Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (53 page)

the art of swordsmanship I cared for—the grace and strength so smoothly joined—but more the logical

puzzle of it. Move, countermove, thrust, parry. What were the myriad possibilities, and what was the

remedy for each, all perceived and analyzed in a heartbeat. No formless metal could provide the

challenge that did an opponent’s mind and body.

So what good had my art done me when the Seeking of the Zhid crept through the streets of Sen

Ystar? The icy fingers of the Zhid took one of us and then another as we so blithely celebrated the beauty

of Fen’Lyro’s mill wheel. The food and wine were probably still there, abandoned on the long tables set

out on the snow-dusted grass. . . .

No, best not to think of food or wine. In a single day we captives were given one fist-sized lump of

bread, gray and unhealthy-looking, and two cups of water, doled out two mouthfuls at a time. And how

many of those days had there been? Six ... seven . . . eight . . .

Few villagers were left by the time we were herded through the portal into the Wastes and chained to

the dolorous column of captives. It was, perhaps, not a good day to be a proficient warrior. Surely the

life of the dead in L’Tiere would be better than the endless desert, and with every painful step I envied

those who had found their way beyond the Verges ... so many that I knew. One of the last to fall was

B’Isander, who had learned well from my three fencing lessons so many years ago.

But no Dar’Nethi grieves for long. He takes in what is told by time and makes it part of him, and then

goes on ... another step along the Way, no matter how bitter.
Aarrgh . .
. The sand cuts like glass.

At least I had my mind still, no small matter when dealing with the Zhid. Luca the Singer, M’Aritze the

Word Winder, and Bas’Tel the Smith—they were made Zhid— and they, and others who met the same

fate, helped to round up the rest of us to be taken into the Wastes. No one knew for certain how the

Zhid chose those who were to become like them, and those who would be only slaves. Some said it was

the level of power one had attained. Perhaps that was true, for I was a slave, whereas the Builder had

become Zhid and cut Fen’Lyro’s throat, for whom he had spent all day singing a wheel.

“On your feet, slave,” snarled a voice in my ear, and the inevitable lash followed, temporarily

removing any thought of my feet. I wasn’t even aware I had fallen. I managed to get up before my

neck-chain played out its length, no easy matter when one’s wrists are bound so tightly. I had seen two

or three who had been dragged along so far by the slow-moving column that they were not recognizable

as men by the time they were cut loose. I had always considered myself exceptionally strong and

enduring, but after the fall I began to wonder if I, too, would be left for the vultures like so many of our

number. We had started out a hundred and fifty, mostly men, a few sturdy women of middle years, but

had lost at least eighteen. The women did better, a sobering thought for one who believed himself

possessed of few “woman’s frailties.”

Another few hours and I could no longer summon a rational thought. On the horizon loomed a

fortress, tall and severe and so very dark, even in the harsh desert glare.

The mere sight of it engulfed my spirit in such sorrow and desolation that I groaned aloud. I didn’t

notice the lash this time, for the unnamable pain inside was far, far worse.

Before too long the sun had settled onto the western horizon, and the column started to slow and the

prisoners to draw close to each other to capture the heat before all of it was sucked into the frigid night.

Our captors usually allowed us to do so, but not this time. “Spread out. Full speed. We’re due in the

pens by midnight. No rests and no slowing.”

It was probably as well. I didn’t know whether or not I could survive another freezing night in the

open, only to face another blistering sunrise.

Two more dead men were cut from the chain before we arrived at the top of a low rise and could

look down upon the army of the Lords. Those of us who remained living and able to comprehend what

our eyes rested on gazed with awe upon the magnitude of our enemies, a dark mass sprawled across the

desert all the way to the horizon. For twenty years I had fought upon the walls of Avonar and complained

with my fellows about the endless waves of the Zhid. But never had I considered my words to be the

literal truth.

