The Heir (Fall of the Swords Book 3) (11 page)

“Keep him that way until he learns his error.”

“With pleasure, Lord,” Thinking Quick said, grinning.

“Lord Blade,” Scowling Tiger barked. A brown-haired man approached, his hand smoking. “You're in command until the Lord River comes to his senses. We'll camp here tonight. Get the Lord Sword a bow—and put out your hand, by the Infinite!”

“Yes, Lord Tiger,” the man said, turning. He extended his smoking hand toward the unlit wood in the firepit. Flames leaped from the hand, setting the wood alight. Dropping the hand to his side, he began to issue orders. The hand appeared normal, not burned, not smoking, the hair not even a singed.

A servant brought Seeking Sword a bow. He tested the strength and resiliency of the wood, unstrung it and restrung it, checking the rawhide thong for imperfections. It wouldn't betray him while he used it. “It's a fine bow, Lord Tiger. How about that tree there, with the split in the bark?”

Stepping up beside him, Scowling Tiger sighted along his own bow, his outstretched left arm as still as stone. “A good target, Lord Sword, I'd guess three hundred thirty feet away, eh? The bow's yours.”

“Your giving it to me is an honor, Lord Tiger. I wish only to borrow it, as I have others at home.” The weapon was far better than the one he had lost to the hooves of the moose. Despite having none at home, he felt obligated already to the bandit general and wished to incur no further debt. “How many can you launch before the first one strikes the target, Lord Tiger?”

His black hair salted with gray, the bandit knelt on one knee, the other foot extended in front for balance. “Seven, young Lord,” he said.

His stance opposite because of his left-handedness, Seeking Sword aped him and chose a smooth spot on the trunk. His senses slowed. He saw nothing but that spot. His left hand reached back of itself. The arrow slid smoothly from quiver. Between fore and middle finger rested the slot. The shaft sank slowly toward the bow hand. The slot slid onto string. The left hand began the pull. At his ear stopped the hand. A feather brushed the adolescent down on his cheek. He measured the wind. He adjusted his aim.

Then, in a reversal of perception, as though in dream, the target rushed toward the line of arrows. As if a woodpecker had started feeding, an even percussion of eight straight beats rattled off. Following a pause, seven more arrows struck.

A loud cheer went up from the members of the hunting party behind the two.

Entranced, Seeking Sword didn't move. This harmony of spirit, this simplicity of thought and perception, this being one with the elements, was a state to cherished. It was a communion with the Infinite.

Scowling Tiger was immobile also.

Activity in the camp became subdued, most waiting to see what they would do.

A few minutes later, an eternity having passed, Seeking Sword lay down his bow, moving with the speed of a sloth. Sitting back on his haunches, he looked around, noticing the luxuriant green of wild grasses, the piquant smell of pine pitch and the soothing sound of singing starlings. Picking up the bow, he examined it. Nothing had ever transported him in such a way.

Scowling Tiger began to stir as well.

Standing, Seeking Sword stepped toward the target.

“Lord Sword, what does it matter?” Scowling Tiger asked. “How many arrows we launched and how accurate we were is beside the point. Most important is the form we displayed and how we transcended this world of pain.”

“Yes,” Seeking Sword said slowly, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “Of course, Lord Tiger. Forgive me. For not realizing.” He looked at the older man and smiled. “I'm deeply grateful, Lord, to have had this uplifting experience. Thank you.” Seeking Sword lowered himself to his knees, placed palms in dirt and put forehead to ground.

“Get up, Lord Sword. The Infinite, and not I, lifted you from this world for those moments, eh?”

“Yes. Yes, Lord. Of course.”

“If anyone owes an obeisance, I do to you.” The bandit general began to bow to him.

“Lord, please, you do me too much honor. I insist that you retract your obeisance, Lord Tiger. I'm not worthy to receive obeisance from the greatest of all bandits.”

