Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  The voice of Eldicar Manushan came faintly through the mist, once more chanting. Louder and louder came the chant. The mist began to shrink, pulling back from the survivors, growing smaller and smaller until it was no more than the size of a large stone.

  Eldicar Manushan strode from the rocks, still maintaining his chant. He held out his right hand, and the small globe of mist floated up to it. He tossed it into the air. There was a sudden clap of thunder and a brilliant white light.

  And the mist was gone.

  Waylander sheathed his blade and looked hard at the magicker. There was no sign of a serious wound on him, though his right sleeve was shorn away and his tunic slashed open. There was no blood on the ruined cloth.

  The duke stepped forward, pulling his ice-covered helm from his head and dropping it to the ground. “Well done, magicker,” he said. “I thought you had been killed.”

  “Merely knocked from my feet, my lord.”

  “Are they destroyed?”

  “They will not return to this place. I have closed the portal.”

  “We owe you a great debt, Eldicar,” said the duke, clapping the man on the shoulder. He gazed around at the sprawled bodies. Thirty men had been killed, and twelve others wounded. “Damn, but it was close,” he said. The shining sword in his hands began to fade until it gleamed only as steel in the moonlight. “My thanks to you, Chiatze,” he told Kysumu, “though it would have been good to have known about this trick a little earlier.”

  “I did not know myself,” said Kysumu.

  The duke swung away and moved among the wounded, organizing aid for them.

  Waylander approached Eldicar Manushan. “For a moment there I thought you had been killed,” he said.

  “Yes, it seemed likely.”

  “I thought your arm had been torn from your body, but I see it was only your sleeve.”

  “I was lucky,” said Eldicar. “As indeed were you. You killed a Bezha. That is no mean feat, Gray Man. How were you able to do that?”

  Waylander gave a cold smile. “One day I might show you,” he said.

  Eldicar Manushan chuckled. “Let us hope not,” he said. The smile faded. “Perhaps we can talk later.” With a courteous bow he moved away and began to assist Chardyn with the wounded.

  Waylander stood for a moment. The temperature was rising again, but there was still ice on the ground. He shivered and strode across to where Kysumu was standing. The little Chiatze sheathed his sword. “Do you believe they have gone for good?” asked the Rajnee.

  Waylander shrugged. “They have or they haven’t.”

  “Did you see the magicker fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was all but torn in half.”

  “I know.”

  “The priestess was right, then. He cannot be killed.”

  “It would appear so,” agreed Waylander. Suddenly weary, he sat down on a broken wall. Lord Aric, divested now of his armor, walked over to join them. He offered Waylander a canteen of water. Waylander accepted it and drank deeply, then passed it to Kysumu, who declined it.

  “I have never seen the like,” said Aric. “I thought we were finished for certain. Without that sword of yours we would have been. My thanks to you, Rajnee.” Kysumu bowed. A little way to the left a man screamed in pain, the sound ebbing away and ending abruptly. Aric looked back. “Victory has a high price,” he said.

  “It usually does,” agreed Waylander, pushing himself to his feet. “I am riding home. I shall send wagons for the wounded. Those injured by the hounds will need swift attention. Any that can ride should follow on, and I will see that Mendyr Syn is waiting for them.” With that he strode across the killing ground to where the horses were tethered. Kysumu followed, and the two men rode from the ruins.

  Clouds drifted across the moon as the two riders reached the slope, and they made the climb carefully and in silence. By the time they reached higher ground, the sky had cleared, but still they rode on without speaking. Waylander was lost in thought. If the demons had been summoned by Eldicar Manushan, why, then, did he defeat them? And if the demons were his creatures, why did they attack him? Something was missing here, and it galled Waylander that he could not fasten onto it. He replayed the events in his mind: Eldicar standing on the rock, his voice booming and confident, the mist slowing and even beginning to recede. Then Eldicar had faltered, his confidence draining away, the spell evaporating. Talons had ripped into him. Only the accidental discovery of the true power of Kysumu’s blade had saved the duke and his men.

