Read Hero in the Shadows Online
Authors: David Gemmell
Hero in the Shadows (19 page)
Elphons followed the blood trails for a little way. Dead birds littered the ground, frost on their feathers.
Lares crossed the blood-covered ground. The young man was trembling. “What are your orders, sire?”
“If we skirt the lake to the north, how long till we reach Carlis?”
“By dusk, sire.”
“Then that is what we shall do.”
“I cannot understand how we heard nothing. We had the woods in sight all the time.”
“Sorcery was used here,” said the duke, making the sign of the protective horn. “Once my family is safe in Carlis, I’ll return with Aric’s forces and a Source priest. Whatever evil is here will be destroyed. I swear it.”
It was still early when Waylander strolled into the north tower library, climbing the cast-iron spiral staircase to the antiquities section on the third floor. The three acolytes of the priestess Ustarte were sitting at the central table, examining tomes and parchment scrolls. They did not look up as he entered.
Strange men, he thought. Despite the thick stone of the tower, the heat was already rising within the chamber, yet they were garbed in heavy gray-hooded robes, had silk scarves around their necks, and wore thin gray gloves. Waylander did not acknowledge them as he moved past, but he felt their eyes on his back. He allowed himself a wry smile. He had never been loved by priests.
Waylander paused and scanned the shelves. More than three thousand documents were stored there, ancient skin-bound volumes, fading parchments, even tablets of clay and stone. Some were beyond deciphering but still drew scholars from as far afield as Ventria and the distant Angostin homeland.
His search would have been so much easier had the old librarian, Cashpir, not succumbed to a fever and taken to his bed. His knowledge of the library was phenomenal, and it was through him that Waylander had gathered many of the precious tomes. He tried to recall the day he had read of the shining swords. There had been a storm raging, the sky black and heavy. He had sat where the priests were now, reading under lantern
light. For three days he had been racking his mind for any bright shard of memory.
He glanced toward the open window and the new wooden shutters. Then it came to him.
The old shutters had been leaking, and water had splashed onto the shelves close by, damaging the documents stored there. Waylander and Cashpir had moved some of the scrolls to the table. It was one of those he had been idly scanning. The area of the shelf closest to the window was still empty. Waylander walked across the chamber to the small office used by Cashpir. The place was a mess, scrolls scattered everywhere, and he could hardly see the leather-topped desk beneath the mass of books and parchment. Cashpir had an amazing mind but no talent whatsoever for organization.
Waylander walked around the desk and sat down, picking through the parchments that lay there, recalling what had pricked his original interest on the day of the storm. One of the scrolls had told of giant creatures melded from men and beasts. Waylander himself had been hunted by just such creatures twenty years before; they had been sent to kill him by a Nadir shaman.
Waylander studied the scrolls, examining each one before laying it on the floor at his feet. Finally he lifted a yellowing parchment and recognized it immediately. The ink had faded badly in places, and one section of the parchment had been stained by fungus. Cashpir had treated the rest with a preservative solution of his own design. Waylander took the scroll back into the main library and walked to the window. In the sunlight he read the opening lines.
Of the glory that was Kuan Hador there are only ruins now, stark and jagged, testimony to the fruitless arrogance of man. There are no signs of the god-kings, no shadows of the Mist Warriors cast by the harsh sunlight. The history of the city is gone from the world, as indeed are the stories
of its heroes and villains. All that remains are a few contradictory oral legends, garbled tales of creatures of fire and ice and warriors with swords of shining light who stood against demons shaped from both men and beasts.
Having visited the ruins, one can understand the birth of such legends. There are fallen statues that appear to have the heads of wolves and the bodies of men. There are the remains of great arches, built, as far as one can ascertain, for no purpose. One arch, named by the historian Ventaculus as the Hador Folly, is carved from a sheer cliff of granite. It is the most curious piece, for when one examines it, one finds that the pictographic carvings on the inner arch pillars vanish into the rock, almost as if the cliff had grown over it like moss.
