The Demon Lord (8 page)

After that first shot Aldric’s arm swung up and back with a smooth, precise, blurred speed betraying hours of practice with the weapon. His left hand gripped the cocking lever and jerked it back in a continuation of the same movement, so that the
telek
was reloaded and presented in what seemed an eyeblink. It was
t’lek’ak
, not one of the formalised actions but a bravo’s trick and consequently frowned upon—but combined with the modern mechanisms built into his paired
telekin
, it could be appallingly effective.

The second of the four leapt over his comrade’s body, raising his sword to chop at Aldric’s head. He was so close when the Alban triggered his second dart that the man almost struck his face against the
telek
‘s muzzle. Almost, but not quite—with an ugly, sodden sound the missile burst the soldier’s left eyeball and passed through its socket into the brain. His head jerked back as if kicked beneath the chin and he was dead before his legs gave way. He fell and his sword fell with him. No matter that its wielder was a corpse—the blade was sharp and aimed at Aldric’s skull. Flinging himself aside with barely room to do so, the Alban slammed against the crypt wall with a bone-jarring thud and a screech of stressed metal as his jerkin sleeve shredded between the lacquered mail inside it and the stone which raked his arm from wrist to shoulder. Pain lanced through him to his very teeth, and a flood of moist warmth spread to-

wards his elbow as the half-healed wound in his left bicep split wide open for the second time within a week. Numbness flowed into the outraged muscle as blood leaked out, and after a few seconds began to dribble from his fingertips. In the heavy silence that ensued, it made the sound of rain.

Aldric was not overly surprised when all movement ceased; such intervals were common in a killing fight, and the two quick deaths he had inflicted would give pause to any but the most hardened warrior, let alone these yokels who in all likelihood had never lifted blade in anger against someone who could match them stroke for stroke. God, but his arm hurt… !

Then something did surprise him. One of the corpses moved.

He took three quick steps backwards, aware that the two remaining soldiers had also retreated. But surely I took him through the heart! a voice inside his head protested. As the man rolled into an untidy, half-seated slump with his head resting against the chieftain’s bier, Aldric realised he had done nothing of the sort. Deceived by the meagre light of his own solitary candle and by the speed of the attack, he had shot too low. The quilted armour had resisted penetration by the dart, absorbing its force sufficiently at least to save the retainer’s life; but the impact of a puncture wound full on a nerve-centre had felled him as effectively as a punch to that same spot. Even now the man was shaky and found it hard to make his legs obey him, though his first tentative attempts to move had dislodged the missile from its shallow gouge below his breastbone. Aldric decided he was not a threat—for the moment. He had briefly considered finishing what he had started, there and then, but the killing of a helpless man in cold blood was not part of the
kailin-codes;
nor was it a part of Aldric Talvalin, save as a most reluctant act of mercy.

Yet he was still outnumbered two to one. By peasants, though—he could take them both one-handed if he had to. A grating twinge down the innermost core of his left arm brought sweat out on his skin and reminded him sharply that he no longer had a choice in the matter. If he took them, it would
have
to be one-handed… One of the pair shifted his feet, the scruff of leather on stone very loud, and Aldric’s eyes focused on the man at once. Tall and thin, with a lean face, deepset eyes and a small, mean mouth, he had the face of a weasel. The mouth opened a fraction, showing teeth. “
Venya’va doss moy
!” he snapped at his companion, waving the other man back.

“
Keel, asen sla
—” The protest was silenced by another abrupt gesture and a quiet, ugly chuckle. Aldric recognised the language, even understood it sketchily—and it was not Jouvaine but a Drusalan dialect from the Central Provinces. That told him two things: the men he faced were not locals but imported mercenaries—and he was fortunate still to be alive. Sheer chance had enabled him to reduce the odds so early in the fight, and now that surprise had worn off he was in grave peril. The soldier he faced now was probably more dangerous than all the others put together; he had that unmistakable confidence in his own ability and the way he held his sword bespoke a knowledge of its proper use. Certainly better than that of his erstwhile comrades, and probably better than Aldric as well.