  Two hours later, still having reached no conclusions, Waylander rode his horse through the last of the trees and onto the long path leading to the upper palace. It was close to dawn, and he saw more than a hundred people milling outside the double doors. Many torches and lanterns had been lit, and his guards, led by Emrin, had placed themselves between the palace and the crowd. Many of the soldiers had their swords drawn.

  Emrin came running from the group as the riders approached. “What is happening?” asked Waylander.

  “Demons attacked the palace, sir,” said Emrin. “Two men are dead, but nineteen more people are missing, including the surgeon, the foreign priestess and her followers, and your friend Matze Chai. The demons came at us in the long kitchens, killing Omri and one of the duke’s bodyguards—Naren, I think he was called.”

  “And the duke’s son?” asked Waylander.

  “He is fine, sir. We killed one demon—Yu Yu and I. Then the mist withdrew into the palace. We stayed where we were for a long while. We heard many screams.” Emrin took a deep breath and looked away. “I did not investigate.” He looked back at Waylander, awaiting censure.

  “When did you leave the kitchens?”

  “About an hour ago. Yu Yu’s sword was not shining, so we crept up the stairs and along to the banquet hall. We saw nothing, save that there was ice on the walls of the outer corridor. Then we made our way to the lawns here. We found what you see; most of the servants and guests had fled. There are more down on the beach—about forty.”

  “You went there, through the palace?” asked Waylander.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That took courage, Emrin. Did you see any sign of the mist?”

  “No, sir. But I didn’t stop to investigate. I ran back through the banquet hall and out onto the terrace. I didn’t stop running until I reached the beach.”

  “How many of Matze Chai’s servants are among the missing?”

  “Ten, sir, according to the captain of his guard.”

  “Fetch him.”

  Emrin bowed, then turned and moved back through the crowd. Waylander saw Keeva sitting close to the trees. The page boy was asleep, his blond head resting against her shoulder.

  Moments later Emrin led the Chiatze captain to Waylander. The man bowed deeply to both Waylander and Kysumu.

  “Tell me of the attack,” said Waylander.

  The man glanced at Kysumu and spoke rapidly in Chiatze. The Rajnee turned to Waylander. “The captain regrets that his command of the Kydor language is not sufficient to describe in detail the events. He asks if you would permit me to translate for him.”

  “You may tell me in your own tongue,” Waylander said in excellent Chiatze. The captain bowed even more deeply.

  “I am Liu, noble sir. It is my honor to be captain of Matze Chai’s troops. It is also my great shame that I could not reach my master in his time of peril. I was sleeping, noble sir, when a scream awoke me. I rose, pulled on my robe, and opened the door to seek out the cause of the cry. At first I could see nothing, but I felt the cold immediately. I knew what it was, sir, for it attacked our camp. I buckled on my breastplate, took up my sword, and tried to reach the suite of my master. But the mist was already there, filling the corridor. It came for me, and I ran, noble sir. I heard other doors opening behind me, and I heard … I heard …” He fell silent for a moment. “I heard people being killed,” he said. “I did not look back. I could not have saved them.”

  Waylander
thanked the man, then unclipped the crossbow from his belt and loaded two bolts. Without a word to the others he walked toward the double doors. Emrin swore softly, then followed, sword in hand. Waylander paused in the doorway and looked back at Emrin. “Do not follow me. You are needed here,” he said. “Send ten wagons to the old ruins and insure that there are plenty of bandages and a good amount of fresh water. The duke’s men have also suffered losses against the demons.”

  Waylander pushed open the doors and walked into the darkness beyond. Kysumu strolled after him.

  For almost an hour the Gray Man stalked the deserted corridors, pushing open doors and striding down stairwells and through halls and storage areas. He made no attempt to move stealthily, and it seemed to Kysumu that his companion was disappointed that they found no monsters. His anger, though controlled, was apparent in every movement.

