The Deadwalk (14 page)

#

“Steady now.”

Riordan flowed through the shadows like liquid darkness, intent on the
lifeforce that waited only a few feet in front of her. Coyote. Crouched on the
low hill, it tipped its snout toward the moon. Its undulating cry swept through
her. She hugged the shadows, keeping the Sword close to her body so its
translucent light wouldn't give her away. Easier to stay hidden now that they
had the foliage of trees and shrubs to conceal them.

“Remember what happened last time.”

Nhaille's voice was devoid of accusation. But the warning lodged in her mind.
She had to master the Sword. The entire coast depended on her ability to do
so.

“This time you must maintain control.”

Riordan opened her mind, slowly, a little at a time. The Sword's cold
consciousness flowed into every space she left it. She forced her iron will
against it, confining it to the tiny parcel in her mind. Still it taunted her,
murmuring seductive thoughts. She ignored it and focused on the task before
her.

In the moonlight the desert was a surreal pattern of light and shadows,
flecked with bright spots of life. The coyote's essence glowed brightest of all.
Riordan flattened herself against the ground and crept toward it.

“Careful,” Nhaille cautioned. “Remember surprise is always your best
ally.”

Providing it isn't the Sword that surprises me.

Grass tickled her nose, she kept the Sword pressed to her side. She knew this
maneuver well. Had practiced it many time under Nhaille's tutelage but never
dragging the Sword of Zal-Azaar at her side. And her last few attempts had been
embarrassingly unsuccessful.

The coyote sniffed the midnight air. But she was standing up wind, and it
soon went back about the business of broadcasting its keening cry over the
countryside. Riordan peeked cautiously over the edge of the summit.

With the victim in plain sight, the Sword's hunger soared. She slammed the
force of her will against it and was horrified to find her effort succeeded only
in marginally dampening the Sword's desire.

Summoning the totality of her will, she smothered the flame of the Sword's
yearning. It rebelled, battering the walls of her control, demanding its
desperate hunger be appeased. Riordan concentrated on moving slowly forward. She
swung the Sword into place.

Air whistled by her. Ground rushed by beneath her feet. Another aborted howl,
then the resistance of soft flesh and jarring bone.

Bracing her consciousness for the onslaught, she drove the blade home. Blood
splashed in black droplets across her boots and leggings. The coyote uttered one
last agonized cry and fell silent.

Animal thoughts ran rampant through her brain. For an instant she saw the
black and white world through its panicked eyes, felt the pain lance through its
side, the rush of warm blood leaking into the sand. As if she died with it, she
felt its last thoughts fading into darkness.

Unfettered, the Sword's desire roared to life. Riordan knew that if she
turned, she'd see Nhaille's life blazing against the darkness. Its appetite
whetted, the Sword hungered for more.

Desire raced through every vein. She felt it from head to toe, reveled in it,
became it.

Cold reason dampened her ardor. People depended upon her. She had to do
better. At first the task overwhelmed her. But the tighter she wound her will
about the Sword's hunger, the easier it became. Slowly, she forced its presence
back into the tiny corner of her mind. Clenching her fist on the Sword's crystal
hilt, she lowered it to the ground.

Still, it would have been so easy to whirl upon Nhaille. Her mind turned the
thought over, considered it.

With a cry, Riordan thrust its point into the damp earth and let go.

“Much better.” Nhaille walked up the hill toward her, smiling broadly. Her
success pleased him.

“Marginally better,” she said, using his words.

“Greatly improved from my vantage point.”

He was trying to encourage her. Nhaille rarely offered compliments.

“Not so greatly improved from mine,” she told him reluctantly. “I still could
have killed you. The thought was in my mind. I couldn't help it.”

“But you managed to control it.”

The relief in his voice was obvious. He didn't think I could do it. The
thought made her angry. Fear overruled annoyance. A near miss, Nhaille had every
right to be concerned. Perhaps deep down he was as terribly afraid as she.

“I managed to control it,” she admitted. “But just barely. It could easily
have gone otherwise.”

“It didn't. Now you know you'll be able to accomplish the grave task set
before you.”

Riordan thought of the few miles that still lay between them and Kholer and
her rapidly approaching destiny. Too soon. She wasn't at all prepared.

