Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  Niall offered his hand to the Gray Man, who shook it. “Thank you for your company, sir,” he said. The Gray Man bowed.

  Niall strolled away. Somehow the conversation with the Gray Man had settled his nerves, but his heart began to beat faster as he entered the throng.

  Face it down, he told himself. It is merely a growling dog, and you are a man. You have to be here only for a while, then you can return to the sanctuary of your room.

  Niall walked on, his expression grim and determined.

  Waylander watched the youth make his way across the hall. The bodyguard Gaspir was following him closely. Elsewhere he saw Eldicar Manushan moving among the crowds, smiling and chatting with people. Waylander saw that his long robe seemed to shimmer and change color as he moved. At first sight it was silver gray, but the folds glinted at times with subtle shades of pink and red, lemon yellow and gold. Waylander’s gaze flowed over the hall. There had been changes since last he had been there. The stairwells were now closed off, and the arches leading to the library boasted heavy doors of oak. He preferred the previous style. It was more open and inviting.

  A servant offered him a drink, but he refused and strolled into the hall. He could see the boy Niallad talking with his father and the tall, slim Lord Ruall. The lad seemed ill at ease once more, and Waylander could see the gleam of sweat on his face.

  Reaching the new door to the library, Waylander tried to open it, but it was locked from the other side.

  Eldicar Manushan strolled over to him. “Your garb is most elegant, sir,” he said. “Your lack of adornment makes most men here look like peacocks. Including me,” he added with a grin.

  “An unusual robe,” observed Waylander.

  “It is my favorite,” said Eldicar. “It is woven from the silk of a rare worm. Heat and light bring about changes in color. In bright sunshine the robe becomes golden. It is a delightful piece.” Stepping in close, the magicker lowered his voice. “Have you considered what we spoke about?”

  “I have thought on it.”

  “Will you be a friend to Kuan Hador?”

  “I think not.”

  “Ah, that is a shame. But it is also a worry for another day. Enjoy your evening.” The magicker’s hand tapped lightly on Waylander’s back. In that moment Waylander felt a sudden chill. His senses sharpened, and his heartbeat quickened. Eldicar moved away back into the crowd.

  The thought came to Waylander that he should leave this place.

  He walked back toward the terrace. He saw Niallad climbing the stairs. He was moving slowly, as if at ease, but Waylander could sense the tension in him. Niallad reached the gallery, then turned to his right, entering his room. Sadness touched Waylander.

  “Such a grim face for so lively an evening,” said the priest Chardyn.

  “I was thinking of the past,” Waylander told him.

  “Not a pleasant past, it seems.”

  Waylander shrugged. “If a man lives long enough, he will gather bad memories among the good.”

  “That is true, my friend. Though some are worse than others. It is worth remembering that the Source is ever forgiving.”

  Waylander laughed. “We are alone here, priest. No one else can hear us. You do not believe in the Source.”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Chardyn, dropping his voice.

  “You stood your ground against the demons, and that makes you a brave man, but you had no spells, no belief that your god was stronger than the evil to come. I knew a Source priest once. He had faith. I know it when I see it.”

  “And you, sir?” queried Chardyn. “Do you have faith?”

  “Oh, I believe, priest. I do not want to, but I believe.”

  “Then why did the Source not strike down the demons as I prayed he would?”

  Waylander shook his head and smiled. “Who is to say he did not?”

  “Eldicar Manushan destroyed them, and though I may not be holy myself, I also know holiness when I see it.”

  “You think the Source uses only good men for his purposes? I have seen different. I knew a man once, a killer and a robber. He had for all intents and purposes the morals of a gutter rat. This man gave his life for me and before that had helped save a nation.”

  Chardyn smiled. “Who can say for certain that it was the Source who inspired him? Where were the miracles, the light in the sky, the glowing angels?”

  Waylander shrugged. “My father told me a story once about a man who lived in a valley. A great storm rose up, and the river overflowed. The valley began to flood. A horseman rode by the man’s small house and said to him, ‘Come, ride with me, for your house will soon be under water.’ The man told him that he needed no help, for the Source would save him. As the waters rose, the man took refuge on his roof. Two swimmers came by and called out to him. ‘Jump into the water. We will help you reach dry land.’ Again he waved them away, saying that the Source would protect him. As he sat perched on his chimney, thunder filling the sky, a boat came by. ‘Jump in,’ called the boatman. Again the man refused. Moments later the water swept him away, and he drowned.”

