The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (12 page)

Rithard
seemed to have found some courage in his drink however. He stood on
wobbly legs and declared, “A man is speaking now. I've enough
on my conscience. I won't have this as well.”

Davron
barked laughter. “Found your balls in a bottle, eh? Well,
then, I will address you on those terms. Clearly, you are ignorant,
even if you have learned to be brave. A challenge has been issued
and accepted. It is not your place to interfere.”

“I'm
making it my place! I have conviction, too! This is senseless! I
surrender to you!”

Davron
sighed and shook his head. “You have no say. I am willing to
settle this with personal combat, if that is Caelwen's choice, but
if you interfere, I will rescind my offer. You know Caelwen well.
That will likely end in his death. Now show some respect and be
silent.”

Rithard
looked at Caelwen, his clouded, guilty eyes asking if this was truly
Caelwen's will. Caelwen gave Rithard a quick nod. “Thank you,
Rithard. You are a true friend, but as he says, this is not your
choice.”

Looking
miserable, Rithard bowed his head and stepped back, folding his arms
against his chest and staring at the ground, clearly unconvinced,
but at least accepting that the game between Davron and Caelwen had
to be played out now.

Davron
eyed Rithard a moment longer, mistrust in his eyes, then nodded his
approval. “Well done. Drunk you may be, but I charge you as
our referee. Let no dishonorable move go uncalled.” He turned
back to Caelwen and nodded. “So many times I've said this, but
I never expected to do so in such circumstances. Let us begin.”
He slipped into a fighting stance, smoothly, like a cat, and Caelwen
did likewise.

Their
swords arced and clashed against one another in a frenzy. Davron's
blade hit like a hammer. There was strength behind his blows that
Caelwen had never felt in training. Davron was almost superhuman in
his speed and power. Every blow Caelwen blocked rattled his bones.

“Yes!”
Davron cried, and slashed at Caelwen with such speed and fury that
Caelwen could barely interpose his own blade in time. The force of
the blow left his arm numb and battered his own sword aside.
Davron's followup opened a gaping hole in Caelwen's chestpiece. “Do
you feel it, boy?
Real power!”

Caelwen
staggered briefly, then pressed back, a cry of fury on his lips,
raining blow after blow at Davron, but his master was blindingly
fast, his stamina terrifying. Even as Davron stepped back, stoicly
weathering Caelwen's fury, giving ground, Caelwen knew Davron was
still fully in control of the fight.

Davron
smashed Caelwen's blade aside and lunged forward with his elbow,
sending Calwen sprawling. “Now you see!” Davron cried.
“Now you understand why I have no fear of Maranath and his
ilk, eh!” He paused, waiting for Caelwen to regain his feet.
“But there is one thing you do not see yet, boy.”

Caelwen
struggled to stand as quickly a possible to get his blade up,
panting, finding it difficult to force his legs to obey. Davron
waited, sword extended, giving him time. Caelwen brought his own
weapon to bear again, as he asked, “And what is that?”

“You
shouldn't either.” Davron held his blade out, but made no move
to strike. “But you should fear
me
. Will you not yield?
I beg you, for your father's sake.”

Caelwen
had never been the sort who could lie to himself. He was tired,
dreadfully so, and Davron seemed to have a limitless reserve of
stamina. Older or not, Davron was still far and away his better. But
to give in now would betray everything Caelwen had ever stood for,
most of it taught to him by the very man who was about to take his
life.
I would rather die as I lived than throw that away.
“You're
going to have to kill me, Master.”

Davron's
face twisted with rage. “Fool!” he roared. “Why
will you make me do this?
Why?
”

Caelwen
offered a sad smile. “I am the man you made me. How would you
or my father remember me if I crumbled now?” He held his blade
up in a salute, and Davron returned it.

“It
was an honor to train such as you.” He slashed the air with
his blade and struck a fighting stance again. “One last game,
then. For all the marbles.”

Caelwen
nodded and brought his own blade to bear. “Tell my father I
died well.”

Davron
nodded at this, then came on like a hurricane, an irresistible force
of nature. Sparks flew from their blades as they slashed and
parried, but each blow felt to Caelwen like a bolt from the heavens.
He gave up any hope of offense, and focused on blocking, but he had
nothing left. His hands and arms were numb, his breath ragged and
bursting from his chest as he struggled against the inevitable.

“Fight!”
Davron bellowed.
“Fight,
damn you, if you would have me
say you died well!” The blows kept coming, perhaps not so hard
or fast as before, but relative to Caelwen's ability to stop them,
they were growing. Davron was simply too strong, too fast, too
skilled. Caelwen cursed himself as he blocked a blow and felt his
sword ripped from his hand by the force of the impact.

Something
hit his head hard, and his vision burst into a million stars, a
brilliant flash of light filling his mind, driving everything else
out, even pain. As he sank into darkness, the light fading to black,
his last thought echoed his last words.

Tell my father I died well.