“Nhaille, this is insanity. Wielding the Sword in battle against the Amber is
not like cutting down coyotes and rabbits. I'm not ready.”

Even in the shadows, she could make out the somber look on his face.

“It matters not. We've run out of time.”

#

In a flurry of hooves, Rau crested the hill and gaped in dismay at the chaos
below him. What should have been the clean lines of black and red, the Haelian
army deteriorated into a riot of color nearly overwhelmed by the brown decay of
the army of the dead.

He had to look several times at the scene to understand it. Soldiers who
should have been supervising Kholer's downfall now stood hip deep in mewling
bodies that clutched and tore at their uniforms.

The spoils of Kholer, his by right of conquest, lay ripe for plundering in
the castle. Buildings, which by now should have been no more than smoldering ash
stood remarkably intact.

Before his eyes one of his men tumbled from his horse to a chorus of flat
lifeless screams. Zombies fell upon him like hungry sharks.

The stench of the dead, no longer confined to one quadrant but scattered
across the city, rose in a sickening wave above the battlefield. The still air
did nothing to dissipate the stench. Having been away from it for several weeks,
the odor hit him as though he'd run straight into a brick wall.

Horrified, he watched as yet another of his men fell to the dirt and was
trampled. His eyes scanned the field for Larz' plume, noting with growing horror
how few plumed Haelian helms he could pick out. From the chaos on the field his
own worst mistake laughed back at him.

Panic gripped him, real and immediate. He'd lost it all. Everything he'd
worked for, destroyed by his own hand. An electric jolt of undiluted rage
coursed through his veins. It couldn't be so. He wouldn't let it.

Cool logic seized his thoughts, setting them at once to order. A setback.
Like many others before it. He would deal with it. Set things to rights. The
prize would still be his.

Never should he have left this conquest in Larz's hands. Though capable, Larz
was merely human. Shraal blood did not run in his veins. Larz did not have Rau's
natural affinity to control Shraal sorcery.

Rau snatched the Amber clasp from the neck of his cloak. The power stone
caught the sun in a golden burst of light. He wrapped his fist around it. The
shard of stone, impossibly sharp, tore into his palm. He looked down to see
crimson droplets splash down the front of his cloak. He watched as tiny beads of
blood ran along the Amber's spear and disappeared into the stone.

The Amber had been bloodied. And now, tasting his blood, it wanted more.

Spreading out, as if through the deep roots of a tree, his consciousness bled
into each fleck of amber on the field. His mind recoiled, but he forced it
onward, down into the depths of a multitude of dying minds.

Plunged into a world of half-thoughts and fleeting thoughts, he fought to
regain his control.

Decaying minds tore at his consciousness, fraying the edge of his mind. Rau
gathered the threads of his will and hauled them tight, resisting the force that
threatened to shatter his mind and send him careening over the edge into
insanity. Slowly, painfully, he layered his will upon the weaker minds of the
dead.

A million barbed spikes assaulted his senses. Clutching his head, Rau
stumbled backward. The Amber tumbled from his hands. It struck a rock,
rebounded.

Poised on the edge of the hill, it teetered for a second, then plunged down
the slope.

Below him, the army of the dead stopped in their plunder, looking up in
amazement at the black-clad figure towering above them. With a cry, Rau leapt
from his horse and scrambled after the stone of power.

His fingers closed around empty grass. The amber rolled from his grasp,
continuing its career downhill. Encouraged by the lapse in control, the former
army of the dead continued their revolt with renewed fervor.

Grass crushed beneath his flailing feet. Rau skidded into slickness. Balance
eluded him and he tumbled face down. Ahead of him the Amber bounced merrily
downward.

With each revolution, he caught a glimpse of the tumult in the valley below.
Haelian riders seemed to disappear into a swarming mass of dead bodies intent on
their destruction. For each one his army hacked down, another rose in its place
to continue. Missing limbs, sometimes even half a body, the dead fought on.

Rocks bruised ribs, despite the thick leather of his armor. He rolled,
wedging one leg beneath him. Haelian soldiers rushed past him in aid of those
downhill. Rau threw himself away from stampede of trampling hooves.

Gods, don't let them crush the Amber!

As if enjoying his mad dash after it, the amber ricocheted off another rock,
coming to rest finally among a thatch of grass. He dove after it.