  Finally they reached the long kitchens. The body of Omri lay in a pool of congealing blood alongside that of the bodyguard Naren. The Gray Man knelt beside the old retainer. “You deserved better than this,” he said. Omri’s face was frozen in a mask of terror, and his eyes were wide open. For a little while the Gray Man remained beside the body, then he rose. “He was a frightened man,” he told Kysumu. “He abhorred violence. It terrified him. But he was a deep well when it came to kindness and compassion. You’d have to ride far to find any who would speak ill of him.”

  “Such men are rare,” observed Kysumu. “You valued him. That is good.”

  “Of course I valued him. There would be no civilization without men like Omri. They care, and in caring they create all that is good. It was Omri who urged me to allow Mendyr Syn to create his hospital here. Before that Omri was raising funds for two schools in Carlis. He spent his life working for the good of others. And this was his reward: to be ripped apart by some mindless beast.”

  The Gray Man swore softly, then moved away to examine the room. On the paneled floor close by there was a large stain, as if oil had seeped into the wood. Around eight feet long, it was all that remained of the creature that had killed Omri. A long-bladed carving knife lay beside the stain. The blade was pitted with rust, the bone handle singed as if from fire.

  The two men left the scene and climbed to the first level of the south tower. Here were the hospital wards of Mendyr Syn. Several of the twenty beds in the first ward had been upturned, and there was blood on the floor. The room was still cold, and there were no bodies. Moving to the second level, they found even greater chaos. Blood had sprayed to the walls and ceiling. Many of the beds were smashed.

  Kysumu pointed to a bed by the far window. A body was lying on it, untouched. The Gray Man moved across the paneled floor and stood by the bedside. The occupant, an elderly woman, was dead, her hands folded across her chest. Waylander examined her. Rigor mortis was well under way.

  “She has been dead for more than just a few hours,” said Kysumu. “Probably late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Yes,” agreed the Gray Man, gazing around at the smashed beds and blood-smeared walls.

  “I once went into the ruins of a house destroyed by an earthquake,” said Kysumu. “Everything was smashed. But a perfect egg was sitting in a broken plate.”

  “These demons are obviously not interested in the dead,” said the Gray Man, “unless they have killed them themselves. There were more than thirty people here,” he continued, “not counting Mendyr Syn and his three helpers. Thirty souls sent screaming to the Void.”

  The third level, the medical library, showed no sign of ice damage. The door to the office of Mendyr Syn was open, many of his papers scattered on the two desks. The Gray Man searched the room, finding Ustarte’s gold-ringed blue crystal below a pile of papers. Tucking it into his pocket, he left the office and continued up the stairs to the guest suites. There the corridor carpets were wet, the walls cold.

  Opening the door to Matze Chai’s suite, the Gray Man moved across the silk Chiatze rugs and through into the bedroom. The first of the dawn light was filtering through the pale blinds. For the first time since the search had begun, Kysumu saw the Gray Man relax. A low chuckle sounded from him.

  Matze Chai opened his eyes and yawned. He glanced at the bedside table. “Where is my tisane?” he asked.

  “It will be a little late this morning,” said the Gray Man.

  “Dakeyras? What is happening?” Matze Chai sat up, his pale blue nightcap falling from his head, revealing the carefully tied net that held his lacquered hair in place.

  “I am sorry to disturb your rest, my dear friend,” the Gray Man said softly, “but we feared you were dead. The demons came to the palace last night. Many people were killed. I shall leave you now and send your servants to you.”

  “Most kind,” said Matze Chai.

  The Gray Man left the room.

  Kysumu bowed to Matze Chai and followed him. “His life is charmed,” he observed.

  “It is a great relief to me,” said the Gray Man. “Matze Chai is a good friend, perhaps my only friend. He is incorruptible and loyal. It would have hurt me deeply had he been among the slain.”

  “Why did he survive, do you think?” asked Kysumu.

  The Gray Man shrugged. “Who can say? Matze always takes a sleeping draught. Perhaps it lowered his heart rate and they did not sense him. Or maybe, since the creatures feed on flesh, they sought out younger meat. Matze may be a fine man, but there’s precious little fat on those old bones.”

