely had time to register the words before the man spun on his heel, right hand extended. Something dark leapt from the small weapon in his hand.

  There was no time to flee the prison of flesh, no time even to cry out against the cruel injustice of such a fate.

  The bolt smashed through his skull, skewering the brain …

  The body disappeared instantly, the black cloak floating for a moment on the wind, seeming no more heavy than a grass seed. Waylander reached out and grabbed it.

  Back among the ruins, the remaining four Kraloth suddenly burst into flames, their bodies dwindling until they became little more than dancing sparks above the stones. They flickered for a few heartbeats and then were gone.

  The cloak in Waylander’s hands felt insubstantial. It seemed to roll under his fingers like liquid. More peculiar was the weird sensation as he tried to examine it. His gaze slid away from it, focusing on the rocks or on his wrists but never able to fasten onto the garment itself.

  “The mist is coming!” shouted Chardyn.

  Waylander glanced toward the west and saw the white wall rolling toward him. Swiftly he rolled the cloak and wedged it into his belt before loping back to where the frightened soldiers were bunching together.

  “Archers stand firm!” bellowed the duke, drawing his longsword and moving among the men.

  Eldicar Manushan strode out from the group and climbed to a jutting rock. The mist swept on. The magicker raised his right arm and held it aloft, palm extended toward the mist. Then he began to chant, his voice ringing out. The mist slowed. Kysumu stepped alongside Waylander, his shining sword extended. Waylander glanced down at him. The man seemed utterly calm. The priest Chardyn eased himself behind the two men.

  “Shouldn’t you be praying?” asked Waylander.

  Chardyn forced a s
mile. “Somehow this does not feel like a day for hypocrites,” he said.

  The temperature began to drop as the mist came closer. Eldicar Manushan continued to chant, his voice ringing with confidence and great power. Lord Aric had also drawn his sword and was standing alongside the duke and his swordsmen. The surviving archers had notched arrows to their bows and were waiting tensely.

  The mist slowed to a halt immediately before the magicker but flowed on past him on both sides. Still his voice continued to chant. Then he suddenly jerked and almost lost his balance on the stone. The chant died away. Instantly the mist swept over him. Just as it did so, Waylander saw a massive form descend on the magicker, a taloned arm sweeping out, ripping through Eldicar Manushan’s chest. Waylander saw the magicker’s right arm slashed in two and ripped from his body just as the mist closed over him.

  “So much for magic,” he said.

  Kysumu leapt toward the mist. His gleaming blade touched it, and blue lightning crackled and flashed. A huge white form suddenly towered over the little Rajnee. Waylander sent a bolt into its eye. The massive head jerked backward. Kysumu slashed a vicious cut through the beast’s chest, then spun on his heel to flash a reverse slice through its neck as it fell.

  Ice was forming on the stones now. The mist swept on. Waylander and Chardyn moved in behind Kysumu. The sounds of screaming men and crunching bone came from all around now as the ice beasts fell upon the soldiers of Kydor.

  A white serpent reared up from the ground at Waylander’s feet. His sword slashed down, barely breaking the skin above the flat skull. Kysumu’s blade sliced through the neck. As it did so, it glanced from the blade of Waylander’s weapon. Instantly blue fire flowed along Waylander’s sword, and the mist retreated. For a moment only Waylander stood staring at the shining blade. “The magic can be transferred,” he said. “Now we have a chance!” He glanced at Kysumu. “We must get to the duke!”

  Kysumu understood instantly and the two men, followed by the priest, charged into the mist toward the sounds of battle. Kysumu cut down another of the huge creatures, then clambered over a low rock wall. The duke and several heavily armored swordsmen were battling bravely. Kysumu leapt in, touching his blade to the duke’s longsword. Instantly the duke’s sword blazed bright. The mist fell back a little, and the Chiatze warrior moved from warrior to warrior, charging their blades with blue magic.