The impact squeezed every ounce of air from his lungs. His fingers closed
around the shard of amber. Panting, Rau tightened his grip and flexed his
will.

Strengthened by fury, his power flowed outward. Like a black wave it poured
down the hill into the fray. Their thoughts of rebellion interrupted, the dead
stared up in confusion.

Hooves smote the ground in front of him. He looked up into the sun to find
Larz towering over him. An expression of extreme relief brightened the Captain's
face.

“Very good to see you, Sir.”

In the brush ahead something moved. Small things scurried out of its path.
Nhaille tensed, his hand going automatically for his sword. Irresistibly,
Riordan found her fingers curling slowly around the Sword's hilt. Its curiosity
aroused, it wanted whatever was there in the bushes. She eased the Sword from
her scabbard, noting that Nhaille did the same. His eyes shifted to the side,
carefully watching the shadows around them. She glanced behind them. But the
path, now shaded by the deeper darkness of trees, was empty. Nhaille urged
Stormback to a slower trot and she crowded in beside him. He looked sideways at
her, warning her to silence. In the gloom she saw the dull gleam of his
sword.

Impatient with desire, the Sword roared in her mind. It fixed on the flicker
of life, demanding urgently she make claim in its name.

Her own instincts urged her to turn tail and run. But Nhaille rode
steadfastly onward, his eyes fastened on the darkness ahead of them. The Sword
goaded her toward the life that beckoned, toward the feast it hoped to have.

Nhaille raised his hand, bringing them to a halt. Riordan waited, the Sword
half drawn, her mind holding its influence in tight rein. He whistled. The sound
echoed off the nearby rocks, dying quickly into silence. The wind ruffled the
treetops, snatching at the wisps of silver hair that escaped from her helm.

From the bushes came an identical signal. Dark shapes gathered around the
trunks of trees.

Riordan tensed, going for the Sword. Nhaille's hand seized her wrist.

“Not to worry, they're ours.”

Her eyes widened, looking at the bedraggled lot that crawled out of the
brush. Kanarekii uniforms, more modern than their own, yet having seen hard
wear. Elbows, knees showed through threadbare patches. Their spiked helmets were
battered and dented. A line of rigid jaws and grim expressions greeted her.

It took all her resolve not to bolt as the group surrounded her. She turned
to Nhaille for reassurance, and in doing so, shook loose more of her hair.

A collective gasp went through the gathering as tendrils of her silver-blonde
hair fell to her shoulders. As one they knelt before her.

My subjects. And now I will truly have to be Queen. Dismayed, Riordan
realized she didn't have the faintest idea how to begin. Her stomach clenched.
The Sword's desire flared. She dragged in a deep breath, slammed the Sword back
into her scabbard, and faced her subjects with a calm she didn't feel.

#

About time, Nhaille thought as the dark-clad warriors stepped from the bush.
He'd been watching the bushes for several nights now, praying the rebellion
hadn't fallen prey to the city's fate.

Beside him, Riordan sat rigidly on Strayhorn, staring at the motley array of
Kanarekii before her. It came to him suddenly, she didn't have a clue what to
say, had no idea what the etiquette entailed. Should have taught her palace
protocol, he realized about a decade too late. Until now it hadn't seemed as
important as the details of survival.

“Riordan,” he whispered. “They're still on their knees.”

She came to her senses with a start.

“Rise.” The command cut through the night air, unmistakably imperious. The
gathering looked up at the severe woman on the horse and leapt to their feet.
Eyes shifted to the crystal blade belted to her hip, then nervously back to
Nhaille.

“As you've deduced,” Nhaille said. “This is Riordan-Khun-Caryn. Your
Queen.”

Their gazes flickered briefly to her face then fastened once again on the
Sword.

“And yes, that is the Sword of Zal-Azaar.”

Jaws tightened, he suspected only their training prevented them from taking a
step backward.

“Precious few of you.”

“Yes Captain.” One of the men stepped forward. A recent scar cut across his
right cheek. Trouble, Nhaille deduced. And not long ago. “Haelian riders
patrolled the area for some time. We lost quite a few men in skirmishes with
them.”

“And now?”

“According to our sources, yesterday Hael attacked Kholer.”

Nhaille swore.

Riordan looked across at him, pale and regal in the darkness. “You were
right, Nhaille. We're out of time.”

