Light of Eidon (Legends of the Guardian-King, Book 1) (66 page)

The clouds boiled closer, flickering with a roil of inner light-red, blue,
and purple. The air grew cold and heavy. Fear eeled into his soul, and though
he lifted the dagger he still held and stepped toward his fallen foe, he knew
without Eidon’s power he could do nothing.

And Eidon’s power, it seemed, was not forthcoming.

The mists dropped even closer, swallowing the rims of the cliffs, almost black save for the lights at their midst. Tension crackled in the thick air, and
the idol flashed with scarlet light. A loud crack resounded across the sand as
a gout of mingled color shot from the idol’s ugly grin into the open mouth of
the dead Supreme Commander.

The sound of bees mounted, a loud droning that momentarily resolved
into voices screaming their triumph. Abramm shuddered, imagining the
lights that must be out in that dark sea of startled faces. His heart was pounding double time, his knees quivered, and still the Light did not return to him.

On the sand before him, the corpse twitched, and the crowd gasped.

The corpse twitched again, then heaved a great, gasping breath and sat
up. Red fire blazed in its eyes and out of its mouth and nose, danced with less
intensity in the multifarious wounds, which were already closing. The fiery
gaze came round to focus on Abramm, grinning in a red leer that was the
image of the statue not twenty feet away.

And still Abramm was left with only flesh. He backed a step, trying to
hold down panic and confusion. Surely Eidon would not have done all he
had done only to abandon him now.

“I told you flesh was not enough to stand against a god.” The mouth
moved, but as with the priests, it seemed to be worked by an invisible puppeteer. The voice seemed to come from the clouds and the ground and the
stands, echoing and bouncing around him. “Nor is the power of the worthless
god you serve.”

The thing lurched unnaturally to its feet, stepped stiffly toward him. He
saw its chest swell as it drew breath to attack—

And two feathered arrows buried themselves in its heart, one from either
side, both blazing with white Terstan fire.

The creature lurched onward another step, then halted, arms spread,
mouth open. A great bellow tore out of it as the red light was suffused with
white, and the thing fell to its knees. The arrows blazed whiter and whiter,
the power spreading out from each shaft, flowing over the body, driving out
the red, and finally flashing in a blaze of such blinding intensity Abramm had
to turn away.

When he opened his eyes again, fighting to focus past the starbursts
clouding his vision, he found nothing left of the Supreme Commander but a
black, smoking smudge on the sand.

Across the arena, he picked out Katahn-Beltha’adi’s own heir-standing with a longbow in the noble’s box. Shemm stood armed likewise in the archway, the two of them in line with each other, the smoking hole between
them.

Abramm lifted the bloody dagger, drawing their attention to himself. “Let
all here know,” he cried, “that there is a god in Esurh? And he will not be
mocked!”

At his back, the Dorsaddi burst into a savage collective scream and raced
en masse across the canyon floor after their enemies.

Then, almost as if they were generated by the passion of the Dorsaddi
attack, the winds swooped down the wadi.

The carnage was swift and shocking, for the Esurhites owed much in Dorsaddi eyes and were granted no quarter. It was a tide of death to all in gray
tunics, leaving them cleaved and bloodied on the benches and the sandy
arena and up the Wadi Mudra to the main Esurhite camp on the arriza.
Others died downstream and in the temple and the treasury and the chieftain’s palace. As the clouds withdrew to their normal altitude, Abramm saw
men fighting on the rim and knew that the flanking force Shemm had sent
out was doing its job.

Abramm himself had grown alarmingly weak, and the wound in his side
pained him so deeply it was hard to think of anything else. He had fallen to
his knees-he did not remember when-and was having difficulty making
himself get up again when Katahn found him.

Abramm peered at him in bleary surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t very well go back with the Brogai, can I?”

“The Dorsaddi may kill you.”

“I’ll leave that to Sheleft’Ai.” He hauled Abramm to his feet. “Can you
walk?”

“I think so.”