I have copied separately many of the pictographs, and several of my colleagues have spent decades trying to decipher the complex language contained in them. So far complete success has eluded us. What is apparent is that Kuan Hador was unique in the ancient world. Its methods of architecture, the skill of its artisans, is apparent nowhere else. Many of the stones still standing are blackened by fire, and it is likely that the city was destroyed in a great conflagration, perhaps as the result of a war with neighboring civilizations. Few artifacts have been recovered from Kuan Hador, though the king of Symilia has in his possession a mirror of silver that never tarnishes. This, he claims, was recovered from the site.
Waylander paused in his reading. There followed a series of descriptions of site examinations and a suggested layout of the city. Bored by the scholarly writing, Waylander skimmed through the text until he came to the concluding paragraphs.
As is ever the case when a civilization falls, tales abound that it was evil. Nomads who inhabit the areas that once
were the realm of Kuan Hador talk of human sacrifice and the summoning of demons. There is no doubt that the city boasted great magickers. I suspect, from the statues and those pictographs we have been partly able to decipher, that the rulers of Kuan Hador did indeed have some understanding of the vile art of meld magic. It is entirely probable that more recent examples of this abhorrent practice—among the Nadir and other barbaric peoples—are legacies of Kuan Hador.
I have listed separately some of the oral legends pertaining to the fall of Kuan Hador. The one most told concerns the return of the shining swords. Among the nomads of the Varnii—distant relatives of the Chiatze—the shamans speak a succession of doggerel verses at season feasts. The first and last verse read:
But seek ye not the Men of Clay
,
Who buried lie in crafted night
,
Their shining swords are put away
,
Their eyes are closed against the light
.
Death must await these Men of Clay
,
who stand in rows of ghostly white
,
and will until that dreadful day
,
when they awake to one last fight
.
A more complete translation can be found in Appendix 5. The historian Ventaculus produced an appealing essay on the song, claiming it to be a metaphor for the death and resurrection of those of heroic virtue, a faith system not unusual among warrior peoples.
Putting the scroll back in its rightful place on the shelf, Waylander strolled from the library. Minutes later he emerged onto the central terrace outside the banquet hall. Kysumu was waiting there, standing by the balustrade and staring out over
the bay and the sea beyond. The little swordsman turned as Waylander approached. He bowed deeply. Waylander returned the compliment.
“I have found little,” he told the
Rajnee
. “There are stories of an ancient city that once ruled this land. Apparently it was destroyed by warriors with shining swords.”
“A city of demons,” said Kysumu.
“So it is said.”
“They are returning.”
“That is quite a leap of imagination,” said Waylander. “The city fell around three thousand years ago. The scroll I examined was written a thousand years ago. One attack on a merchant and his bodyguards is too little to convince me.”
“I also discovered a scroll,” said Kysumu. “It talked of nomads avoiding the ruins because their legends say the demons were not all slain but escaped through a gateway to another world, one day to return.”
“Even so, the evidence is small.”
“Perhaps,” said Kysumu. “But when I see birds flying south, I know winter is coming. They do not need to be
large
birds, Gray Man.”
Waylander smiled. “Let us say you are correct and the demons of Kuan Hador are returning. What is your plan?”
“I have no plan. I will fight them. I am
Rajnee.
”
“Matze Chai tells me you believe your sword brought you here.”
“It is not a belief, Gray Man. It is a fact. And now that I am here, I know it is right. How far are the ruins from the palace?”
“Less than a day’s ride.”
“Will you lend me a horse?”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Waylander. “I’ll take you myself.”
If one fact of life was incontrovertible for Yu Yu Liang, it was that one golden ounce of good luck was invariably followed
by several pounds of bad—usually, in his experience, falling on him from a great height. Or, as his mother would say, “When the emperor’s parade passes by, the horse turd collectors are not far behind.”
The blond-haired Norda had left his bed only moments before, and Yu Yu was happier than he had been in months despite the initial criticism offered by the woman. “You are not in a race,” she had whispered to him as he clung to her. He had paused, his heart pounding wildly.