  “What is the point of this story?” asked Chardyn.

  “The man’s spirit appeared before the Source. The man was angry. ‘I believed in you,’ he said. ‘And you failed me.’ The Source looked at him and said: ‘But my son, I sent a rider, two swimmers, and a boat. What more did you want?’ ”

  Chardyn smiled. “I like that. I shall use it in one of my sermons.” Then he fell silent.

  Within the hall, Eldicar Manushan, Lord Aric, and Lord Panagyn had moved to the stair doors. A guard opened them, and they moved through. Elsewhere Waylander saw other guests quietly leaving the hall. Most were followers of Panagyn. His expression hardened. His heart began to beat faster, and a sense of danger rose in him. Moving to the terrace doors, he saw a squad of soldiers marching through the gardens.

  The five-man squad climbed the steps to the terrace. Waylander took the priest by the arm and drew the surprised man out into the night. The guards ignored them and pushed shut the heavy doors, dropping a crossbar into place before marching off.

  “What are you doing?” asked Chardyn. “How will we get back in?”

  “Trust me, priest, you do not want to go back in.” Waylander leaned in close. “I don’t often offer advice,” he said, “but were I you, I would leave this place now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All exits from the hall have been blocked. The stairs are sealed off. That is no longer a banquetting hall, priest. It is a killing ground.”

  Without another word Waylander walked away into the night.

  Reaching the western postern gate, he paused and glanced back at the palace, which was silhouetted against the night sky. Anger flared in him, but he quelled it. Everyone in that lower hall was destined for death. They would be slaughtered like cattle.

  Is that why you wanted me there, Orien? he wondered. So that I could die for killing your son?

  He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. There was no malice in the old king. Waylander had murdered his son, yet the old man had given him a chance to find the Armor of Bronze and, at least in part, redeem himself for his past sins. So why had he come to Ustarte? There was no mystical armor to find, no great and perilous quest to undertake. Waylander had attended the gathering, which was all that had been asked of him.

  Then why did you want me here?

  Into his mind came the face of a frightened youth, a boy who feared crowds and lived in terror of assassination. Orien’s grandson.

  With a soft curse Waylander turned and ran back toward the palace.

  Within the hall a trumpet sounded, and all conversation ceased. Lord Aric and Eldicar Manushan appeared at the north gallery rail above the throng.

  “My dear friends,” said Aric. “Now comes a moment you have all anticipated with great relish, as indeed have I. Our friend Eldicar Manushan will entertain you with wonders beyond description.”

  Thunderous
applause broke out, and the magicker raised his hands.

  With all the doors closed, the temperature in the great room began to rise. As he had at Waylander’s palace, the magicker created small swirling globes of white mist, which floated and danced above the spectators, cooling the air and bringing applause.

  A huge, black-maned lion appeared in the center of the hall and rushed toward the revelers. Several screams sounded, followed by a rush of relieved laughter as the lion became a flock of small blue songbirds, which rose up toward the rafters. The audience clapped wildly. The birds circled the hall, then gathered together, merging into the form of a small, flying dragon with golden scales and a long snout with flaring nostrils. It swooped upon the crowd, sending out a roaring blaze of fire that engulfed the spectators by the western wall. Once more screams were followed by laughter and applause as the victims saw that not a single scorch had blemished the beauty of their satin robes and silken jackets.

  On the dais Duke Elphons clapped politely, then reached out and took the hand of his wife, Aldania, sitting beside him. A tall, slim man to the duke’s left leaned in to his lord and whispered something. Elphons smiled and nodded.

  At that moment Eldicar Manushan’s voice boomed out. “Dear friends, I thank you for your gracious applause and now offer a climax to the evening’s entertainment that I am sure will make what has gone before seem trivial in the extreme.”

