Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  The Gray Man dragged the second corpse inside, then returned with a bucket of water and doused the blood on the ground. “Come inside,” he said, his voice cool.

  On leaden legs Niall stepped across the threshold. The bodies were to the right of the door. The Gray Man pushed it closed and led Niall into a long dark windowless room. He lit two lanterns, hanging them on the wall, and Niall saw that the room was hung with weapons and that targets had been placed around it, some round, as if for archery, others shaped into the forms of men.

  “They think you were responsible for the massacre,” said Niall.

  “It is no surprise. Murder and lies usually go together.”

  “I thought you had killed Aric.”

  “So did I, boy. The rug moved under my feet as I lunged at him. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this kind of life.”

  The Gray Man stripped off his silk jerkin, leggings, and boots, hurling them to a nearby bench. From a chest set against one wall he drew out a leather hunting shirt, buckskin leggings, and knee-length moccasins. Dressing swiftly, he strapped on a sword belt and then looped a baldric with seven throwing knives over his shoulder. He glanced back at Niall. “Get out of those clothes,” he said. He delved into the chest once more and produced a second shirt of dark leather, which he tossed to Niall.

  “Why did you save me?” asked Niall.

  The Gray Man stood silently for a moment. “To pay a debt, boy,” he said at last.

  “My name is Niall. Please be so kind as to use it.”

  “Very well, Niall. Get out of those clothes and find yourself a weapon that suits you. I would suggest a short sword, but there are several sabers. Also choose a hunting knife.”

  “A debt to whom?”

  The Gray Man paused. “This is no time for questions.”

  “I am the duke’s son …” Niall hesitated, seeing again his father’s corpse. “I am the duke of Kydor,” he continued, his voice trembling. “I have seen you kill four men tonight. I want to know why I am here and what your intentions are.”

  The Gray Man moved to a bench and sat down. He rubbed a hand across his face, and Niall saw how tired the man was. He was not young, and there were dark rings below his eyes. “It was my intention,” said the Gray Man, “to board a ship and leave this land, to find a place where there were no wars, no murders, no scheming politicians, no greed. That was my intention. Instead, I am about to be hunted once more. Why did I save you? Because a ghost came to a friend of mine. Because you are young and I knew you feared assassination. Because I am a fool, and somewhere deep inside me there is still a semblance of honor. Take your pick. As to my intentions toward you, I have none. Now choose a weapon and let us leave more questions until we are away from here.”

  “Who was the ghost?” persisted Niall.

  “Your grandfather, Orien the battle king.”

  “Why would he come to you?”

  “He didn’t. As I said, he came to a friend.” The Gray Man placed his hand on Niall’s shoulder. “I know this has been a terrible night for you, but believe me, it could get worse. We do not have the time to talk now. Later, when we are away from here, I will answer what questions you have. All right?”

  The Gray Man moved away. Niall removed his tunic and donned the shirt. It was too large, but it felt comfortable. He walked around the room, examining the weapons on display. He chose a saber with a blued blade and a fist guard of black-stained brass. It was beautifully balanced. Finding the scabbard and belt, he tried to put it on, but the belt was too large. “Here,” said the Gray Man, tossing him a baldric with a scabbard ring attached. Niall settled it into place and slipped the scabbard through the reinforced leather loop.

  “What do we do now?” asked Niall.

  “We live or we die,” said the Gray Man.

  Emrin’s head sagged forward. Blood was dripping from his mouth. His upper body was a sea of pain. “I don’t seem to be hearing any more smart remarks,” said Shad. His fist thundered against the side of Emrin’s head. The chair to which Emrin was tied swayed and fell to the floor. “Get him up!” ordered Shad. Rough hands grabbed Emrin. He felt sick as he was wrenched upright.

  Shad’s fingers took hold of Emrin’s hair, yanking his head back. “You want to say something funny now, Emrin?” he asked. Emrin’s left eye was closed, but he stared silently into Shad’s hatchet face. He wanted to summon up the courage for another insult, but there was nothing left. “You see, lads, he wasn’t so tough.”

