The Deadwalk (13 page)

“You could start,” he said sharply, “by remembering what's at stake.”

The romantic moment had passed. Nhaille the teacher, Nhaille the Captain had
replaced the lover she'd so briefly caught a glimpse of. Riordan shook her head,
wondering how he managed to keep such wildly differing emotions in separate
little pockets in his mind.

“Concentrate?” she offered. “The way you taught me to do in combat.”

“Like it or not.” He shot her a pointed glance. “You cannot allow your
thoughts to become scattered while you wield the Sword. No by hatred, nor
revenge. You must have a clear mind for this, Riordan.”

She read the subtext in his words. Not by hate, nor by love. Have it your
way, Nhaille. What will you do if the war ends with us both alive?

“Forgive me for wanting a few moments to myself.”

Nhaille let loose a sigh of exasperation. “It isn't that, Riordan. Your
tendency toward impulsiveness is more than just a personality trait. It could
mean Kanarek's undoing.”

His words stung. More so because she recognized the truth in them. She
fiddled with the laces of her armor and regarded him from beneath her visor.

“This dark path on which you've set yourself can lead only to ruin.”

Riordan accepted the blow with all the grace she could summon. If she allowed
her hatred for Doan-Rau to overwhelm her once the Sword was unsheathed, she
might forget she fought for Kanarek's salvation and kill them all. “I do hear
you, Nhaille.”

“Good. Then learn from your mistake.”

“I'm listening.”

Not for the first time she pitied the men who'd served under him early in his
career. She knew from experience the King's Captain could be a ruthless
teacher.

“You have already deduced that the Sword channels power from the earth. But
it is guided by the energy of the person who wields it. If you waste thoughts on
hate and revenge, the Sword will use them against you. And ultimately for its
own purpose.”

“I must focus my thoughts.” A smile spread slowly across her face. “Like when
I used that piece of glass to focus the sunlight and burn ants out by the
barn.”

“Cruel of you. The ants did you no harm.”

“You don't spare the same sympathy for Haelians, I gather?”

“No.”

“That was a joke, Nhaille. It was supposed to be funny.”

“We have no time for humor,” he shot back. Still in a bad mood from their
argument, and she suspected, for his own actions the night before.

Riordan groaned. It seemed Nhaille was determined to spend the rest of the
day in the dark mood he got up in.

“We haven't declared war on Hael yet,” she pointed out.

Nhaille wiped at the sweat that was dripping from his eyebrows into his eyes.
“Not yet. First, we need an army.”

#

The crystal landscape wept by in a pastel blur. Rau noticed vaguely when the
scenery turned from quartz to fine sand, and then to desert. Mercilessly, he put
the spurs to his warhorse, praying that along with the rest of his bad luck, he
wouldn't lame the stallion before he reached civilization.

Viciously, Rau cursed the human failings that made him stop for sleep each
night. He cursed his warhorse for needing to be fed and tended. Such things took
time, the one commodity he didn't have. With each minute lost the Haelian throne
slipped a little further from his grasp.

Failure roared in his ears, taunting his every waking moment, reaching even
into his dreams. He'd ambitiously sought after the greatest prize of all.

For the first time in his life, he'd failed.

Defeat sat sourly in his stomach.

His glorious victory had been planned in minute detail. First, the Amber,
then Kanarek, after that the coast. But like something from a minstrel's song, a
myth had come riding out of the history books. And she'd tossed the most
dangerous of all weapons into the equation.

In doing so, she'd thrown his best laid plans to the wind.

How had it happened? What vital clue had he missed?

Through the Amber, he could hear the whisper of a myriad souls. The volume
increased with every step he took. Rau realized with a sharp stab of dismay that
in his bid to win for himself both the Amber and the Sword, he hadn't focused
enough of his attention on controlling the Amber.

Hindsight showed him his errors in painful clarity. He should have crushed
Kanarek, Kholer and Golar to ruins, then waited for the Kanarekii myth to catch
up with him. Even the Sword of Zal-Azaar would have been powerless in the wake
of such destruction. And his father would have had no recourse but to grant him
the throne.