The Alban’s skills were with
taiken
and
taipan
, lance and
telek
, horse and bow, but use of this Drusalan shortsword seemed likely more akin to dagger-play. At close quarters on badly lit unfamiliar ground, that could be more deadly than any other fighting art. And other than his
tsepan
, he had no blade at all…

Had he not been so unsure of the
telek
, Aldric guessed that the man called Keel would already have made his move, based on a suspicion that the weapon was discharged and harmless. But after seeing two men shot down in what must have appeared a single instant, mere suspicion was not enough. He needed certainty. Aldric knew what was passing through the soldier’s mind; and knew, too, where one of the discarded shortswords lay. A swift glance to confirm it… then a quick jerk back of the
telek
to feint the movement of reloading.

He was aware of what would happen, but the speed of Keel’s reaction took him by surprise. His glance had not gone unnoticed and had confirmed in his opponent’s mind the half-formed notion that he faced an empty weapon. But Keel was not merely skilled—he had all the craftiness learnt in eight years spent fighting other people’s wars, and he waited, waited, waited those long seconds until, inevitably, he was invited to attack.

And then, already poised, he came lunging in far faster than Aldric had expected. The Alban’s neat sidestep turned instead into a wild wrenching of his body clear of the stabbing point, and did not—quite—make it…!

Keel felt the slight jarring in his fingers as the blade sliced home—and the shattering jolt against his wrist as something clubbed down on it. He too threw himself aside for fear of worse, rebounded from the massive stones of the cist and lashed out to make an end.

Aldric was not there.

Fire scored his side where the sword had parted jerkin, shirt and the topmost layer of his skin, but it faded almost at once. Keel’s edge had opened a few dozen capillaries and given him a hellish fright, nothing more. He cursed himself even as he swung the
telek
against the soldier’s arm in an automatic parry that was one full half-second too late to be of use, knowing that he had committed the cardinal sin of underestimating an enemy. Once… but not twice!

The thoughts tumbled through his mind as he flung aside the spring-gun and dived at full stretch for the fallen sword, agony searing his left arm as he hit the ground and closed the fingers of that hand around the weapon’s hilt, rolling both to break the impact of the fall and to bring him clear of Keel. Sinews cracked as he fought the momentum of his own weight, shifting the direction of that roll a few degrees from left to right split-seconds before the mercenary’s blade gouged sparks and splinters from the wall—just at the place where Aldric should have been…

The weasel-faced retainer was good. Very good! But the sword he had acquired with so much pain and effort was a crude thing, little more than a pointed cleaver with a single razor edge, no guard and less balance. Aldric weighed it in his hand, thought of Widowmaker’s excellence and snarled softly.

“You are clever,” Keel observed, using Jouvaine now.

“But not so clever, or you would have kept clear of this place. Lord Crisen does not like intruders.”

“Talk on, man,” Aldric returned bleakly, wondering meanwhile what in the name of nine Hells Evthan could be doing all this time. “I have fought a few like you. Talkers. None were a threat. And none talk now—” a mirthless smile slid deliberately across his face,”—save to the worms.” He spoke in court Drusalan, making full use of its insulting arrogance and implications of superiority, but allowed his own Elthanek burr to colour the words. He was rewarded by the expression of mingled anger and confusion which suffused Keel’s face; it hinted at a wavering of concentration which in its turn boded ill for Keel.

They circled the bier slowly, warily, boots sliding across the floor, and at long last a tiny feeling of awareness tickled at the back of Aldric’s mind as if his whole body was emerging from a trance. The smell of candle-smoke and roses blended with the more immediate odours of blood and sweat; he could feel the pounding of his heartbeat, the contained panting of his and Keel’s breath, the groans of the wounded man on the floor. In the darkness of the burial chamber there was little to see but the shift of monstrous shadows across monstrous stones, separated by the ultimate, ominous glitter of sharp steel. The soldier in the doorway was not a danger yet; only watchful, set there to prevent his escape and nothing more. Killing was to be Keel’s pleasure—and it would be a pleasure, for he could almost taste the man’s eagerness to inflict pain, like thick bitter cream smeared on his tongue. Keel had a need to hurt, as others needed fire, or bread, or honour…

Their swords met with a harsh clank, the blades too short for a true, shrill clash of steel, and the sound which they emitted seemed somehow more brutal, more threatening even than the icy music of
taikenin
which could cleave a man in half from crown to crotch. The exchange lasted bare seconds before both broke ground and retired: a testing of wrists, no more, and singularly useless when both weapons were designed for stabbing.