They headed back toward the Wadi Juba, the wind whipping steadily
stronger against their backs. The torches had long since been uprooted and
blown away, and now other things rolled and skittered by-barrels, palm
fronds, saddle blankets, tenting. Sand pelted their cheeks and stung their eyes,
and their hair was torn from the knots on their necks to lash about their faces. Then, as the first spattering squall of rain dwindled away, a violent gust
slammed into them, and a thunderous boom shook the ground. Struggling
upright, they turned to find the statue of Khrell shattered to rubble on the
amphitheater’s tiered benches.

Dorsaddi raced by them, heading for shelter, many supporting wounded
comrades. They shouted things as they went past, but their words were lost
in the wind. Finally, though, one came to take Abramm from the other side,
and with his aid they quickly reached one of the openings along the wadi
floor.

A sizable crowd had already gathered in the vaulted chamber beyond, and
once again all eyes turned Abramm’s way. There was a moment of awkwardness-on their parts as they realized they’d run past the Pretender in their
haste to escape the storm, and on his because he didn’t like admitting he’d
needed their help. Now, without the wind to contend with, he shook off the
arm of the new man, and suddenly Shemm stood before him. He eyed
Abramm with concern and Katahn with distrust, though it was clear he recognized him from their encounter in the amphitheater.

“This was our informant,” Abramm said, stepping away from the Gamer.
“Katahn ul Manus. Show him your mark, my friend.”

Katahn unfastened his tunic and bared his chest.

“Your former master?” Shemm asked.

Abramm nodded. And cousin and heir to the great Beltha’adi. Which, I
guess, makes him king of the Esurhites now, if they’ll have him.” He flashed
a half smile at Katahn.

Shemm regarded Beltha’adi’s heir intently, seeming to see things Abramm
could not fathom. Then he nodded once and said to Katahn, “I will take him
now.”

“I can walk,” Abramm insisted, pushing away from them both.

They swallowed their protests as he reeled slightly, then took hold of himself and strode through the rapidly growing crowd. The men’s compliments
and congratulations embarrassed him, knowing how little he deserved them,
but he received them graciously nonetheless. He spied Cooper’s pale face
among them, staring at him as if he were not human, but he was too tiredand hurting too much-to do more than nod at the man.

Yearning for the privacy to collapse, he shuffled on, spoke another thank
you … and sensed sudden movement behind him. Instinct whirled him faster than thought. Jerking the short sword from Shemm’s scabbard as he
came around, he deflected the length of steel now plunging toward him. It
missed his ribs but sliced his side, and he staggered back, dizzy from his
efforts, as the man was seized from all sides. If Abramm hadn’t called a halt,
his assailant would have died on the spot.

Drawing a breath to steady his legs, Abramm straightened, gesturing with
his sword that the man be brought forward. He came head down, and recognition penetrated slowly. “Cooper?”

The old guardian raised his face, misery in his eyes, and fell to his knees.
“I swore an oath to King Raynen, my lord.” His voice was rough and so
wracked with emotion it was barely understandable. “To kill you if we found
you. I don’t believe he thought we would. I didn’t.” He paused, drew a deep
breath that was nearly a sob. “Kill me now, my lord, and end this for me. I
beg you.”

Abramm stared down at him, leaning heavily on Shemm now, so shocked
and benumbed by the betrayal he could hardly think. And yet he must. He
must think, must resolve this now, must order the man executed for his
crime. Mustn’t he?

For the first time since Beltha’adi’s death, Eidon’s Light rippled through
him, clearing his mind, sending strength back to his wavering knees. He
recalled the sober, scarred face, the dark gentle eyes-and the cancelled debt
of his own affronts, far greater than any Cooper might commit against him.

I do not deserve even to live, he thought, yet here I stand with victory and
honor and protections upon protection. How can I punish a man bound by an illmade oath? An oath he could not have avoided making had he wanted to?

Moreover, Cooper could not have picked a worse moment to attack or
executed it more ineptly.