  “I don’t know anything,” whispered Emrin. Shad’s fist slammed into his face, rocking his head back.

  Emrin spit out a broken tooth and sagged forward once more. Shad yanked his head back. “I no longer care if you know anything, Emrin. I’ve always hated you. Did you know that? Strutting around, fine as you like, with the Gray Man’s money in your pockets. Buying the pretty girls, looking down on us common soldiers. So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to beat you to death. I’m going to watch you suffocate on your own blood. What do you think of that?”

  “Hey, come on, Shad,” put in another soldier. “There’s no call for that.”

  “You can shut your mouth! If you’re that squeamish, wait outside.”

  Emrin’s heart sank as he heard the rasp of the door latch being lifted.

  “Now, what shall we do first to entertain you, Emrin?” asked Shad. “Perhaps we should cut off your fingers. Or maybe …” Emrin felt the touch of a dagger against his groin. For the first time he screamed, the sound echoing around the ceiling of the Oak Room.

  Hurling himself back against the chair, Emrin tipped it and crashed to the floor, struggling furiously with his bonds.

  “Pick him up,” ordered Shad. The two remaining guards moved to the chair.

  From his position on the floor Emrin saw the door open. The Gray Man stepped inside, a small double-winged crossbow in his hand.

  “Cut him loose,” said the Gray Man, “and I shall let you live.” His voice was calm and conversational.

  The three soldiers in the room backed away, drawing their weapons. It was Shad who spoke first. “Big of you,” he said. “But that weapon only has two bolts. There are three of us.”

  The Gray Man’s arm extended. A bolt sliced through the air, punching into Shad’s throat. He stumbled back, then fell to his knees, choking on his own blood.

  “Now there are two of you,” said the Gray Man. “Cut him loose.”

  The guards cast nervous glances at the dying Shad. One of them drew a knife and slashed through the ropes binding Emrin to the chair. Then he dropped the weapon and backed away to the wall. The other man followed his lead. The Gray Man walked past Emrin to the mortally wounded Shad. The man was weakly trying to pull the bolt from his throat. The Gray Man wrenched it clear. Blood spurted from the wound. Gagging and choking, Shad rolled to the floor. His legs kicked out, and he died.

  Emrin forced himself to his knees and tried to stand. He staggered. The Gray Man caught him. “Steady yourself. Take a few deep breaths. I need you to be able to ride.”

  “Yes, sir,” mumbled Emrin.

  A young man appeared at Emrin’s side. He saw that it was the duke’s son, Niallad. “Let me help you,” he said. Emrin leaned in to him.

  “Go to the stable,” said the Gray Man. “Saddle two mounts and the steeldust. I will see you there presently.”

  Supported by the youth, Emrin moved through the doorway. The body of the guard who had left the room was lying on the rug. His throat had been cut. Supported by Niallad, Emrin made it to the main doors and out into the sunlight. The fresh air helped revive him, and by the time they reached the stables he was walking unsupported.

  Norda was waiting there with several small sacks of supplies. She ran to Emrin. “Oh, my poor dear,” she said, reaching up and stroking his bruised and swollen face.

  “Not so pretty, eh?”

  “You look good to me,” she said. “Now you’d best be seeing to your horses. The Gentleman wants his steeldust saddled.
He told me that.” She took his hand. “Now you listen to me, Emrin. The Gentleman is a fine man, but he has many enemies. You look after him, now.”

  Suddenly, despite all his pain, Emrin laughed. “Me? Look after him? Ah, Norda, what a thought!”

  The Gray Man strode from the palace and along the gravel-covered path. Norda curtseyed as she saw him. Emrin saw that his face was grim. “Can you ride?” asked the Gray Man.

  “I can, sir.”

  Niall came from the stables, leading three saddled horses—two roans, and the steeldust gelding. The Gray Man stepped into the saddle and called out to Norda. “My thanks to you, girl.” Norda curtseyed. “And tell Matze Chai to return home.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Emrin walked to the first of the roans and painfully hauled himself into the saddle, then followed the Gray Man and the youth as they rode toward the trees.