“A race?” he had managed to say between great gulps of air.
“Be slow. We have plenty of time.”
If Nashda, the crippled god of all laborers, had appeared in his room offering him immortality at that moment, it could not have been sweeter. First there was this beautiful woman lying beneath him, her golden legs around his hips. Second there was not a line of impatient ditchdiggers outside the door shouting for him to hurry. Third, as far as he knew, this glorious creature desired no money from him. That was extremely fortuitous since he had no money. And now to be told he had plenty of time … Could heaven be any sweeter?
He took her advice. There were many new joys to discover and some obstacles to overcome. Kissing a woman who still had all her teeth was surprisingly pleasant, almost as pleasant as the fact that there was no sand glass on the table beside the bed, swiftly trickling his time away.
If life could get better than this, Yu Yu Liang did not know how.
The first indications that there was a price to be paid for such pleasure came just after she left, when he pulled on his harsh woolen shirt. His upper back tingled with pain from the scratches to his skin. She had also bitten his ear, which had been most pleasurable at the time but now throbbed a little.
Even so, Yu Yu was whistling a merry tune as he stepped from the room—to find himself facing three of the Gray Man’s guards.
The first of them, a stocky man with tightly curled golden hair, was staring at him malevolently. “You have made a bad mistake, you slant-eyed pig,” he said. “You think you can come here and force yourself on our women?”
In Yu Yu’s village there had been a Source temple, and many of the children had attended school there. They had had no wish to learn the tongue of the roundeye, but the priests had supplied two meals a day, and for that it was worth putting in a little study. Yu Yu had been a quick learner, but lack of practice since then meant that he needed a little time to translate complicated sentences. Apparently he had committed some kind of error and was being accused of stealing a woman’s one-eyed pig. He looked into the man’s face and saw the hatred there, then flicked his gaze to the two men on either side. Both were staring at him through narrowed eyes.
“Well, now you are going to learn a little lesson,” continued the first man. “We’re going to teach you to stick with your own kind. Understand, yellow man?”
Despite having no knowledge of the pig theft, Yu Yu understood only too well the lesson they were about to deliver.
“I said: Do you understand?”
The man’s hatred turned briefly to shock and then to blank emptiness as Yu Yu’s left fist cannoned into his nose. He was already unconscious as the right cross followed. The guard hit the floor, blood seeping from his nostrils. A second guard lunged forward. Yu Yu butted him full in the face and then brought his knee up into the man’s groin. The guard gave a strangled cry of pain and sagged against the Chiatze. Yu Yu pushed him away and downed him with a left hook to the jaw.
“You give lessons, too?” Yu Yu asked the last guard.
The man shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t want to be here,” he said. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“I don’t steal pigs,” said Yu Yu, then stalked away down the corridor, his good mood evaporating. There were scores of guards in the Gray Man’s palace, and when next they came, it
would be in greater numbers. This meant—at best—a bad beating.
Yu Yu had suffered such beatings before, blows and kicks raining on him. The last such attack, just over a year ago, had almost killed him. His left arm had been broken in three places. Several ribs had been snapped, one of which had pierced his lung. It had taken months to recover, months of hardship and hunger. Unable to work, he had been reduced at first to begging for rice at the poorhouse. Finally he had journeyed back to the Source temple. Some of the priests still remembered him, and he had been welcomed warmly. They had tended his broken bones and fed him. When his strength had returned, he had journeyed back to the site of his beating and sought out singly each of the eight men involved in the attack. And he had thrashed them. The last had been the most difficult. Shi Da was six and a half feet tall, heavily muscled, and supremely tough. It had been his kicks that had snapped Yu Yu’s ribs. Yu Yu had given a lot of thought to challenging Shi Da. It was a matter of honor that a challenge should be made, but the timing had to be exactly right.
Yu Yu had walked up behind him in Chong Tavern and thwacked a heavy iron bar across the back of the man’s head. As he had slumped forward, Yu Yu had struck him twice more. Shi Da had fallen to his knees, barely conscious.