Our people, he thought with a stab of rage. Kanarekii countrymen, struck down
in their homes, then deprived of their rightful rest and sent scurrying across
the countryside to turn others into the same abominations.

“My father?”

The question sprang from Riordan's lips before he could warn her otherwise. A
dozen pair of eyes fastened upon her. Riordan swallowed, and Nhaille watched her
squirm under the scrutiny of those politely inquiring eyes. The press of bodies
clearly made her nervous. Getting used to the constant company of others would
be a difficult adjustment for her after so many years in relative solitude. “Is
my father still among them?”

The leader looked quickly from Nhaille back to Riordan, dragging his eyes
away from the Sword. When it was plain that Nhaille would not to intervene and
he'd have to speak to the Queen himself, he said, “Yes, Your Majesty. It pains
me to tell you he is.”

She absorbed the information with a nod. The Kanarekii waited expectantly for
her to say something else. “Are there more of you?”

“Several bands, Your Majesty. Stragglers here and there.”

Not enough to do Hael any serious damage, but they had the Sword. Now was the
time to put the prophecy to the test, the hour of Kanarek's revenge. No matter
what happened, Hael would never forget the name of Riordan-Khun-Caryn, nor the
Sword of Zal-Azaar.

“Then I suggest we gather what is left of our countrymen,” Riordan said, “and
make haste for Kholer.”

#

Conspicuous, that's what they were. Nhaille glanced back at the line of
Kanarekii warriors that rode behind them. Why not just unfurl the banner and
announce our arrival to Hael?

But there wasn't any other way he could think of to move an army (dare he
even think of such a small gathering that way) across the countryside. Each
whisper sounded inordinately loud in the quiet air, every horse's footfall a
stampede. At least there are more eyes watching our back. That one thought eased
his mind. At least now we needn't do it all ourselves.

A low whistle brought swords to hand. He peered into the darkness and
strained his ears for the familiar series of notes. Nhaille was sure his heart
beat loud enough to be heard across the countryside as they waited. The whistle
was repeated.

He whistled back.

Brush parted. A small band of men stepped into the road. A salute. “Captain.”
A voice long forgotten. Coren-Nhaille-Penden. There was gray in his cousin's
hair. The sight forced him to consider his own age, which was only a few years
younger than Penden. Gods, do I look that bad myself?

Nhaille returned the salute. “Greetings cousin.”

“Very good to see you, Sir. We heard rumors. We feared the worst.”

He cast a discreet glance at Riordan, taking in the Sword in that one
glimpse. Military discipline took over. No gawking as the others had done.
Penden bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Riordan accepted the show of allegiance with a nod. “How many are there of
you?”

“Ten with me. Another fifty or so, scattered across the hills.”

“Weapons?”

Nhaille smothered a smile at her imperial tone, amazed at how quickly she had
assumed control, though he could tell she was still terrified underneath.

“Stores hidden here and there,” Penden said. “Not a lot, Your Majesty.”

Another nod. She seemed to have come to the same realization he had. Any pair
of hands was a help in the battle.

“Spread the word. Call in the men. Arm yourselves with anything you can lay
hands on. We ride for Kholer.”

A horse whinnied nearby. One of the men led Penden his mount. He took his
place behind Nhaille while his men melted into the night to carry out the
Queen's orders. Their numbers grew with each day. And while it felt good to have
the kinship of their countrymen around him, family at his back, it also felt
oddly stifling. He doubly pitied Riordan for having to adjust so quickly to
being surrounded by people.

He noted Riordan's discretely nervous glances at the men around them. In her
lifetime, she'd never seen a city teeming with life, never witnessed a crowd in
motion. Homecoming would be difficult, he realized, thinking for the first time
about the future.

For both of them.

#

Chaos reined in the valley.

Riordan stared over the summit into the bowl carved by the hills. The valley
seethed with writhing bodies.

Haelian soldiers hacked at leagues of the dead, on foot and from horseback.
Bodies littered the hillside, the recently dead scattered amongst those in a
state of advanced decay.

Soldiers of the dead. Riordan squinted into the dying sunset. But why are
they just lying there? Another thought occurred to her. Has something gone wrong
with the Amber?