We were marched straight through the crowded encampment, the mass of tents and campfires and

faces forming a blurred chain of light and dark, strung together with hatred. You could feel it from every

side, colder than the night wind that billowed the canvas tents and swirled ashes and sand into our

burning, crusted eyes. They gathered along the track as we passed, silent except for the low hiss that we

who had fought the Zhid for so long knew as the sign of their contempt.

“Don’t listen. Don’t let it inside you,” I whispered, first to myself, and then to the youth chained

beside me. Even under his sun-reddened skin he was pale, and his cracked and blistered lips quivered. It

took a person years of seasoning to slough off the hiss of the Zhid. “Put one foot in front of the other.”

The end of our bitter road loomed before us, a fence of black iron rods, the upright bars spaced no

more than two finger-widths apart—no, not a fence, but a cage, for the bars extended up and over the

top. No doubt the cross-pieces that glinted in the torchlight were the same silvery metal as our chains.

Dolemar it was called, the sorcerer’s binding, for it prevented any use of magical power. Some said that

if a man was bound by dolemar for too long he would go mad, just from the excess of power that built up

in him, impossible to spend. A Dar’Nethi could no more stop taking in the experiences of life and building

his power than he could stop taking in air, so perhaps it was true. Such was our Way.

As we approached the fence, a gate swung open. Each prisoner was detached from the column, then

herded into the brightly lit enclosure that was just too low to allow a tall man to stand up straight. The

cage would not be pleasant in the heat of desert daylight, but I supposed that “pleasant” would have to

be banished from my vocabulary, or redefined to mean such sensations as sinking onto the

straw-covered ground and letting burning, grit-filled eyelids shut out the horror.

Our respite did not last long. Torchlight and voices dragged me back to the cold night from wherever

a moment’s dreams had taken me.

“Are they ready inside, then? We push to make the deadline, only to have them not even ready.

Burns me, it does.” That was one of our guards, a squat Zhid with a narrow head.

“Shut up, and get this lot sorted. We’ve got to get ‘em collared before the slavemaster comes.”

“He’ll be shiv’d when he sees the poor take. Only a few likelies for the practice pens. A few for

house duty. The rest’ll be for the mines and the farms.”

“Just get them inside and secured. Makes me twitchy just having them caged and not collared.”

Using elbows and my bound hands, I forced my aching bones to sit up and lean against the bars, and

immediately wished I hadn’t. The bars were cold, and my back was so raw from sunburn and lashing that

it felt like being speared with icicles. My expletive woke the youth who had been chained beside me for

eight days and had seen fit to curl up to sleep on my legs.

“What’s happening?” said the boy, who must have been somewhere near sixteen, though I was sure

he’d aged a lifetime in the past days.

“No idea. They’ve uses for us. If we’re not dead and have half a mind left, then there’s hope.”

The boy shivered and shook his head. I wasn’t sure I believed it either.

“Wake, pigs,” screamed a guard. “If you want to feed your worthless faces or wet your foul tongues,

then you need to line up by the door in the far wall. One at a time.”

In the early days of our march I had witnessed struggles to get free, desperate attempts to muster

power enough to break the bindings, to sharpen a stick for a weapon, to lure a stone into a hand. Once,

on the first night, I had believed that someone was trying to speak in my mind with images of such beauty

and hope that I lay awake, awaiting the rescuers that I was sure would fall upon our captors. Two days

in the desert had ended all such futile endeavors and empty visions. Then came pleas for help, for

Healers, for water, and prayers begging courage and strength. Two more days had silenced us all.

As we dragged ourselves to the back wall of the cage where a steel door opened into a dark, low

building, the only sounds were the clank of chains and the soft weeping of those who could not rise. We

tried to help them, but at the door any who couldn’t walk on their own were shoved back into the cage.

My youthful comrade was among those left behind. He huddled in the corner. Shivering. Terrified.

I called back to him. “It is a wonder, is it not?” It was the tag end of an old Dar’Nethi joke. We who

tried to see wonder in everything—sometimes even we were confounded by the paths of life.