Logrus pulled at the reins of
his horse, directing the creature seemingly at random as he scanned
the rolling hills, searching for anything that seemed familiar, that
matched the vision he had been given the night before, but it was
hopeless. Skeletal trees and a blanket of snow conspired to hide
landmarks, to smooth over differences of terrain that might
otherwise make for contrast. A less skilled man might have ended up
wandering in circles, but Logrus was an accomplished tracker. It was
one skill among many that he had acquired by sheer need, rather than
tutoring. Surviving twenty years or more as a fugitive required a
man to learn much, or perish, and Logrus was not the sort of man to
lie down and die.

He pulled at his beard as he
continued to search for signs of passage, or recognizable landmarks.
Steam poured from his nose in wisps, and from his horse’s in
great gouts. Tracker or no, this might well be an impossible task
for him alone.

In the distance, crouched on
the horizon, lurked Nihlos, the city of the ‘demon men’,
an ancient, cunning wolf poised to strike at its prey. The walls of
the city were an arrogant sneer; its towers rising toward the sky
were covetous, grasping talons that would pull down the moon and
stars had they the reach. The city’s ever present cloud cover
huddled over its shoulders like a cloak, modulating the weather and
warding against the snow, even as it shrouded the machinations of
the city from the eyes of outsiders.

Logrus was aware that he was in
some danger by coming so close to the city. Certainly, the
Nihlosians were hostile to anyone not of their blood, regarding all
others as either enemies or cattle. Still, he had little choice, and
at any rate, he was not as afraid as some might have been. He had
killed a few Nihlosians in the past, again, out of necessity, and
had been no more impressed by them than by any other man he had
fought. They were tall, and had good reach, but they were flimsy.
Still, he took a moment to check the two short, curved blades he
wore on each hip. He had secured them well, but repetition and
double checking were habit with him, as natural as breathing.

From Nihlos, he knew, his
quarry would have traveled due west, toward the setting sun. But
from what gate, and how far? Logrus ground his teeth in frustration.
Time was of the essence!

It was, he realized, the wrong
way of thinking. He was forgetting, as he often did, his faith, and
reverting to his old ways. It was indeed a time of need, and clearly
one where his skills were not sufficient. Still, success was
necessary, and providence would come. When opportunity presented
itself, he would be prepared, and he would act, knowing that he
could not fail, would not be
permitted
to fail.

He would have to get closer to
the city, and the horse would be a hindrance. He tethered the
creature in a small copse of trees, where it would have at least
some shelter from the cold. As for himself, the cold was irrelevant,
and had been since the change. It was as unpleasant as ever to be
half frozen, but it did him no real harm. He set off on foot,
pushing through the snow with grim determination, full of purpose.

Parasin hated the snow almost
as much as he hated dealing with prisoners. To be saddled with both
at the same time, he thought, was nigh intolerable, and worse, it
was a fool’s errand. How were he and the handful of prisoners
ever supposed to locate the Traitor’s corpse in the midst of
this miserable, icy sea? It was worse than a needle in a haystack.
At least a haystack was
warm
.
And for that matter, who was to say the Traitor was here at all?
Rumor had it that swords had shattered against his skin. Why would
this horrid wet slush be the end of him, where steel had failed?

Parasin noticed one of the
prisoners had stopped beating the snow and was crouched down,
shivering. The guard smiled, pleased to have opportunity to inflict
a little misery on someone else for a change. He had no idea what
the prisoner’s name might be, nor did he care. Names were for
humans, not animals.

“You there!” he
shouted as he approached, but the prisoner gave no indication that
he heard. Parasin kicked a boot into the small of the man’s
back, expecting a cry of pain, but the prisoner made no sound. He
simply rolled over into the snow, still shivering, and fell on his
side. Parasin gasped as he saw the man’s face.

The eyes were open so wide as
to be almost comical, and his features were locked into a mask of
fear. It was as if, at the absolute height of his terror, just as he
were about to let loose with a cry, he had been paralyzed, frozen
somehow. His lips trembled around his gaping mouth, as if the
unvoiced scream were struggling for freedom against some unseen
power that held him motionless.

Parasin felt the hair on the
back of his neck begin to rise, and he drew his sword as he surveyed
the scene. The prisoner had been crouched in front of a snow covered
stump, but nothing else seemed out of place. He prodded gently at
the stump with his weapon, and gasped in surprise as he saw what
appeared to be cloth beneath the snow. It must be the Traitor! At
last! And none too soon, he thought. Whatever had frightened the
prisoner, Parasin wanted no part of it, anymore than he wanted the
snow or the prisoners. Now he could be done with all three!

As he bent to brush snow from
his prize, a hand, its flesh putrid and rotting, its nails sharp
like talons, struck at him from the depths of the heap and buried
itself in his throat. He saw his own blood spraying upon the snow
like a fountain as the thing emerged from the snow. It was man
shaped, and even wore a cloak, but it was skinless, rotting, and
skeletal, its dead eyes shining with hateful purpose as it regarded
him. The other hand struck him, this one penetrating his heart.
Within moments, darkness overwhelmed even the pain and fear, and
then there was nothing for Parasin.