Instead he dashed off across the desert, desperate to keep news of Kanarek's
Queen and her fabled weapon from reaching his father's ears. Without his
leadership, who knew how things had fared in Kholer. Desperate to get his hands
on the Sword, he hadn't given much thought to whether Larz had a strong enough
constitution to use the Amber.

What if Kholer was lost?

He'd spent far too much time out of touch. Errors multiplied in his
absence.

Within the cries of a multitude of souls, he heard a single clear note.

The Sword was drawn. Nothing he could do about it now. The entire landscape
thrummed with the its pulse. It tugged at the edges of his consciousness, pulled
at the tides of his blood.

Even the amber shard at his neck vibrated in greeting. Like opposite ends of
a magnet, complementary wizardries rushed toward each other in the most
dangerous of all attractions. War.

As he raced back over his steps, he felt the storm gathering behind him. Like
lightning, its influence crackled across the landscape. The war would not see
its end until one of the great powers lay in ashes. A fool, he'd been. He saw
that clearly now.

Damn Riordan-Khun-Caryn and the Shraal blood that ran in her veins. Rau spat
into the dust that lay in a thin layer over the crystal landscape. Before him in
the distance lay the desert. Crossing it in defeat did not seem as inviting a
prospect as it had when the promise of victory lay ahead. The Kanarekii Queen
would pay dearly for his torment.

“I pray you've made me proud, Larz,” he whispered to the sifting wind that
swirled dust around the legs of his warhorse.

Never should he have left his life's work in the hands of another. He'd
risked life, limb and his command for the Kanarekii heirloom, the Sword of
Zal-Azaar. And she snatched it from right out of his hands.

“An inconvenience,” he muttered aloud. Nothing more. Even if they met in
battle, with the Amber behind him, he was certain to be victorious.

“Let's see if you're still so proud of yourself when you've had a taste of
Haelian magic, Your Majesty.”

Should have rammed that stake of amber into her brain while he had the
chance.

Not to worry. He had only to be patient. Another opportunity would present
itself.

#

Smoke. All around him. Enough to sting even tearless eyes. Enough to force
long flattened lungs to heave in distress.

Deep in the caverns of his failing memory, he recalled smoke such as this. It
meant something significant, even buried beneath the cotton batten in his
brain.

Screams rose up around him in a dying chorus. Where had he last seen a city
reduced to smoldering timber, its population cut down in their homes, their
fields? His failing mind matched the images. For a second there was a break in
the Amber's hold on him. For a moment it was all diamond clear.

Kanarek.

He'd watched the fiends from Hael come marching through the city gates with
his own eyes. Nothing could stem the flow of their destruction as they bled into
Kanarekii territory. And in that one, brilliant second, Bevan remembered
suddenly what he was.

A pathetic dead thing, even now rotting in the glare of the sun. A puppet for
the Haelian fiend who had stolen his life and his home.

Around him, he saw himself mirrored in a multitude of other mutilated faces.
Tilting his head to see through the blurry vision of his left eye, he regarded
his filthy stained clothes, the creeping blackness of his deteriorating flesh,
and knew he'd become the instrument of their own destruction.

The knowledge rekindled his forgotten conscience. Regret sliced through him.
Pain followed swiftly.

Life had always seemed to him a precious gift. Dimly, he remembered the feel
of life: the joy of running through an open meadow, freedom, love. He stared at
the devastation around him, at the lumbering shadows he knew were his fellow
slaves. This travesty wasn't life, but some cruel imitation to further Hael's
interests. It must be stopped.

Throwing back his head, he uttered a soundless scream of defiance.

Around him, he noticed several of the other shadows milling aimlessly. The
voice in his mind dropped to a low murmur. Consciousness came and went, like
sticking gears now and then catching their grooves.

Something along the chain of command had gone terribly wrong. Bevan fought to
stay with the foggy thoughts of his failing mind.

In the depths of his being a tiny spark was ignited. Human thoughts caught
the flame. A great wrong had been committed.

Just as he remembered life, Bevan remembered hatred.

Suddenly Bevan wanted revenge.

With the last of his awareness he thought, Now's my chance.

“So where are we going to get an army?”

