Death of a Darklord (2 page)

There were no more chairs, so Konrad Burn stood behind the others. He was the youngest, not even thirty yet. His face had been handsome once. His green eyes were fierce and glittering as jewels, brown hair caught back in a leather thong. He was dressed
all in brown leathers of varying shades that matched the tanned skin of his face and arms. An axe rode at his hip, a small shield on his back.

Calum was not sure what had changed in the younger man. His face was still clean-shaven, still unlined, but the life had gone out of it. It was as though he were looking at a bad painting. The picture looked like a man, but there was no life to it. Only his eyes gleamed, alive with … rage: Konrad’s wife and partner had been killed two years ago.

Calum’s body was dying, but his mind and spirit cried out for life. Konrad’s body was healthy, strong, but mind and spirit waited for death. Konrad lived, but it was only the motions of life. Calum would have changed places with Konrad in a moment. He wondered if the younger man would have agreed.

“The twins are just outside,” Jonathan said. “They would love to see you.”

“No,” Calum said. “They are too young to see how all life ends.”

Jonathan touched his hand, gently, gripping the fragile flesh. “It does not always end like this, Calum. You know that.”

“Then why is my life ending like this?” Tears warmed his eyes. He tried not to blink, holding his eyes very still. Crying would have been the final embarrassment. His voice came out choked, and he hated it. “I was a good man, wasn’t I, Jonathan?”

“You
are
a good man, Calum.” Jonathan squeezed his hand as if holding tight could make it better.

Calum clung to his hand, the betraying tears spilling down his cheeks. “I have fought the evil of this land my entire life. I have nothing to show for it.”

“You are Calum Songmaster, one of the greatest bards in all
of Kartakass. You could have been a meistersinger of any city or town if you had wanted it. You could have lived in luxury, but you chose to serve the entire land. To search out and destroy evil, to serve the brotherhood.”

“But what have I accomplished, Jonathan? The evil still rules this land. The brotherhood is no closer to discovering who, or what, poisons Kartakass. The corruption will outlive me, Jonathan. It will grow and thrive, and I will be dead.”

“How can you say that?” Jonathan asked.

Tereza knelt by the bed. “You are Calum Songmaster, who defeated the vampires of Yurt. Calum Songmaster, the slayer of the great beast of Pel. Savior of Kuhl.”

Staring into the woman’s dark eyes, Calum could almost feel his blood flow stronger. For a moment, he was not an old man at the end of life, but the young Calum, the Songmaster who had tamed the wilderness and slain his share of monsters.

The pain roared up from his belly. A red, burning tide of pain that filled his body, ate his mind. Nothing was left but to ride the pain. He was aware, dimly, of Jonathan’s hand still gripped in his own, but the rest of the world vanished while he writhed and trembled with pain.

He lay, weak and gasping, on the bed. Sweat covered his body. His hand was limp, too weak to hold Jonathan’s. Jonathan cradled the trembling limb in both his own. A single tear trailed into his beard.

Tereza stared at him; no tears, but he could see a deep roaring pain in her eyes. He had never seen her cry. He was glad this would not be the first time.

Konrad had moved away from the bed, arms folded, angry eyes uncertain.

“Let me bring in the others. They need to say good-bye.” Jonathan’s voice was a soft rumble.

“No,” Calum gasped. He wanted to shake his head but was too weak. Talking was almost beyond him. “Young ones … should not … see me … like this.”

“They love you, Calum.”

“Frighten them … it will frighten them.”

Jonathan didn’t argue. He raised Calum’s hand very gently to his face, pressing the weak flesh to his beard. “You have always been a good friend to me, Calum. I wish I could help you in this.”

“Do you want me to get the housekeeper?” Konrad asked. “She said the doctor should be here soon.” He seemed eager to leave, to have something to do besides stare at the end of all flesh.

“Go,” Calum said.

Konrad did not wait to be told again. He went, his strong body striding across the rug, easily, unthinkingly. Calum hated him for it.