Scowling Tiger smiled briefly. “You detract from yourself, Lord Sword, for I believe you're destined to become great in your own way. If a disgusting peasant like Guarding Bear can become the most influential man in the Eastern Empire, only the Infinite knows the heights you might scale, Seeking Sword.”

The bandit general's using his full name was honor unsurpassed. Then Seeking Sword wondered how Scowling Tiger could speak the name of the man who had condemned him to a life of honorless banditry. “I can only hope to be half as famous as yourself, Lord.” Bowing again, he smiled at the bandit general. Seeking Sword glanced toward the moose. Curious to see how they skinned and quartered such a beast, he stepped toward the carcass, nervously passing the immobilized Raging River.

They had already beheaded and disemboweled the moose, severed the hooves at ankles and pulled the hide off each leg. A taxidermist carefully scooped out the brains and other tissues. Scowling Tiger exchanged a few words with the woman, asking her to preserve the head so the feathers of the arrow would be visible through the open mouth.

Cleaning out the emptied abdomen with buckets of water, the servants peeled away the hide with their minds, rolling the carcass. Levitating the carcass by the forelocks, they scraped away the subcutaneous fat. This time of year, the fat was thick; they would render it down for the valuable oils. A man of some position stepped forward, servants bowing before him. Carrying a cleaver, he circled the carcass three times, examining it minutely. The cleaver rose from his hand and approached the hindquarter joint. Muscles there spread to expose the ivory knobs. The cleaver leaped at the joint. The carcass shook as the hindquarter fell into a servant's waiting psychic grasp.

Oh, to have such talents, Seeking Sword thought for the millionth time.

“My father asks if you would join us for coffee, Lord Sword,” a musical voice said.

He turned to find a pair of gray eyes upon him.

The stringy-haired girl wore warrior's leathers, her carriage insolent, her expression scorn and her eyes filled with ice.

Feeling gentled and moved, but also dirty and uncouth, he held her gaze, allowing a little smile reach his lips. “Thank you, Lady Tiger, the honor is all mine.” Seeking Sword bowed, holding her gaze. “With your father's permission, I'd like to make the hide a gift to you, Lady Tiger.”

Her eyes lit up, the ice in them melting. “With his permission, Lord Sword, I accept.” She turned and led the way to the campfire.

Following her, Seeking Sword felt his body respond. What's this warmth in my loins? he wondered.

Behind him was silence and immobility. All the servants and cooks had stopped in their preparation of the moose to see her put a knife in him. When she had smiled and withheld her knife, they had gaped.

Furthermore, after a woman accepted a man's proposal of mateship, it was custom for him to give his betrothed a gift. By implication, for any man to give an unmated woman anything was tantamount to his asking her to mate. Unbeknownst to Seeking Sword, he had implicitly asked Purring Tiger to mate—as she had implicitly accepted.

They walked to the pit, where fire reached toward sky. Purring Tiger said, “Father, I want the hide for a rug.”

The gray-eyed bandit, sitting on a log, looked at her, then glanced behind her at Seeking Sword. “It's not mine to give, Daughter.”

“Lord Tiger, the beast is yours, my compensation for having ended your hunt. So of course, the hide is yours.” Seeking Sword stepped around the young woman, dizzy for a moment at the fragrance of her. He sat a pace away from Scowling Tiger on the same log. Divesting his pack, quiver, bow, and utility belt, he remembered the teachings of his instructors and pulled his sword into his lap.

Why did she merely insist on the hide, Seeking Sword wondered, instead of saying he gave it to her? Not that it was mine to give away, he thought. He looked through flames at Thinking Quick.

The girl grinned at him, Purring Tiger sitting beside her.

“As you wish, Lord Sword.” Scowling Tiger looked away from his daughter, a puzzled expression leaving his face. “So, young man, tell me about yourself.” His glance dropped to the ruby on the pommel of Seeking Sword's weapon.

“I'm much too insignificant a peasant to indulge so selfishly, Lord Tiger. I'm curious about you. I've heard so much, but I want to hear it from the tiger's mouth.”