Riordan was dismayed to realized that until now, her thoughts had been
focused on selfish matters: the cruelty of her fate, her fledgling romance with
Nhaille. Even finding the Sword had come a distant second, until she had been
kidnapped by Doan-Rau. Locating the Sword was where her plans ended. She hadn't
expected to succeed, honestly hadn't expected to live that long.

Guess there's something to be said for long range planning. Rau's scathing
remarks about her strategic ability stung even in memory. More so because deep
down she knew he was right.

“It might please you to know your father was neither stupid, blind nor idle.”

Nhaille's voice revealed his anger at her condemnation of his King. And the
comment hurt. She hadn't meant to accuse her father of either crime. He'd paid
dearly enough for his decision to wait to see if the prophecy unfolded.

“The Kanarekii underground has been active since you were born. A mechanism
for a counter-strike is in place. With the Sword at our disposal, we finally
have the resources to put your father's plans into action. Hopefully enough of
our countrymen survived to assist us.”

She regarded the space between Strayhorn's ears, refusing to meet Nhaille's
eyes.

“He did the best he could for you under the circumstances.”

Dead staring eyes accused her. Could it be that he'd cared after all? Enough
to send her beyond harm's reach? Enough to sacrifice his most capable officer to
protect her. Perhaps in the beginning he hadn't believed, but he'd put the
skeleton of a rebellion in place anyway.

And prayed he was wrong.

“You inherited his greatest burden and his deepest sorrow, but he did love
you, Riordan.”

“He never knew me, Nhaille.”

“Yes he did. He watched you from afar. He was certain that if any of his
children could accomplish such a thing, it would be you.”

“The one time he came to see me, all he did was shout at me. How do you think
that felt? He could have spared me a moment of compassion. At least then I would
have known I was loved.”

“He was a desperate man. He feared his love would weaken you.”

“I was just a child.” Her pale eyes flashed at him. “It was unfair to treat
me that way.”

“You were never just a child, Riordan. You were our only hope.”

“I wasn't allowed to be a child. That's the truth of it, isn't it,
Nhaille?”

“Unfortunately that is so.” He offered her a hopeful glance. “Perhaps when
the worst of this is over, you will have a chance to do some of the things you
wanted to do with your life.”

“If I live long enough.” She slammed her fist against her thigh. “You've all
looked to me for your salvation. Whose shoulder am I going to lean on in my
desperation?”

He set his jaw against the wound she dealt him. “I am here, Riordan,” he said
quietly.

She bit her tongue against the tears. Apparently it was not destined to go
well between them today. An extra cruelty after the tenderness of the previous
night. Damned if she'd cry again over her lot in life.

But she did want to mend things with Nhaille, to foster again more of those
feelings of tenderness.

“Kayr, I'm sorry.”

His jaw tightened at the sound of his name, but he nodded curtly in receipt
of her apology. Why? she wondered. Why did his given name make him flinch as if
she'd struck him?

“I ought to stop pitying myself.”

“It merely wastes more time and accomplishes nothing.”

“Surely even The Queen is allowed the odd bad day.”

“Unfortunately, Riordan, exemplary behavior is expected of The Queen.”

She made him a peace offering of her smile. “Then perhaps my loyal subject
will forgive me for my bad humor.”

Nhaille inclined his head. “I am your servant, Your Majesty.”

“No, you're not Nhaille. You're my friend.”

Her declaration took him off guard. She watched his expression soften as he
accepted her offer of friendship. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.
“As you are mine.”

She noticed the lines beneath his eyes and at the corners of his mouth were
deeper than they had been even a few days ago.

Her friendship, it seemed, had its price.

#

Moonlight etched the sand with blue shadow. The percussive hiss of sand
punctuated each gust of wind. But Riordan paid the desert's quiet beauty no
heed. The beat of one tiny heart absorbed her senses.

Her hand closed around the crystal hilt. She slid the Sword from its
scabbard. Nearly invisible, it caught the moon's glow in a flash of molten
silver.

The Sword's consciousness poured into her mind. Like a cold puddle it lay
there, flooding all other thought.

“Concentrate.” Nhaille's voice was barely a whisper on the wind.