  They had been riding in silence for almost an hour when Emrin heard the youth say: “The guards will raise the alarm. How soon before we are followed?”

  “We have a little time,” answered the Gray Man.

  The youth was silent for a moment. “You killed them, didn’t you?” he said at last.

  “Yes, I killed them.”

  “You told them you would let them live if they cut him loose. What kind of a man are you?” Emrin winced as he heard the question.

  The Gray Man did not answer. Swinging his horse, he rode back to Emrin. “Head west toward the forest, keeping the ruins to the south. If you see mist, keep clear of it. I will catch up with you before dusk.”

  “Yes, sir.” As the Gray Man rode back along the trail, Emrin called out: “And thank you!” Heeling his horse, he moved up alongside the young man.

  Niallad was flushed and angry. “He has no concern for human life,” he said.

  “He had concern for yours and mine,” said Emrin. “That’ll do for me.”

  “You condone what he did?”

  Emrin hauled on the reins and swung in the saddle to face the young noble. “Look at me!” he said fiercely, struggling to control his anger. “Those men were about to beat me to death. You think I care that they are dead? When I was a lad, a group of us thought it would be great sport to go on a deer hunt. We had our new spears, and a couple of us had hunting bows. Seven of us there were. We went into the mountains and soon came upon tracks. As we were closing in on our quarry, we moved into some dense undergrowth. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge grizzly reared up. One of my friends, an idiot named Steff, loosed a shaft into it. Only two of us made it down from the mountain.”

  “What has this to do with the Gray Man?” asked Niallad.

  “If you anger a bear, don’t be surprised if it rips your guts out!” snapped Emrin.

  Three-swords was hot, the sun beating down on his lacquered black hair while not a breath of breeze stirred against his ankle-length tunic of black silk. He stood quietly for a moment, his hands resting on the hilts of two curved swords scabbarded at his sides. A third sword hung between his shoulder blades, his ornate helm tied to the hilt. The Kriaz-nor scanned the clearing, then moved swiftly across it and into the shadows of the trees, closely followed by his three black-garbed companions.

  Once in the shade, Three-swords paused, enjoying the respite from the harsh sun. His golden eyes scanned the trail. Irritation touched him. They should have been given a hunt hound, for despite his tracking skills, they had lost the trail three times so far. It was most galling. Deresh Karany had given them three days to kill the sword bearers, and two were almost gone. If they failed to complete the task in the time allotted, it was likely that one of the four would be executed. Three-swords knew he was unlikely to be the one chosen, but with Deresh Karany nothing was certain.

  He glanced back at his squad. Most likely it would be Stone-four, he thought. Fresh from the stone training pen, he had yet to earn a fighting name. He had talent, though, as his apprentice name showed. He had finished fourth of fifty in the pen rankings for that year. Three-swords ordered his companions to remain where they were, then carefully scouted farther along the deer trail that led south through the trees. The ground was hard. Three-swords moved on. He heard the sound of water trickling over rocks and moved through the undergrowth toward it. Here the ground was softer, and between two bushes he saw hoofprints and alongside the water the deep impression left by a boot.

  Calling out to his soldiers, Three-swords waited for them to join him. “Maybe half a day, maybe less,” he said, his golden gaze focusing on the boot print. “Edges are drying out and crumbling.” The hulking, round-shouldered Iron-arm ambled forward. Pulling his scabbard from the black sash around his thick waist, Iron-arm dropped to his knees and then bent over, sniffing at the print. Closing his eyes, he screened out the scents of his three companions. A male fox had urinated in the bushes close by, the musky smell all but masking the delicate aroma left by the humans. Opening his eyes, he looked into the grim features of his captain, Three-swords. “One of them is very tired,” he said. “The one with drying blood on him. The other one—the Riaj-nor—is strong.”

  “He is not Riaj-nor,” said Three-swords. “Their order has died out. I am told they now have pale imitations calling themselves Rajnee. They have gone soft in this world. It happens.”

  “Not to us,” said Stone-four.

  Three-swords looked at the powerfully built young warrior and shook his head. “Until idiots start thinking that,” he said.