The housekeeper entered. She was a small, round woman, her hair in a neat bun on top of her head. She smiled at the room as if nothing were wrong. In front of company, she was always her same cheerful self. In private she had mastered his moods. When he needed sympathy, she gave it. When he needed matter-of-factness, she gave that. Calum had come to love that plain, smiling face.

The doctor followed at her heels. He was a small, bent man with a mane of snow-white hair. If Calum hadn’t been twenty years older, the doctor would have seemed old. His face was professionally cheerful. Nothing showed on his face or body unless the doctor wished it to. Calum envied his control.

“I’m afraid this visit has to end,” the doctor said. “I need to see how our friend here is doing.”

Jonathan pressed his hand. “I’ll see you soon, Calum.”

Calum stared into his friend’s face and said nothing. They both knew this might be the last time.

Tereza kissed him on the forehead, her lips soft. Her long hair fanned around his face, smelling of herbs: pinenut, rosemary, sweet lavender. She said something in her native tongue—musical, guttural. A blessing, or a curse. It mattered little now.

Konrad had never returned. He did not come to say good-bye. He had never been comfortable around the sick. Calum hadn’t wanted any of them to see him like this. Now the fact that Konrad had not said good-bye filled him with rage.

The doctor’s visit was mercifully short. He left another bottle of medicine, for what good it would do, and took his leave, still pleasant, still smiling. What do you say to a patient who is dying, and everyone knows it?

The housekeeper followed the doctor out. She would escort all his friends outside, see they had a cup of tea or a sandwich. Her glance paused on the far wall and the brilliant wall hanging that covered it. Her pleasant face flashed in disapproval, then she closed the door behind her.

In the silence of the room the tapestry pulled back with a soft, thick sound. A tall, slender man stepped from the hidden door. His hair was long, thick, and so black that the weak sunlight made blue highlights on it. His fashionably trimmed beard and mustache framed a handsome face, a face for women to sigh over in romantic moments. He had a graceful, swinging stride that brought him gliding into the room. He always entered a room as if it were his very own private chamber, as if everywhere he went
he carried his own kingdom in a circle around his body, so that he was always at home, always at ease.

His shirt was white silk, covered by a scarlet vest with gold embroidery. His pants were also scarlet, stuffed into gleaming black boots. A basket-hilted sword rode his hip. A matching scarlet hat dangled from one hand, complete with a sweeping black feather. Rings glittered from his long fingers. “Well, Calum, what do you think of your young friend now?” His voice was a rich tenor that held something of the music he made his living from.

Calum lay on his back now, pillows cradling him so that he could only stare at the man. “Have you come to whisper more lies in my ears?”

“Not lies, my friend, promises.”

“What do you want of me, Harkon?”

“Your help.” Harkon Lukas laid his hat on the foot of the bed and leaned against the bedpost.

“I cannot betray my friends.”

Harkon smiled, even white teeth flashing in his dark face. “I have given you my word that none of the others will be harmed. I want only Konrad Burn.”

“Why him?”

Harkon shrugged, a somehow graceful gesture in the tall man. “He is handsome, young, strong. He can travel beyond the boundaries of Kartakass. You can’t tell me as a bard you have not longed to escape this prison, to travel the lands your friend Jonathan and his gypsy woman have told you of. The songs I could sing. The tales to be told. Think of it, Calum.”

“But to possess his body? What becomes of Konrad when you are inside him?”

“He will get my body.” Harkon glided round the bed. Calum could only move his eyes to follow the bard.

“Don’t you think my body a fair trade for his?”

Calum did. It was a strong, healthy body. “If you truly command some … sorcery that will switch your body with Konrad’s, but not harm him, why not ask him? Why not gain his cooperation?”

“Do you really think he would agree? Our angry, honor-bound Konrad?”

“Would anyone agree?”

Harkon sat on the edge of the bed. The slight movement caused Calum to gasp. “Oh, my friend,” Harkon said, “did my sitting down hurt you?” He leaned forward, face concerned.