Scowling Tiger chuckled. “Who put that honey on your tongue, eh? Tell me, who are your teachers?”

“I live around the mountain from the Elk Raiders, Lord Tiger. They've been kind to me, more so than I deserve; it is they who have concerned themselves with my education. Do you know the Lord Elk?”

“A good man for a barbarian—but without ambition. Who's your father?”

“Icy Wind,” Seeking Sword replied, and described his father's appearance.

“I don't believe I've met him.”

“That's a blessing, Lord. He's the least pleasant person
I've
ever met. The Lady Tiger's animal fascinates me. From the Jaguar Menagerie, isn't it?”

Scowling Tiger nodded and said, “More talent than a Wizard.”

Darkness fell while the two men talked. The aroma of roasting meat drifted to them from the cook's fire not far away. During that time, the servants kept their cups full. At first, Seeking Sword was uncomfortable with such attentions.

Food arrived and with it wine. The boy ate slowly and drank slowly, always careful to keep his attention on Scowling Tiger. Much of the time, he felt Purring Tiger's eyes on him. He stiffened at the thought of her, and so tried to think of something else. After the meal, his bladder demanded he empty it, so he excused himself.

Lightheaded from the wine and the evening, he followed a trail downstream. From a rock overlooking the water, he pulled himself from his loincloth and relieved himself with a sigh. Unfortunately, he wouldn't fit back into his loincloth. So he stood there on the rock, pointing at the rising moon, waiting to shrink. After he did, he composed himself and returned to the campfire.

He sat in the same place, but now the girls were gone. He didn't question their absence.

Soon, the bandit general yawned and excused himself for bed.

Seeking Sword watched the dying flames for awhile, then grabbed his accoutrements. Passing the catatonic Raging River, he walked to a spot he had picked out earlier, a patch of grass surrounded by brittle leaves. Spreading his blanket, Seeking Sword stripped to his loincloth, placed his sword within easy reach, and lay down.

Contemplating stars through a canopy of tree, Seeking Sword thanked the Infinite for the opportunity to meet the legendary bandit general Scowling Tiger. He closed his eyes.

A crackle of leaves woke him. His hand had already gone to his sword. Looking around, he saw a slight shape a few feet away.

She let the blanket fall from her shoulders. She wore nothing else.

In the morning he woke alone.

Scowling Tiger had a quantity of meat prepared for him. Even though the bandit general insisted that Seeking Sword hunt with him, the boy politely demurred. He stayed long enough to see them off, hoping to catch sight of her. Neither girl made an appearance however. He parted company with Scowling Tiger, feeling awed and pleased and grateful and wonderful.

* * *

Loping north with Thinking Quick ten months later, Seeking Sword looked at her. “On that hunt, who shared my bed?”

The girl laughed. “If she didn't tell you, then she didn't want you to know. Your proportions impressed her, she says.”

“As hers did me.” He laughed, wondering if Purring Tiger were the properly demure young lady he knew, or the vicious bitch everyone told him she was, or the enthusiastic lover who had taken him that night. The night had been dark, and his head befogged with wine. In his imagination, he had wanted it to be her and needed it to be her. He had to ask himself:

Was it really Purring Tiger?

Seeking Sword simply didn't know.

S
ectathonics enables a person to track people, but requires no emissions from the sectathon, who measures disruptions in the psychic flow in much the same way an eye measures light. The psychic receptors in the prefrontal lobes of a sectathon's brain, just behind the forehead, detect minute variations in the intensity, direction and frequency of ambient psychic energy at any distance within the sectathon's range.

A sectathon can even identify a person using mindshields—because of the shields themselves. All humans project shields on a limited number of frequencies. The pattern and intensity of those frequencies are the identifiers. The only two ways to keep a sectathon from identifying someone are to place the person behind an electrical shield or beyond the range of a sectathon's talent. Other identifiers exist, but a person either broadcasts them past the mindshields or isn't using shields at all—such as when applying talent. A telepath, for instance, is instantly recognizable. He or she adds energy to the psychic flow at the higher end of the frequency band. A thermathon, in contrast, extracts heat when exercising talent. He or she adds energy to the flow at the lower end of the frequency band. Of course, no sectathon can penetrate an electrical shield. Only an Emperor with an Imperial Sword can perform that feat.