  Stone-four gave a low growl. His shoulders hunched. Three-swords stepped in close to the angry Kriaz-nor. “You think you are ready to face me? You think you have the skill? Make the challenge, sheep turd! Make it and I will take your head and eat your heart.”

  For a moment it seemed that Stone-four would draw his sword. His hand hovered over the black hilt. Then he relaxed.

  “Wise,” said Three-swords. “Now you might live long enough to earn a name.”

  “We should have them by nightfall,” said Iron-arm. “If we push hard.”

  “Better to reach them at midnight,” said Long-stride, the tallest of the quartet. His face was long and heavily bearded, his eyes deep-set, the pupils slitted. “They’ll be deep asleep.”

  “I’d sooner kill them in combat,” said Stone-four.

  “That’s because you’re young,” Long-stride said amiably. “They taste better if they die relaxed. Is that not so, Three-swords?”

  “Aye, it is true. Rage or fear stiffens the muscles. Don’t know why. Midnight it is. We shall rest here for an hour.”

  Three-swords moved away and sat by the stream. The powerful Iron-arm joined him. “No sign of Striped-claw’s squad. They must be nearly as close as us.”

  “Maybe closer,” said Three-swords, dipping his hand into the stream and scooping water to his thin mouth.

  Iron-arm dropped his voice. “Then why agree to wait until midnight? You want Striped-claw to be first?”

  Three-swords smiled. “I do not like Striped-claw. Too much cat in him. One of these days I’ll have to eat his heart. I’ll wager it will taste bad.”

  “So why allow him the glory of the kill?”

  “All the stories talk of the great skill of the Riaj-nor and the deadly spell poisons of their blades. If Striped-claw overcomes such a blade and takes the heart of the warrior who carries it, I will be disappointed. But I shall shrug and live with it.”

  “You don’t think that he will?”

  Three-swords thought about the question. “Striped-claw, though a ferociously good swordsman, is foolhardy and reckless. It would neither surprise me nor break my heart to hear of him being cut down by a Riaj-nor.”

  “You said these warriors were but pale imitations,” put in Iron-arm.

  “I said that is what I have been told. I prefer to withhold judgment until I have seen for myself.”

  Three-swords pulled the two scabbards from his waist sash and laid them on the ground. Then he stretched out on his side and closed his eyes.

  Yes, Striped-claw
would arrive first. He would rush in and engage the humans without any thought of their talents, relying on his own blistering speed and skill. With luck he would suffer hugely for it. Then his men would finish the humans, and Three-swords and his squad could join them for the ritual feast. It was a good thought.

  He lay quietly, allowing his body to relax.

  It was good to be wandering this land. For nine years Three-swords had traveled with the army, surrounded by hundreds of fellow Kriaz-nor, sleeping with nine others in a crowded tent, marching in formation, or attacking cities. In this land the sky seemed larger, and Three-swords found that he enjoyed the freedom his mission offered.

  He dozed for a while and then became aware that he was dreaming. He could see himself standing by a cabin, a stream running nearby, his children playing near the trees. He sat up, cursing inwardly. From where does such stupidity spring? he asked himself.

  “Bad dream?” asked Iron-arm.

  “No.” Three-swords pushed up the sleeve of his black silk tunic and gazed down on the fine wolf fur that covered his forearm. “It will be good when the army comes through,” he said. “I miss the life. Do you?”

  Iron-arm shrugged. “I don’t miss Sky-dagger’s snoring or the smell of Tree-nine’s feet.”

  Three-swords rose and slid the two scabbards back into his sash. “I am tired of this place,” he said. “We will not wait until midnight.”

  Kysumu tethered the horses and fed them the last of the grain. The sun was setting as he moved back into the campsite and prepared a small fire. Yu Yu was already asleep, his head resting on his cloak, his knees drawn up like a child. Kysumu gazed around at the trees, their trunks glowing in the light of the dying sun, and wished he had brought his charcoal and parchment. Instead he closed his eyes and tried for meditation. Yu Yu rolled to his back and began to snore softly.