Calum did not want the man to touch him. He knew the concerned looks would fade instantly, chased by whatever new emotion entered Harkon’s mind. He was as changeable as a spring wind, and as reliable.

Harkon’s hand fell back into his lap. He smiled down at Calum. “I have found a body for you. A man in his twenties. Tall, strong, in perfect health, handsome. He is a little shorter than you were in your prime, more slender, perhaps a shade more handsome, though.”

To be young again, with his whole life ahead of him, but with the knowledge of a lifetime. To leave his pain-ridden body behind. To live. It was a tempting offer, and Harkon knew that. Why make it otherwise?

Calum licked his lips. “And what happens to this young man if I take his body?”

“Why, he gets yours.”

“He would die, horribly.”

“As you are dying?” Harkon stood and paced back to the foot of the bed.

“Yes!”

“But, Calum, don’t you plan to give the boy back his body? As I plan to give Konrad back his?”

He stared into that handsome face. The dark eyes mocked him. He knew if he once tasted the freedom of a new, healthy body, he could never return to this dying shell. He wanted to live. But at what cost?

“No one would agree to such a trade.”

“But I assure you, the young man will.”

“How could I come back to this pain once I was free?” Calum closed his eyes. “I would not be strong enough to make such a choice.”

“Then make another choice, Songmaster,” Harkon said.

Calum opened his eyes to find the tall man looming over him. “What do you mean?”

Harkon smiled a knowing smile. “Keep the body, be young and healthy. Escape this dying husk.”

“What of the young man?”

“He will die.”

“You would kill him?”

The smile deepened. “I would do anything to see you whole and well again, my friend.”

“You don’t plan to give Konrad back his body, do you?”

Harkon gave a soft, purring laugh. “Oh, Calum, do you really want to know?”

No, Calum decided, he didn’t, not really. What they were speaking of was evil. As evil as anything he had ever fought against. He did not know why Harkon pursued this sorcery, but
he, Calum Songmaster, would not steal the youth, the life from another human being. It was monstrous.

Harkon leaned close, eyes drowning-deep, face solemn. “This might be our last visit together, Calum. Not that I wouldn’t want to see you again, my friend, but you may simply not be here. If you die before our bargain can be struck.…” He leaned close, whispering against Calum’s skin. For a moment, he thought the man would kiss him gently, as you would kiss a sick child. He was loathe for those lips to touch his skin. But only Harkon’s words burned along his wrinkled cheek. “Once dead, I cannot help you.”

A wave of bone-grinding, stomach-churning pain burned upward from his rotting gut. When the pain receded, he lay gasping, staring up into Harkon’s dark eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

Harkon smiled. “Very little, my friend, very little.”

Calum waited for the words to fall from Harkon’s lips, waited to hear how he would betray his friends, how he would destroy one of them utterly. They both knew Konrad would not survive in Harkon’s body. He, too, would be killed. Calum knew that, and yet he listened.

His eyes flicked to his desk and the waiting skull. He felt he should apologize to the bones of his friend for forcing them to watch his fall. He had fought the land his entire life, but finally it had offered him something too precious to refuse. He wanted to live. And he was willing to pay the price, even if that price was another person’s blood. Even if someday he paid with his soul. For a second chance, even that seemed a small price to pay.

e
L
a
IN
e
C
la
IRN
KN
e
L
t
IN
f
RON
t of t
HE
HU
ge
KI
t
CH
e
N
fireplace. The children crowded close to the fire, not for the heat, but so they would not miss any movement of Elaine’s hands.

Her small, slender hands passed in front of the flames. Fingertips fanned wide, so close to the flames that heat wavered round her skin. She stared into the leaping fire, the backs of her fingers touched together. Her wrists rolled outward like flower petals unfolding. From the tips of her fingers images leapt. A tiny, perfect man walked in the flames. It was as if the fire were a wavering mirror on which the man moved.