When a person projects identifiers past his or her mindshields, the signature contains information—often very personal information. Signatures are like short autobiographies, containing important facts. Often encoded are name, age, rank, talent, and occupation, depending on how important a person feels that information is. Nobility, for instance, often incorporate insignia. Flying Arrow's signature, for example, included a blue and white quiver of seven arrows, the arrow with golden wings prominently outlined. Thus, in addition to his insignia, Flying Arrow's signature depicted his lineage as well. In some signatures, irrelevant information sometimes seeps in. The Traitor Lurking Hawk, for instance, repeatedly found the shadow of a lion in his signature. Others often reminded him of his Northern ancestry, the lion image representing the former Northern Emperor. Leaping Elk, known as Leaping Jaguar before the second Emperor Jaguar, his father, disinherited him, sometimes had the image of the large feline in his signature. The animal was leaping up at and failing to reach a sword, depicting the bandit's failure to secure the Southern Imperial Sword.

These elaborate representations, however, are more often the exception. Since a person's signature is the first impression that others receive, a person usually defines its content rigorously. Some details, such as talent, are difficult to conceal. Since a specific psychic talent uses a specific combination of frequencies, a person needs to be a Wizard to conceal his or her particular talent. In addition, within the military, it is customary to implant a person's rank within the signature, obviating the need for a visual emblem of rank and preventing the assumption of a fictitious rank.

As with rank, impersonations are almost impossible, since psychic signatures are unique, like fingerprints or voice patterns, no two alike. The person perceiving the signature, of course, has to know its attributes.—
Sectathonics: The Psychic Eye
, by the Sectathon Wizard Probing Gaze.

* * *

The Sectathon Wizard Probing Gaze crouched at the crest of the rocky, sparsely forested ridge. Flaming Arrow stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. In the valley below was the camp of the bandit Spitting Wolverine.

With his talent, Probing Gaze was trying to find Spitting Wolverine from among his twelve thousand followers. Flaming Arrow knew that picking out one psychic signature from among so many others wasn't an easy task. No two signatures were alike, each distinct in the way it affected the psychic flow. Probing Gaze had told the Heir that he had met Spitting Wolverine in his years of spying on bandits—and knew the bandit's signature by sight. Flaming Arrow watched the sectathon move his head in a slow shake, scanning and re-scanning the thronged valley below, searching for the signature. Neither of them knew if an electrical shield concealed Spitting Wolverine or if he was even in camp. Spies reported that he was, but none had physically sighted him in the last three hours.

Flaming Arrow and Probing Gaze had been crouching on this ridge for about an hour. Both men felt tense and anxious from the strain, hoping the sentries patrolling the outer edges of camp didn't detect them. That thus far none of the Wolverine sectathons had seen the pair puzzled Flaming Arrow. While the Heir knew he was imperceptible to talent, the sectathon wasn't.

“There!” Probing Gaze hissed. “Heading: Three fifteen. Distance: Fifteen hundred paces.” His eyes closed, the sectathon didn't point.

Flaming Arrow leaned forward, scanning the area.

“With a woman on each arm,” Probing Gaze added.

Then the Heir saw the man. While too far to discriminate detail, the bandit looked imposing, with a flowing black beard and somber robes of white. A pair of guards also attended the bandit, in addition to the two women. The group of five bandits moved along a path between make-shift hovels, lean-tos, wattle-and-daub huts and other impermanent structures. Few habitations were stone: Two or three rough-cut block buildings clustered at the center of camp. A stream divided the valley. At the south end where it entered, the stream was clean. Where it exited the camp, it was brown and murky, clotted with excrement and refuse. Packs of dogs scavenged between the dwellings. When dog fought dog over some scrap, the bandits nearby wagered which would win. When the wind was right, a smell that would offend a skunk assaulted the two Imperial Warriors. None of the Wolverine Raiders seemed to object to the unsanitary conditions. One of the two women absently scraped something off her moccasin. Spitting Wolverine walked straight over a pile of refuse.

