Shadow of a Dark Queen (3 page)

If Jarwa was impressed by the sacrifice, he gave no hint. He motioned his youngest son outside the great tent. The youth followed his father to the ridge and looked down upon the distant city, made hellish in the demons' fires. Faint screams, far beyond those made by mortal throat, tore the evening, and the young leader pushed back the urge to turn his face away.

“Jatuk, by this time tomorrow, on some distant world, you will be Sha-shahan of the Saaur.”

The youth knew this was true no matter how much he would wish it otherwise. He made no false protest.

“I have no trust of snake priests,” whispered Jarwa. “They may seem like us, but always remember, their blood runs cold. They are without passion and their tongues are forked. Remember also the ancient lore of the last visit to us by the snakes, and remember the tales of treachery since the Mother of us all gave birth to the hot bloods and the cold bloods.”

“Father.”

Putting his hand, calloused with years of swordwork and scarred by age and battle, upon his son's shoulder, he gripped hard. Firm young muscle resisted under his grasp, and Jarwa felt a faint spark of hope. “I have given my oath, but you will be the one who must honor the pledge. Do nothing to disgrace your ancestors or your people, but be vigilant for betrayal. A generation of service to the snakes is our pledge: thirty turnings of this alien world. But remember: should the snakes break the oath first, you are free to do as you see fit.”

Removing his hand from his son's shoulder, he motioned for Kaba to approach. The Sha-shahan's Shieldbearer approached with his lord's helm, the
great fluted head covering of the Sha-shahan, while a groom brought a fresh horse. The great herds had perished, and the best of what remained would go to the new world with the Saaur's children. Jarwa and his warriors would have to make do with the lesser animals. This one was small, barely nineteen hands, hardly large enough to carry the Sha-shahan's armored weight. No matter, thought Jarwa. The fight would be a short one.

Behind them, to the east, a crackle of energy exploded, as if a thousand lightning strikes flashed, illuminating the night. A second later a loud thunder peal sounded, and all turned to see the shimmering in the sky. Jarwa said, “The way is open.”

The snake priest hurried forward, pointing down the ridge. “Lord, look!”

Jarwa turned to the west. Out of the distant flames small figures could be seen flying toward them. Bitterly Jarwa knew this was a matter of perspective. The screamers were the size of an adult Saaur, and some of the other fliers were even larger. Leathery wings would make the air crack like a wagoneer's whip, and shrieks that could drive a sane warrior to madness would fill the dark. Looking at his own hand for any signs of trembling, Jarwa said to his son, “Give me your sword.”

The youth did as he was bid, and Jarwa handed his son's sword to Kaba. Then he removed Tual-masok from his scabbard and gave it, hilt first, to his son. “Take your birthright and go.”

The youth hesitated, then gripped the hilt. No loremaster would glean this ancient weapon from his father's body to present to the heir. It was the first time in the memory of the Saaur that a Sha-shahan
had voluntarily surrendered the bloodsword while life remained in his heart.

Without another word, Jatuk saluted his father, turned, and walked to where his own companions waited. With a curt wave of his hand, he motioned for them to mount and ride to where the remaining masses of the Saaur gathered to flee to a distant world.

Four jatar would ride through the new portal, while the remaining part of the fifth, as well as all of Jarwa's old companions and loremasters, would stay behind to hold the demons at bay. Chanting filled the air while the loremasters wove their arts, and suddenly the air erupted in blue flames as a wall of energy spread across the sky. Demons flying into the trap screamed in anger and pain as blue flames seared their bodies. Those that quickly turned away were spared, but those that were too far into the energy field smoldered and burned, evil black smoke pouring from their fiery wounds. A few of the more powerful creatures managed to reach the ridge, where Saaur warriors leaped without hesitation to hack and chop at their bodies. Jarwa knew it was a faint triumph, for only those demons whom magic had seriously wounded could be so quickly dispatched.

Then the snake priest howled. “They are leaving, lord.”