  “I am glad to see your mood has lifted a little,” said Kysumu.

  “Not by much,” said the Gray Man. “You go back to the lawns. Tell Emrin to fetch Matze’s servants.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “To the north tower.”

  “We have not searched that yet. You think it safe?”

  “The demons have gone. I can feel it.”

  The Gray Man slipped the bolts from his crossbow, returning them to the quiver by his side. Without another word he strode off.

  9

  WAYLANDER KEPT MOVING until he was out of sight of the Rajnee, then sat down on a velvet-covered bench seat in the corridor. His relief at the survival of Matze Chai was overwhelming, and he could feel his hands trembling. Leaning back against the wall, he took several deep, calming breaths. The deaths of Mendyr Syn and Omri saddened him greatly, but he had known them for only a short while. Matze Chai had been part of his life for three decades, a solid anchor he could always rely on. He had not, however, realized until this day how much he cared for the old man.

  But with the relief came a deeper anger, a cold and terrible resentment against the arrogant cruelty of men who were willing to visit such terror on innocent victims. Ultimately, he knew, wars were never about simple issues such as right and wrong. They were launched by men who lusted after power. Those men did not care about the victims such as Omri and Mendyr Syn. They lived for fame and all the empty, fruitless joys it brought. One man like Omri was worth ten thousand of such killers, he thought.

  Having recovered his composure, Waylander moved on at a lope, scaling the stairs of the north tower two at a time. He slowed when he reached the first level. Shelves had been torn from the walls, and manuscripts, scrolls, and leather-bound volumes were scattered across the floor. Kneeling, he touched his hand to the carpet. It was wet and cold. To the left were two eight-foot stains on the floor. Dark blood was spattered around them. Ustarte’s followers, it seemed, had fought well.

  Treading carefully through the debris, he reached the second stairwell and climbed once more. As he turned a corner, he saw the body of a huge golden wolf, its belly ripped open, its golden eyes glazing. The body twitched as he approached and tried to raise its head. Then it slumped down and died.

  Climbing past the dead beast, he came across two more bodies, those of the acolytes who had followed Ustarte. Waylander struggled to remember their names. Prial was one. He was lying on his back, chest open and ribs splayed. The other lay close by. Huge talon marks were on his back, and the lower part of his sp
ine was jutting from the body.

  Waylander stepped over them. The door to Ustarte’s apartments had been torn from its hinges. He moved into the doorway and scanned the room. Furniture had been hurled against the walls, the ornate carpet was ripped in places, and there was blood on the floor and walls. There was no sign of Ustarte. Waylander moved to the window. Upon the sill was a bloody smear. Leaning out, he looked down. Two floors below was a balcony. A patch of blood showed on the balustrade.

  Retracing his steps, he returned to the stairs. The body of the golden wolf had vanished. In its place lay the third of Ustarte’s acolytes.

  Waylander walked to the front of the palace, where Emrin was anxiously waiting.

  “The palace is clear,” said Waylander. “Tell the servants they can return to their rooms.”

  “Yes, sir. Quite a few have left your service. They have gone to Carlis. Even those who remain are frightened.”

  “I don’t blame them. Send some men to fetch the bodies from the long kitchens and the north tower library. And set the servants tasks to take their minds from their fear. Tell them all there will be an extra month’s salary to compensate for the terror they have endured.”

  “Yes, sir. They will be most grateful. Did you find the priestess?”

  “She and her people are dead.” Waylander looked into the young man’s eyes. “With Omri gone I need someone to manage the household. That role is yours for now. Your salary is doubled.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No need to thank me. It is an arduous duty, and you will earn your pay. Have the wagons left?”

  “Yes, sir. I also sent riders to the hospital in Carlis, where Mendyr Syn’s two assistants are working. They should be here soon to help with the wounded.”

  Waylander moved across to where Yu Yu Liang was sitting with his back to a tree. Keeva was beside him, her arm around the shoulders of the blond page. The boy looked up at Waylander and gave a nervous smile.