  Dark plumes of smoke began to form in the center of the hall, twisting and snaking, braiding together like copulating serpents. The braid broke in a dozen places, and huge dark hounds leapt out, snarling, their massive fangs dripping venom. The last of the smoke floated close to the seats of the duke and his lady. It rose up before them, forming a dark doorway through which stepped a swordsman. He wore an ornate helm created from layered strips of black metal and a black silk ankle-length tunic split at the waist. He carried two swords, long and curved, the blades so dark that they seemed to have been carved from the night sky. A third sword, scabbarded, was thrust into the black silk sash around his waist.

  Stepping forward, he bowed to the duke, then flung one of his swords into the air. The second followed it. Swiftly he drew the third, and this, too, he sent spinning into the air, just as the first blade returned to his hand. He began to leap and twirl while juggling the blades. Meanwhile the twelve black hounds moved stealthily toward the spectators.

  Faster and faster the swordsman spun the blades.

  What happened next was so swift that few registered the act. The swordsman’s hand flicked out. One of the swords flew straight into the chest of Lord Ruall. Instantly the second lanced through the throat of Elphons, duke of Kydor. The third plunged through the heart of Lady Aldania.

  For a moment only there was silence in the hall.

  Then the first of the hounds leapt, its great fangs ripping out the throat of a reveler.

  “Enjoy a taste of true magic!” bellowed Lord Aric.

  More smoke billowed, and a score of Kraloth rushed from it. The crowd panicked and tried to beat its way through the barred doors. Again the smoke came. Now there were some fifty demonic hounds.

  They rushed into the panicking crowd, their long fangs ripping and tearing at the silk- and satin-clad nobles. Aric watched from the gallery, his eyes gleaming. It was incredible. He saw one young man run across the hall and try to jump to the stair rail. A Kraloth leapt at him, jaws closing on the man’s leg. The noble clung desperately to the rail. The Kraloth fell back to the hall floor, taking the lower part of the man’s leg with him. Aric tapped Lord Panagyn on the shoulder, pointing out the scene. Blood gouting from the severed limb, the noble had almost managed to haul himself onto the stairs. Aric gestured to the bodyguard Gaspir, who was standing close by. The man ran along the gallery and down the stairs. Just as the noble believed he had reached safety, Gaspir came alongside. The young man reached out to Gaspir, seeking help. The black-bearded bodyguard grabbed him, tipping him back into the hall. As his body struck the floor, a Kraloth leapt upon him, ripping away his face.

  All across the hall there were similar scenes. Aric gloried in them. He swung to make a comment to Eldicar Manushan and saw that the magicker had withdrawn from the gallery rail and was sitting on a bench with his page. He seemed lost in thought.

  Aric stared down at the dead duke. His one complaint was that the man had died too swiftly. Pompous bastard! He should have been made to watch all his followers scream and die.

  At that moment Aric saw movement on the east gallery. The youth Niallad had emerged from his room and was standing at the rail, staring in horror at the bloodletting below.

  Aric looked around for Gaspir. The bodyguard was standing with one of Panagyn’s men. They, too, had seen the boy. Gaspir glanced toward Aric for confirmation. Aric nodded. Gaspir drew his dagger.

  Niall’s mind reeled at the sights before him. The sound of screaming filled his ears. The hall was awash with blood and corpses. A severed arm was draped over one of the food tables, dripping gore onto bone-white plates. Huge black hounds were leaping on the terrified survivors. Niall saw a man hammering at one of the doors, shouting to be let out. A hound leapt upon his back, massive teeth crunching down on the man’s skull.

  Niall gazed down and saw his parents, slain where they sat. A black-garbed swordsman approached his father’s body, reached out, then pulled a sword from the body. The corpse of Duke Elphons toppled sideways.

  “Murderer!” screamed Niall. The warrior looked up, then transferred his gaze to Eldicar Manushan, who was now leaning on the north gallery banister rail, watching the carnage below. Beside him stood Lord Aric and Lord Panagyn.

  Niall could not at that moment comprehend why those men were standing idly by. He felt giddy and sick and began to lose all sense of reality. Then he saw Gaspir and another man moving toward him.

  “They have killed my father, Gaspir,” he said.