“Let's go,” Flaming Arrow said, plotting a path through the camp. Climbing from his hiding place, he checked his weapons from long habit, keeping the bandit in sight. The two men had tied white sashes around their waists as a signal to Imperial spies within the camp. When Spitting Wolverine's head rolled from his shoulders, the spies would signal the Imperial Warriors who gathered at all points around the camp.

Conditions here were worse than those at the camp of Hissing Cougar, the first bandit the Heir had assassinated. Although as destitute as the Wolverines, the Cougar Raiders had enforced some degree of sanitation. Three days ago, the Heir had taken Hissing Cougar's head. Imperial forces under Aged Oak had then fallen on the camp like wolves on a pen of unguarded sheep. Only seven hundred Imperial Warriors had lost their lives in the attack. Forty-five hundred bandits out of ten thousand had died. The Cougar Camp was now a smoldering ruin, the remaining members dispersed. Imperial forces even now scoured the hills around the camp, mopping up bandits unwise enough to linger. As they had done there, Imperial Warriors now moved into position around the Wolverine Camp. The bandits gave no sign they knew it.

“Infinite blast! Someone's coming!” Probing Gaze hissed. He retreated to a shallow cleft between two rocks, where he wedged himself.

Taking off all weapons but his sword, Flaming Arrow leaned nonchalantly against a boulder as if resting from travel. The two men had planned this ruse on the contingency a lone sentry approached them.

Her sword loose in her hands, a woman rounded an outcrop.

Flaming Arrow jumped as if startled, half-drawing his sword. “Greetings, Lady Warrior.” He slid the sword back into sheath.

“In times such as these, no one trusts a lone traveler, Lord Warrior.” Watching him warily, she stepped toward him. She peered at his face, as if recognizing him.

“Because of the manner of Hissing Cougar's death?” he asked. “I had friends in his band. I'd like to know their fate.”

“Imperial scum patrol the whole area, Lord Warrior. How did you avoid them?”

“My talent. Are you a sectathon?” he asked. At her nod, he said, “Why can't you see me, eh? My talent hides me.”

Looking doubtful, the woman shrugged. “Perhaps someone here has news of your friends, Lord.”

“Perhaps my friends are here themselves, eh Lady?”

“Perhaps. All the Cougar Raiders are over there.” She pointed toward the northwest corner of the valley below them. “Why do you need friends among the Cougar Raiders, anyway? Aren't you the one who has the favor of the Lord General Tiger?”

“I talk with him on occasion, Lady. I value my friends, wherever they are, whatever their station,” he replied, lying easily.

“My friend in the Elk Raiders tells me even the bitch Purring Tiger smiles at you.”

Scowling Tiger's vicious daughter? he wondered, having heard rumors that her smile was instant death. “I confess I don't understand it.”

“She must have a reason to lust after you, Lord Seeking Sword. Probably the length of your weapon,” the woman said, her eyes traveling his body.

Stiffening under her scrutiny, Flaming Arrow let his eyes travel her body. “Since you know my name already, why don't you tell me yours?” He stepped toward her, and slowly reached a hand toward her cheek.

“I'm … Soaring Sparrow,” she said, a gleam in her eye.

“Would the Lady Sparrow like to nest?” he asked, shifting his weight to make the bulge at his loin more prominent.

Giggling, she straightened to emphasize her ample breasts. The cut was so clean, the head didn't move. A puzzled look filled the eyes, then the body crumpled. Flaming Arrow leaped to avoid the fountain of blood.

“Good cut, Lord Gaze!” he said.

“Thank you, Lord. You were most persuasive.”

“Who's this Seeking Sword?”

“Never heard of him, Lord.” Shrugging, Probing Gaze bent to drag the body into the cleft where he had hidden.