Abramm swallowed on a raw throat and was shocked to find what an
inhuman rasp his voice had become. “I’ll not kill you, Felmen Cooper. You
were only carrying out what you were sworn to do.” He swallowed again,
mastered the tremor that had crept into his words, and pitched his voice to
carry and convince. “You have failed, and but for my mercy you would never
have another chance. I count that full satisfaction of honor’s demands. Moreover, Raynen is dead, so the oath would no longer bind you in any case.”

Cooper looked up at him, horrified astonishment now mingling with his
shame. “Dead, my lord?”

“So I understand.” His voice was growing steadily hoarser, and he was
beginning to shiver. If you don’t wrap this up soon, he told himself, you’ll be
flat on your face before all of them.

He spoke to the Dorsaddi at Cooper’s side. “Stand him up.”

On his feet, Cooper stared at the floor again, seeming lost and bewildered.

“You’ve shown your sense of loyalty, at least,” Abramm said. “I would
hope henceforth you direct it toward those who are your friends.”

And that was definitely enough. He limped on toward the curtained archway not far ahead now.

“That makes you king, my lord,” Cooper said in a low voice.

Abramm turned yet again. His old guardian was staring at him with wide
eyes and pale face. That look of worship had returned, and there was nothing
subtle about it.

Other faces stared at him in surprise, as well.

“The third king,” someone muttered.

And at once the words whispered through the gathering. “Shemm …
Katahn … Abramm … three kings.”

Thus another prophecy is fulfilled, Abramm thought wryly. I wonder what
Trap will say to this.

Trap! Is he even alive?

Cooper suddenly stepped toward him, startling his Dorsaddi guards.
Before they could catch him, he flung himself at Abramm’s feet. “You have
bought my life, Sire. Whatever you ask, I will do; whatever I have, it is yours;
whenever you call, I will come.”

Abramm gulped, staring at him in astonishment, the ancient words of
fealty registering slowly. Light’s Grace? Was Cooper swearing allegiance to
him?

Abramm shook his head. “We are not in Kiriath, Cooper. And I am not a
king here. I am just a man like you. Although I value your loyalty and your
friendship more than I can say.”

He tried again to leave, but again Cooper stopped him. “Sire, the mark
on your chest-they say it is free for the asking.”

“For those who wish to know Eidon.”

“If it is him you serve, then I wish to know him.”

Startled, Abramm glanced at Shemm. “How do you… ?”

“You just think it.”

And as easy as that, Cooper took the blazing orb from where it floated in
the air, and the golden shield bloomed upon his chest. It was hard to tell who
was more astonished, the giver or the recipient.

After that, it all caught up with Abramm, and he remembered very little,
except that he finally did collapse, despite all his efforts not to. The pain
returned tenfold, making him gasp and shudder, and someone found the cut
deep in his side. He heard curses of surprise and anguish, shouts for aid, and
after a time, even Carissa’s voice, high-pitched with hysteria. Then it all faded
away, and he heard only the incessant howling of the wind.

It was still howling when he awoke, accompanied now by the smack and
spatter of rain. At first he couldn’t figure out what it was, so long had it been
since he’d heard it. He also had no idea where he was-some upper room
along the Wadi Juba, perhaps. The arched window across the chamber
revealed the canyon’s familiar red face, veiled now in driving lines of rain.
The wind blew away from the archway, fortunately, though heavy woolen
curtains framed it in readiness should conditions change.

As his mind slowly churned back to awareness, his hand slid across his
chest, fingers tracing over scabs and tender stitched-up slits until they came
at last to the shieldmark glittering over his breastbone. A thrill of wonder
swept him. It really had happened, then.

Sighing, he took closer note of his surroundings. He lay on a feather mattress dressed in silk sheets and accompanied by the usual excess of pillows.
Sheer draperies descended from the ceiling above him, roped back to the
wall. A brazier of coals stood nearby, and beyond that Carissa lay asleep on a
mattress of her own.