Jarwa glanced over his shoulder and saw the great silver portal hanging in the air, what the snake had called a rift. Through it rode the van of the Saaur youth, and for an instant Jarwa imagined he could see his son vanish from sight—though he knew it was wishful thinking. The distance was too vast to make out such detail.

Then Jarwa returned his attention to the mystic barrier that now shone white-hot where demons brought their own arts to bear. He knew the fliers were more a nuisance than a danger: their speed made them deadly for lone riders or the weak or wounded, but a strong warrior could dispatch one without difficulty. It would be those that followed the fliers who would end his life.

Rents in the energy appeared along the face of the barrier, and as they did, Jarwa could glimpse dark figures approaching from beyond it. Large demons who could not fly, save by magic, hurried over the ground, running at the best speed of a Saaur horse and rider, their evil howls adding to the sounds of battle. The snake priest put forth his hand and flames erupted where a demon attempted to pass through a rent in the barrier, and Jarwa could see the snake priest stagger with the effort.

Knowing the end was but moments away, Jarwa said, “Tell me one thing, snake: why do you choose to die here with us? We had no choice, and you were free to leave with my children. Does death at the hands of those”—he motioned toward the approaching demons—“hold no terror for you?”

With a laugh the Ruler of the Empire of Grass could only think of as mocking, the snake priest said, “No, my lord. Death is freedom, and you shall quickly learn that. We who serve in the palace of the Emerald Queen know this.”

Jarwa's eyes narrowed. So the ancient legends were true! This creature
was
one of those whom the Mother Goddess had birthed. With a flash of anger, Jarwa knew that his race was betrayed and that this creature was as bitter an enemy as those who raced
to eat his soul. With a cry of frustration, the Sha-shahan struck out with his son's sword and severed the head from the shoulders of the Pantathian.

Then the demons were loose among the rear guard and Jarwa could spare but a moment to think of his son and his companions' children, upon a distant world under an alien sun. As the Lord of the Nine Oceans turned to face his foe, he made a silent prayer to his ancestors, to the Riders of the Heavenly Horde, to watch over the children of the Saaur.

One form loomed above the rest, and as if sensing his approach, the lesser demons parted. A figure twice the height of the tallest Saaur, more than twenty-five feet tall, strode purposefully toward Jarwa. Powerful of form, his body looked much like that of a Saaur—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, large arms and legs well fashioned—but his back bore huge wings that seemed composed of tattered black leather, and his head . . . A triangular skull, much like that of a horse, was covered by thin skin, as if leather had been stretched across bone. Teeth were exposed, fangs close together, and the eyes were pits of red fire. Around his head danced a ring of flames, and his laughter turned Jarwa's blood to ice.

The demon pushed past his lesser brethren, ignoring those who rushed forward to defend the Sha-shahan. He struck out, ripping flesh apart as easily as a Saaur tore bread. Jarwa stood ready, knowing each moment stolen before his death allowed more of his children to flee through the rift.

Then the demon reared over Jarwa as a warrior stands over a child. The Sha-shahan struck out with as much strength as he could muster, raking his son's
sword across the creature's outstretched arm. The demon shrieked at the pain, but then ignored the wound, slowing for a second while black talons the size of daggers skewered Jarwa, punching through armor and body, as he gripped him around the middle.

The demon raised the ruler of the Saaur up toward his face and held him at eye level. As the light in Jarwa's eyes began to fade, the demon laughed and said, “You are the ruler of nothing, foolish mortal. Your soul is mine, little creature of flesh! And after I eat you, still shall you linger, to amuse me between feedings!”

For the first time since birth, Jarwa, Sha-shahan of the Seven Nations, Ruler of the Empire of Grass, Lord of the Nine Oceans, knew terror. And as his mind cried out, his body went limp. From a vantage above his own flesh, he felt his spirit rise, to fly to the Heavenly Horde, yet something bound him and he could not leave. He perceived his own body, being devoured by this demon, and in his spirit's mind he heard the demon say, “I am Tugor, First Servant of Great Maarg, Ruler of the Fifth Circle, and you are my plaything.”