Beside her Nhaille was apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Prince
Doan-Rau is about to realize the folly in riding across the countryside after
you.”

“We should attack now,” Riordan said. “Surprise, as you're fond of reminding
me, is a good ally.”

“No.”

“No?” Not the answer she expected. She turned toward Nhaille, conscious of
the curious eyes of the Kanarekii warriors upon them. Eyes followed her every
movement, hung on her every word. “And why not, Captain?”

“Night approaches. Darkness will hide us. If we attack now, Rau will be
prepared for us come morning. Let him waste his energy on this mutiny. We'll
hurt him all the more if we attack at the stroke of dawn.”

She didn't like this new strategy. But Nhaille's argument made sense. There
were precious few of them. Even with the Sword they'd be vastly outnumbered.
Once the surprise was sprung they'd have no other tricks to gain the advantage.
The long trip exhausted them. Better to rally their strength. Better to give
herself one last night of practice before she had to wield the Sword in
battle.

“All right,” she said finally. “Move the company out, back toward the forest,
where we'll be hidden by the cover of trees. We'll break camp before dawn and
ride into Kholer just as day breaks.”

Nhaille turned to give the order.

#

In the forest the darkness was complete. No fires were lit, they couldn't
risk the discovery of their one and only surprise. A cold dinner. An even colder
bed awaited them. But the men, who'd spent the past few months with only the
cold hard earth for a pillow, made no complaints.

Riordan sat with her back against the broad trunk of an ancient tree. Between
the branches above her the diamond points of stars dotted the sky. The damp
ground seeped through the leather of her armor, but her thoughts caused more
discomfort than the coldness.

The moment has come. Finally, I'm going to have to do all that was prophesied
of me. Only unlike the prophecy, I'm unlikely to survive.

She looked down at the Sword's crystal length lying across her lap. If I'm
not cut down by Rau's sword, you'll be my undoing. A shadow blocked her view of
the stars. Her hand closed upon the Sword.

“You shouldn't sneak up on me like that.”

Nhaille uttered a short laugh. “Obviously you knew it was me, or I'd already
be dead.”

“We may both be dead on the morrow,” she said and winced at the fatality of
her words. Pity was something Nhaille would never tolerate. A lecture was
certain to follow.

“No.” He took a deep breath of cool night air. "I do believe tomorrow, we
will at least take the bite out of Doan-Rau's wrath.

“You're just saying that.” She glanced up at him, trying to read what lay
behind the face he showed to her. Strangely, he looked confident.

“I believe it.”

Riordan smiled. “Then I guess I'm obligated to believe it, too.”

Nhaille's expression clouded. “You must be careful what you say now, Riordan.
Even to me. Others are listening. You would not want your countrymen to hear you
predicting their demise. Not when they've fought so hard already to give us this
last chance.”

The lecture, after all.

“Come,” he reached for her hand. “One last rehearsal before the battle
tomorrow.”

Wet grass crushed beneath her boots. The night stilled. A breeze lazily
ruffled the treetops. Moonlight speckled the ground between branches. Around her
snores of the sleeping men rose in a quiet chorus. Riordan stepped into the
clearing.

Slowly, she drew the Sword from its scabbard and looked around her. Seen
through the Sword's consciousness, the forest teamed with life. Birds dozing in
the upper branches, the glinting eyes of night life peeked out at her from
beneath each bush. She slammed her defenses in place, walling off the Sword's
keening cry. Forcing her will to the forefront, she held it before her like a
talisman.

A fox scurried past her into the darkness. The Sword lusted for it. She
squashed the urge to rush after it.

I'll decide which life is taken.

The Sword fought against the subjugation of its will, wailing inside her
mind. With effort, Riordan silenced its call and cast about her for a suitable
sacrifice.

Through the trees she sighted an unfamiliar aura.

“Nhaille!”

Her whisper brought him to the edge of the clearing. He peered into the
darkness, squinting in the direction she pointed. He shook his head.

“What is it, Riordan?”

“I don't know. Something, coming toward us.”

“I can't see it.”

She forced the Sword's consciousness into the background and looked at it
through her own eyes. Shadow seemed to swallow the faint pulse of life.

“An aura.” She looked at it again through the Sword's awareness. “But not
like yours. Very dim, except for a tiny flicker at the center.”

“Be careful.”