Putting his pack and weapons back on, Flaming Arrow tossed the head in with the body. Resuming the descent, the Heir wondered about his next target, Scowling Tiger. Can I use my physical similarity to Seeking Sword to get into the fortress? he wondered. Not likely, he thought, doubting that Scowling Tiger would mistake him for the other.

As they reached the valley floor, Probing Gaze muttered an imprecation. “Alarms,” he said, “They've found the sentry's body.”

The camp began to mobilize, creating confusion. A group of guards clustered closely around Spitting Wolverine. The bandit spat orders at a rapid pace. Three paces ahead of the Heir, Probing Gaze began to babble half-coherently. Stumbling as if drunk, he pointed toward the hillside where he had taken the sentry's head. Into the ring of guards he walked, drawing everyone's attention.

Spitting Wolverine, anger on his pitted face, drew his sword. Suddenly, he had no hands. Flaming Arrow's second swing took his head.

Fighting erupted, warriors jumping for room and swords singing from sheaths. Probing Gaze and Flaming Arrow crouched back to back, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other. Twice they repulsed attacks. Before attacking again, the bandits suddenly relented, looking around.

Over the hills surrounding the valley poured Imperial Warriors.

Grabbing the head by the hair, Flaming Arrow tucked a hank into his weapons belt. Then he sidestepped a thrust as their foes recovered from shock. He parried another blade as two bandits attacked. Catching the blade of one, he yanked the sword from the hand with such force that it embedded itself deep in the chest of the other. Dispatching the unarmed bandit quickly, Flaming Arrow looked around, assessing the situation.

The attacking Imperial Warriors had already cut deep into the camp. The lack of a leader had thrown the bandits into confusion, the premise of Flaming Arrow's strategy. On three fronts, the attack was going well. On the fourth, the Imperial Warriors were regrouping. A bandit there had kept the defenses well-organized, repulsing the initial assault and preparing for the next.

Probing Gaze disemboweled an inept swordsman and looked around as well. Flaming Arrow tossed the head to the sectathon. “They need help over there.”

“I forbid it, Lord! You've done your part!”

Torn between a desire to fight and the need to escape, Flaming Arrow cursed and chose the more prudent. Together, the two men fought their way toward the advancing line of Imperial Warriors. There the ranks clad in blue and white hailed them with hearty cheers.

As they retreated beyond the battle lines, rear-guard and reinforcement greeted them as conquering heroes, the two men blood-soaked and tired. Southward they traveled, passing hundreds of Imperial Warriors heading north.

As they entered a clearing just over the border, Aged Oak glanced up from a large table, where a relief map lay. The General bowed to the Heir and returned to his work, orchestrating his armies to crush the last pockets of resistance. The rapathon, sectathon, and empathon behind him were sweating copiously with the strain of maintaining communications.

Probing Gaze walked off to take care of the head. Flaming Arrow watched Aged Oak work, fascinated.

The wrinkled General moved pieces on the map, tracking several small battles at once, bringing up archers for one confrontation, shifting a company from one battle to another. A network of sectathons, rapathons and empathons constantly updated his information. The old General was a master tactician.

“May I get you anything, Lord Heir?”

Seeing his own headservant here didn't surprise Flaming Arrow. “A bath, Cub, then food and a nap.”

The bath attendants scrubbed him three times. Rising from the stool, Flaming Arrow climbed into the steaming cauldron. Bless the Infinite for hot baths, he thought—and battlefield success. Sinking deeper into meditation, Flaming Arrow had almost centered himself when he remembered the woman.

Flaming Arrow's eyes popped open, his harmony disrupted. She had addressed him as “Seeking Sword.” Cursing and splashing the water, he climbed from the tub and fumed while attendants dried him. Cub dried and braided his bronze, back-length hair. An attendant helped him dress in fresh loincloth, moccasins and eight-arrow robe.

Cub brought food and set it before him. Flaming Arrow waved it away. “I insist you eat, Lord,” the servant said.