Jarwa cried, but he had no voice, and he struggled, though he had no body, and his spirit was held by mystic chains as binding as iron on flesh. Wailing spirit voices told him his companions were also falling. With what will remained he turned his perceptions toward the distant rift and saw the last of his children leaving. Taking what small comfort he could from the sight of the rift suddenly vanishing in the night, the shade of Jarwa wished his son and his people safe haven and protection from the snakes' deceit on the distant world the Pantathians called Midkemia.

T
he Trumpet
sounded.

Erik wiped his hands on his apron. He was doing little real work since finishing his morning chores, merely banking the fire so he would not have to restart a cold forge should there be new work later in the day. He considered that unlikely, as everyone in the town would be lingering in the square after the Baron's arrival, but horses were perverse creatures who threw shoes at the least opportune moment, and wagons broke down at the height of inconvenience. Or so his five years of assisting the blacksmith had taught him. He glanced at where Tyndal lay sleeping, his arm wrapped lovingly around a jug of harsh brandy. He had begun drinking just after breakfast, “hoisting a few to the Baron's health,” he claimed. He had fallen asleep sometime in the last hour while Erik finished the smith's work for him. Fortunately, there was little the boy couldn't do, he being large for his age and an old hand at compensating for the smith's shortcomings.

As Erik finished covering the coals with ashes, he could hear his mother calling from the kitchen. He
ignored her demand that he hurry; there was more than enough time. There was no need to rush: the Baron would not have reached the edge of the town yet. The trumpet announced his approach, not his arrival.

Erik rarely considered his appearance, but he knew today was going to thrust him into the forefront of public scrutiny, and he felt he should attempt to look respectable. With that thought, he paused to remove his apron, carefully hung it on a peg, then plunged his arms into a nearby bucket of water. Rubbing furiously, he removed most of the black soot and dirt, then splashed water on his face. Grabbing a large clean cloth off a pile of rags used for polishing steel, he dried himself, removing what the water hadn't through friction.

In the dancing surface of the water barrel he considered his broken reflection: a pair of intense blue eyes under a deep brow, a high forehead from which shoulder-length blond hair swept back. No one today would doubt that he was his father's son. His nose was more his mother's, but his jaw and the broad grin that came when he smiled were the mirror image of his father's. But where his father had been a slender man, Erik was not. A narrow waist was his only heritage from his father. He had his maternal grandfather's massive shoulders and arms, built up through working at the forge since his tenth birthday. Erik's hands could bend iron or break walnuts. His legs were also powerful, from supporting plow horses who leaned on the smith while he cut, filed, and shod their hooves, or from helping to lift carts when replacing broken wheels.

Erik ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble.
Blond as a man could get, he had to shave only every third day or so, for his beard was light. But he knew his mother would insist on him looking his best today. He quickly hurried to his pallet behind the forge, taking care not to disturb the smith, and fetched his razor and mirror. A cold shave was not his idea of pleasure, but far less irritating than his mother would be should she decide to send him back for the razor. He wet his face again and started scraping. When he was done, he looked at himself one more time in the shimmering water.

No woman would ever call Erik handsome: his features were large, almost coarse, from the lantern jaw to the broad forehead; but he possessed an open, honest look that men found reassuring and women would come to admire once they got used to his almost brutish appearance. At fifteen years of age, he was already the size of a man, and his strength was approaching the smith's; no boy could best him at wrestling, and few tried anymore. Hands that could be clumsy when helping set platters and mugs in the common room were sure and adroit when working in the forge.

Again his mother's voice cut through the otherwise quiet morning, demanding he come inside now. He rolled down his sleeves as he left the smithy, a small building placed hard against the outside rear wall of the livery. Circling the barn, he came into sight of the kitchen. As he passed the open stable door, he glanced at those horses left in his care. Three travelers were guesting with his master, and their mounts were quietly eating hay. The fourth horse was lying up from an injury and she neighed a greeting at Erik. He couldn't help but smile; in the
weeks he had been tending her she had come to expect his midmorning visits, as he trotted her out to see how she mended.

“I'll be back to visit later, girl,” he called softly to her.