Slowly a grin suffused the boy’s face, banishing fear and revealing a luminous spirit. “All of it,” he

croaked, through his cracked and bleeding lips. “I’ll see you beyond the Verges.”

Several of the others left behind took up the refrain. “A wonder . . . beyond the Verges ...” I saw

handclasps and a few kisses and even heard laughter gracing the grim night.

Ah, holy Vasrin
, I thought.
From what marvelous matter have you shaped us
?

The steel door gaped in front of me, and I was pulled through in my turn. While one guard checked

the bonds on my wrists and hooked a short chain to my neck ring, a second man hobbled my ankles with

a length of rope. The state of my feet would have prevented me running far, but I had contemplated a few

of my favorite leg-holds when I glimpsed only two guards. Too bad.

As they led me stumbling through the dark passage toward a faint yellow light and the sound of

splashing water, from somewhere deep in the dark place came a cry that chilled whatever mote of

resilience still lurked in my soul. What, in the name of all that lives, could cause a man to make that

sound?

Turn inward for protection . . . stay deep . . . let it pass
. Nauseated, horrified, I didn’t even

understand my own thoughts.

The passage made a sharp bend. Torches burned beyond an open doorway. As I was still squinting

from the brightness, my guard led me to a wooden bench facing a bare stone wall. “Sit here and don’t

move.”

Sitting still was not so simple a matter, as someone standing behind me took a knife to my head and

began hacking off my hair in great chunks. But I did my best. When an unfriendly someone has a knife

that close to eyes and ears and such appendages, it’s best to behave.

“Ready for the next one!” The call came from beyond another door.

“This one’s proper nasty,” said the guard, dragging me off the bench by the neck-chain. My hobbled

ankles almost had me on my face in the piles of hair on the floor. “Going to dance for us, Dar’Nethi?”

A retort bubbled to my lips.
No. Turn inward . . . stay deep . . . whatever you would say would

only be an excuse for something you’d rather not experience. Save the wit for someone who’ll

appreciate it
.

The next bare room, small and square, had damp walls and a stone floor that sloped into a drain

trench. The guards hitched my hands to an iron hook above my head. Then, they ripped off what was left

of my clothes and a fair portion of skin where blood had dried and stuck them to me. Though I half

expected it, I could not keep silent when a pail of icy water was thrown over me from behind. “Vasrin’s

hand!”

“Come now, slave, you want to be nice and clean for the slavemaster, don’t you?”

They used a brush or a mop or some such contrivance to swab me down, then sluiced me off with

another pail of water. Naked and shivering, I almost jumped a handspan off the ground when someone

began to poke and prod my back and limbs. A helpless, horrid feeling. He moved around in front of me,

a short, tidy Zhid whose eyes made my skin shrivel when he looked at my face. Pulling a length of cord

from several that hung from a ring on his belt, the tidy man wrapped it snugly about my neck. I jerked

backward, trying to calm myself with the thought that it had been awfully stupid to go to the trouble of

washing me if I were going to be throttled. Indeed he removed it right away, paying no heed to my

jumpiness.

“Give this to Dujene,” he said, scoring the cord with a small knife and handing it to one of my guards.

“You seem to be a fine specimen.”

I presumed the last was to me, but I wasn’t used to making pleasant conversation with a hostile

stranger who had free access to all of my vital parts.

“What is your name? And don’t be stupid. We’ll know if you lie.”

“V’Saro of Sen Ystar.”

“Age?”

“Forty-three.”

“Profession?”

“Swordmaster.”

“Indeed? And your true talent?”

“Minor Horsemaster. No time for anything else.” Stupid to think I had to apologize for my lack of

talent to a cursed Zhid.

His pale eyes and his thick hands continued to inspect and examine me. “Too bad your true talents

are insufficient to make you a warrior. Your physical construction demands it. But a practice slave will be