  “They have killed you, too,” said his bodyguard.

  Niall saw the knives in their hands. He backed away into his room. His legs were trembling. All his young life he had feared such a moment as this, and now it was upon him. Curiously, the terror faded away, replaced by cold anger. His limbs ceased to tremble, and he ran to his bed, where he had discarded his dagger belt. His fingers curled around the carved ebony hilt, pulling the weapon clear. Then he swung to face the men.

  “I thought you were my friend, Gaspir,” he said, and felt a surge of pride that there was no fear in his voice.

  “I was your friend,” said Gaspir, “but I serve Lord Aric. I will kill you swiftly, boy. I’ll not throw you to the beasts.”

  Gaspir stepped closer. The other man edged away to the right.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Niall.

  “There’s little point in such a question,” said the Gray Man, stepping through the balcony doorway. “You might just as well ask a rat why it spreads disease. It does it because it is a rat. It knows no other way.”

  The two assassins hesitated. Gaspir glanced at the Gray Man, who was standing unarmed, his thumbs resting in his belt. “Kill the boy,” he ordered the second man, then advanced on the Gray Man. His intended victim did not back away. His right hand moved to his ornate belt buckle. In that fraction of a heartbeat Gaspir saw the arrowhead-shaped center of the buckle slide clear. The Gray Man’s hand flicked out. Blinding white light exploded in Gaspir’s right eye socket, lancing fire through his skull. He fell back.

  Niall saw the Gray Man step in swiftly, grab Gaspir’s knife arm, and twist it savagely. The long blade fell clear. The Gray Man caught the falling blade by the hilt and flipped it. His arm rose and fell. There was a grunt from Niall’s left. The second assassin staggered as Gaspir’s blade lodged in his neck. Even so, he raised his own knife and lunged at Niall. The youth sidestepped and, without thinking, slammed his own dagger through the man’s chest, piercing the heart. He dropped without a sound.

  Gaspir was on his knees groaning, one hand over the bleeding wound in his eye. The
Gray Man slapped his hand away and tore the throwing knife clear. Gaspir gave a cry of pain and fell back. The Gray Man coolly sliced his blade across Gaspir’s throat. Ignoring the dying man, who continued to writhe on the floor, he walked across to Niall.

  “My parents are dead,” said Niall.

  “I know,” said the Gray Man, moving past Niall and making for the door. Gently he pushed it shut. He swung back to Niall.

  “Breathe slowly,” he said, “and look into my eyes.”

  Niall did so.

  “Now listen to me. If you are going to survive, you must understand your position. You are no longer the son of the mightiest man in the realm. You are, from this moment, an outlaw. They will hunt you and try to kill you. You are a man alone. You must learn to think like one. Now strap on that dagger belt and follow me.”

  Lord Shastar of House Bakard, his shirt torn away, blood seeping from the claw marks on his naked back, sat huddled against the western wall, watching the black hounds ripping flesh from the bodies, some of which were still living.

  Shastar sat very still, aware that the slightest movement could alert the creatures to his presence. Across from him he could see the bodies of the duke and his wife, with the dead Ruall lying beside them.

  The black-garbed warrior who had killed them was standing silently, arms folded across his chest.

  A massive hound padded across to where Shastar sat. He did not move. The beast’s nostrils flared, its huge head so close to Shastar’s that he could smell the beast’s fetid breath. Shastar closed his eyes, waiting for the fangs to rip away at him. Just then a dying woman close by let out a groan. The hound leapt upon her, and Shastar heard the sound of crunching bones.

  Voices sounded close by. Opening his eyes, he saw the magicker Eldicar Manushan strolling among the corpses. As he reached each hound, he lightly touched it. With each touch one of the creatures disappeared, until at last the hall was eerily silent.

  “Gods, what a mess,” he heard someone say. Shastar glanced to his right to see Lord Aric picking his way across the marble floor, careful to avoid the pools of blood and severed limbs. Shastar watched as if in a dream. He could hardly believe this was happening. How could a cultured man like Aric have been responsible for such a massacre? He had known Aric for years. They had hunted together, discussed art and poetry. There had been no indication of the monster dwelling within him.