Riordan wrapped her will about the Sword's and forced it into a low mutter in
her mind. Almost bearable, as long as she didn't listen too closely to its
seductive murmur. She opened her eyes and looked around her.

The desert stood out in sharp relief against the darkness of the sky. Beneath
each rock, each scrubby bush the essence of life glowed like a beacon. Rabbits,
mice, lizards in their burrows. She heard the rush of their quick panting
breaths, the whisper of blood through tiny veins, the thump of miniature hearts,
overlapping.

She released her hold on the Sword, momentarily giving it free rein. In the
deep shadow of a rock, the lifeforce of its intended victim beckoned. A large
mouse. Through the Sword's consciousness, she could see the inky gleam of its
tiny eyes, the soft down of its pelt. Its aura blazed against the darkness.
Riordan crept closer.

Like a divining rod, the Sword swung into position. Covering her footsteps
beneath the wind's low sigh, she inched toward her miniature prey. The Sword
sliced the shadows. The little creature looked up suddenly, its eyes bright with
fear. It froze against the darkness. Belatedly, it sought its escape. Riordan
sprang.

The Sword pierced its tiny breast. A sharp cry, surprisingly loud, echoed off
the rock above. It struggled, briefly. Its lifeforce raced up the Sword,
entering her with an electric shock. A blinding flash lit up the ground around
her. Slowly, it faded. When she looked down, the small corpse had vanished into
the Sword.

Mouse thoughts echoed in her brain, urgent and alien. She felt its tiny body
cling to the dissipating thread of life, felt it accept at last the seductive
call of death. Riordan cried out at the strangeness of it, her own fear mingling
with its last dying thoughts. Desert wildlife scattered for the safety of their
burrows.

“Riordan!” Nhaille's voice seemed to come from very far away. She remembered
vaguely she ought to be listening. But the Sword, once its appetite had been
tempted, hungered for more.

“Put the Sword down!”

She heard the command, desperately wanted to obey. Riordan turned toward the
sound of his voice. The brilliance of his lifeforce froze the breath in her
throat.

The Sword wanted him. Desire warped her thoughts, turning them from Nhaille's
orders to its own dire purposes. And if the Sword wanted his soul, so did
she.

“Focus your thoughts.”

Nhaille's voice was lost in the roar of the Sword's hunger.

“Exert your will.”

Her foot slid forward. She dragged it back, only to find the other inching in
his direction. Oblivious to her will, her arm extended, the Sword's point
reaching toward the lifeforce that blazed like a torch in the darkness.

Riordan hauled her arm back, but the Sword would not be dissuaded. Slowly,
she felt her elbow straightening. “Gods, Nhaille,” she ground out through
clenched teeth, “I can't!”

“Yes you can, Riordan. Concentrate!”

For a moment she envisioned it vividly: the Sword plunging into his chest,
the shocked look on his face, the blood blackened by the darkness, and lastly,
his lifeforce rushing through her. His thoughts pressed next to hers in her
mind.

“No!”

She dashed past him, tearing mind and body from the Sword's grasp. It hurt.
Agony seared her brain, every muscle screamed in protest.

Something scurried away in the darkness, low to the ground. She seized on
this new direction, hauling the Sword with her.

A grunt. A dying shriek, quickly silenced.

Riordan speared the Sword into the ground. Flesh parted under its razor-sharp
edge, tiny bones crunched. Then it plunged into the sand and stayed there.

Rodent thoughts assaulted her mind. The Sword grasped after its elusive
lifeforce, catching it, suspending it in time and space. The bright stab of its
fear sliced through her mind like a knife. This time she opened her mind to feel
it, then let it go.

Strength fled her. She crumpled to her knees and knelt there panting.

“Well,” said a voice behind her. “That was marginally better than last
time.”

She looked up at Nhaille silhouetted against the moon. “It always wants you.
Why?”

“You have strong emotions where I am concerned.”

A fact, calmly stated. Well, at least he's starting to accept it. “Emotions
that could get you killed,” she said.

Nhaille offered his hand. His skin was warm to the touch after the coolness
of the Sword. She let him pull her to her feet and into his arms. Soothing hands
stroked her back.

“It's all right, Riordan. You haven't killed me yet.”