“You have some skill,” hissed the Drusalan, his point weaving slowly to and fro like the head of a snake.

“That is good. I might be entertained this evening after all.”

Aldric ignored him and restrained his own anger at what the mercenary was, at what he represented. Anger was not the way to win this fight. Calmness… Tranquillity…
Taipan-ulleth
. He adopted a deceptively relaxed stance, sword raised unhurriedly but not high enough to be a threat, and waited.

Keel was more confused than ever. He was accustomed to opponents who came after him, drawn on by taunting and insults, stabbing and slicing until they ran on to his ready sword. Not men who stood still, expressionless and almost unprepared for any sort of defensive move should he lunge home. Not men who were without fear, or anger, or . . . who
smiled
at him… ?

For Aldric did smile, not with cynicism that Keel could understand, but openly, honestly and gently, as if to a friend, or an honoured guest. “Tell me, lord’s man,” he murmured, “here in the Deepwood, do you not fear the Beast?”

“The moon—” Keel caught his tongue. Then he understood, or thought he understood, and grinned a nasty weasel’s grin. “We need fear nothing!” There was too much confidence in his declaration, Aldric thought quietly. Four men might have no fear, but two? One, alone?

“Tell me more about the moon,” he invited. Keel was silent, “Is that why Lord Crisen sent you here so late at night? Or were you sent to fetch him this?” His foot scraped once, destructively, across already-shredded parchment, and as Keel recognised what it had been his eyes went wide with horror. “You were late,” Aldric reminded him. “Now what will Crisen say?” There was no reply. “I think that you at last fear something, Keel. I suggest you fear me, too—and this forest most of all.”

With all the impact of a perfect cue, a wolf howled and the echoes throbbed and faded within the barrow. Aldric had heard that same sound not twelve hours ago, and it had been startling enough by daylight. Now, at night, in an ancient crypt filled with shadows and the ill-

matched reek of blood and roses, the awful savage sadness of the cry appalled him.

In any other place Keel would not even have flinched, because he was familiar with all the noises of the woodland and especially with this one. But the eerie atmosphere beneath the hollow hill had been eroding his once-iron nerves these past few minutes, and despite the years of ingrained training he responded like any ordinary man—and turned his head a fraction.

The tiny movement was enough.

Three heartbeats later he was slumped against the wall and sliding down it as his legs gave way, his muscles growing slack and his chest awash with blood and pain where Aldric’s blade had thrust beneath the ribs and up to pierce a lung. Pink froth welled out of Keel’s mouth and nose, and his hands tried feebly to plug the rent through which his life leaked out. The Alban stepped back, point lowered, and watched dispassionately with the knowledge that this bitter victory came not from his skill but through luck—and by the intervention of the Beast. There was no feeling of satisfaction or triumph— only slight disgust at his own aptitude for slaughter. And thinking of the Beast, where in all this while was Evthan… ?

The mercenary coughed twice, painfully, and a third attempt to clear the fluid from his lungs drowned in a vile wet bubbling that went on and on until at last he shuddered and was still. Aldric stared at nothing and wiped one hand across his face, not caring that each finger left a glistening smear of crimson in its wake, then lifted his gaze towards the last of the retainers, hoping that the man was gone. But he was still there, standing in the doorway with the lines of shock engraved by shadows on his face.

“You too?” asked the Alban wearily. He knew the answer. Another death added to his score, or news of what had happened here would reach Lord Crisen’s ears before the night was out; and he had few illusions of its consequence for the villagers of Valden who had sheltered him. The
telek
, he thought, not wanting more blood spattered over him than there was already. The weapon lay on the floor within easy reach, half-cocked, half-loaded, half-prepared to—No, not that—to shoot another dart.