She looked up at him, the moonlight gilding his hair. “Nothing would be worth
it if I did.”

#

Bevan hefted the axe which he'd been about to lay into the side of a
smoldering building and tested its weight. After weeks under the Amber's
control, independent thought was foreign. He clung to the tendrils of his
intermittent thoughts, clung to the concept of revenge. He flexed stiffening
muscles and tested the axe's weight again. Spurred by will alone, his decaying
arms obeyed.

Around him, a gathering of dead slaves stared back at him, awaiting his next
move. Bevan turned his one rotting eye toward the line of Haelian soldiers
sitting idly upon their horses while the army of the dead accomplished the ugly
work of leveling the city of Kholer. The assembly of slaves followed his
gaze.

Oblivious to the multitude of eyes upon them, the soldiers baked in their
armor under the sun and talked of families back home and the leave to come.
Through the Amber Bevan found he could hear the sluggish thoughts of the other
dead. He sent out an order of his own. Shaken from their stupor, the dead raised
their battle axes.

“Hael?” one darkly tanned soldier said to his fellow. “Why would you want to
stay inland? When this,” he encompassed the tumult around him in a wide sweep of
his arm, “is all over, I intend to take up residence in Golar by the sea.”

“Assuming we conquer Golar,” said the other soldier. A tremor of unease
betrayed his voice.

The tattered rebellion crept closer. Bevan seized his thoughts of revenge and
held fast, closing his mind to all else.

“Of course we'll take Golar! Within the month, half the map will belong to
Hael. Once we've been decorated for our,” a wry smirk twisted his mouth,
“bravery, we'll have our pick of the spoils. Me, I've got my eye ona plot of
land overlooking the ocean.”

The other soldier cast a glance over his shoulder to be sure they weren't
overheard. “What do you think of the rumors? About the Sword? About the
warrior-princess?”

“Rumors!” He spat in the dirt. “Remnants of Kanarekii espionage I say. A
pitiful defense at that. Did they really think tales to frighten children would
scare off the Haelian army?”

His companion shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. Behind them, Bevan raised
the battle axe and threw the sum of his last conscious thought encouraging the
other dead to follow suit.

“More than rumors I'd say. Didn't you hear what happened to Major Gernz?”

“Gernz had not the stomach for the task, nor the courage to risk desertion.
He faked his own death.”

“Loraan was supposedly with him when he died. The man's spooked. Been looking
over his shoulder all week like he saw a ghost.”

The other soldier snorted in disbelief. “The ghost of Major Gernz, I'd
wager.”

He turned to survey the battle behind him. Bevan struck.

The blow toppled the warhorse. With a shriek of agony, the magnificent animal
crumpled, unseating its rider. Man and beast floundered on the ground. The
soldier reached for his sword, only to receive the edge of Bevan's battle axe
instead.

His companion reined swiftly about, in time to see the hoard of corpses
surging toward him like a rancid creek overflowed. Skeletal hands gripped his
legs. A swipe of his sword did nothing to stem the endless tide of them.
Screaming, he was yanked from his horse. His desperate shrieks disappeared
beneath the press of dead bodies.

Victory--such an alien concept to Bevan, it took a moment for the knowledge
they were winning to seep into his decaying brain. He summoned his thoughts,
sending out the order for more of the dead to join them. One by one the former
victims of Kanarek turned from the pillage of Kholer and advanced on the
soldiers of Hael.

Larz reined in on the rise and stared in horror at the tide of bodies surging
toward the Haelian lines. In terror Haelian soldiers backed away from the rising
tide of dead bodies. Shouting above the chaos, the Captain ordered them back in
formation. But they balked at venturing further into the fray. It took a
frightening amount of cajoling to get his orders obeyed.

He was rapidly losing control of the Amber. With each lapse it became harder
to regain command. Fear battled for control of his mind, causing another lapse
in his concentration. Above all, he didn't want to end up one those shambling
dead bodies.

Haelian soldiers thundered past him. He stared aghast at the turmoil breaking
loose. Against the dead they were vastly outnumbered. This wasn't supposed to
happen. Something had gone terribly wrong with the Amber.