Logrus paid no attention to the
prisoners as they fled, screaming in terror. He needed to move
quickly, before more guards came. It was true, he could not fail,
but still, it was best not to test that theory. Faith required
honest effort, as well as conviction.

Logrus regarded the prisoner on
the ground with an almost amused curiosity. It was a rare reaction,
but one that he had seen before. What had the poor wretch seen, he
wondered? Some minds, when touched by his gift, could conjure
horrors so profound that their creators could not endure them. He
considered a moment, unwilling to kill for no reason, but decided it
would be merciful. With a single, practiced motion, Logrus ran the
curved blade across the prisoner’s throat and opened it to the
air. Warm blood erupted over his hands and jetted into the snow,
steaming, but still the man gave no indication that he was even
aware of what was going on.

Logrus cleaned his blades and
his hands in the snow, replaced his weapons at his belt, then turned
to the guard's corpse. He extended his hand, palm down fingers
splayed, over the body, and held them there as he gathered his
thoughts and his will.

It was difficult to use, this
gift, and Logrus found it distasteful, but it was also the most
direct means of getting the information he needed. He turned his
mind toward the events in his life that engendered the appropriate
emotion, the occurrences that connected him to the Source. There
were many, but one stood out amongst all the rest, the sight of his
mother’s cold, dead eyes staring up from her pillow, the pain
and fear clouded but still visible, the dark, finger shaped bruises
on her neck fairly shouting of her murder. He ground his teeth at
the memory, now twenty years old if a day, yet still as fresh as
morning dew in his mind. It cut him like glass, and his soul seared
with hatred at the injustice.

“Rise, flesh, and
remember,” he commanded, keeping the image of his dead mother
in his mind’s eye. He jerked his fingers upward, as if
controlling a marionette. The corpse played along with the metaphor,
jerking as if it were attached to strings, then slowly rose to its
feet, fresh blood running from its wounds.

“What have you done to
me?” it croaked.

“Be silent, flesh!”
Logrus commanded. “You must obey me. You will only speak when
spoken to.”

The zombie moaned softly,
trying to cry out for help, struggling against the dark power that
compelled it, but found Logrus’s words to be true. It had no
choice but to obey.

“You sought the prisoner
who fled this city, yes?”

The zombie nodded.

“Do you know the route he
took from the city? By which gate he fled?”

Again, the zombie nodded.

“Speak now and tell me,
then.”

“The third gate on the
south side,” the zombie rasped.

“And due west from there,
yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am done with you.
Speak no more. Return to the city and attack your brethren until you
are destroyed.”

The zombie moaned in protest,
but lurched off toward the city nonetheless. Logrus watched it go
with some level of sympathy. It was one thing to command dead flesh
into service, but quite another to have it retain its memories.
Still, it had been necessary, and there was no kinder thing to do
for the creature than see it destroyed. Now, its second death could
serve as a distraction to draw attention from him, as well. Logrus
nodded in satisfaction at the economy of the situation as he
returned to his horse.

With the correct origin and
orientation, Logrus had little trouble locating landmarks that
matched those from his vision. There was the copse of trees that
reminded him of a group of old women doing laundry, a ditch like a
bowl, and a bend in the creek where it looped back on itself,
creating a small peninsula some fifty yards long. There, in the
center, beneath a protective canopy of evergreens, he would find his
target.

Logrus pushed through the low
hanging branches, noting with satisfaction the scuff marks on the
ground and the telltale breakage of needles. It was indeed warmer
here, warm enough for a man to survive the weather, for a while at
least. Ahead, he saw a darker shape upon the straw covered ground.

The stranger was tall and
lanky, and lay splayed, face down on the ground, his limbs at odd
angles, another marionette whose strings had been cut. In truth,
Logrus mused, that was probably a very apt comparison. Logrus went
to one knee, brushed aside the man’s long, bone-white hair,
and pressed a finger to the stranger's neck. There was a pulse, but
it was weak and reedy. He had arrived none too soon.

Logrus rolled the man over on
his back, and suppressed a gasp of surprise, settling for raising
his eyebrows. It was a more quiet gesture, and thus safer. There was
a great deal of blood on the man’s face, but it did not hide
the pallor of his skin, the gentle slope of his eyes, the high
cheekbones, the thin lips that seemed to curl into a sneer even
while the man slept. He was Nihlosian!

“You are fortunate that I
am sent to help you,” Logrus chuckled as he poured water from
his flask onto a cloth, and set to cleaning the blood from the man’s
face. “Otherwise, I think I would kill you on general
principles.” Logrus examined the man further, assuring himself
that there were no surprises, no wounds that would prevent moving
him, then scoffed at the notion. Of course there would be no wounds.
It was fever, exhaustion, dehydration, and shock, just as it had
been with every other Knight who had survived the transformation.

With a grunt, he hefted the man
over his shoulder and struggled to his feet.

“A Nihlosian,” he
chuckled to himself, shaking his head in amusement.

For Aiul, life ended, briefly,
in a downward spiral of dizziness and confusion. It resumed with a
bone jarring impact, an ear splitting crash, a blinding flash of
crystal clear, searing hot thought. It was as if the entire world
had turned upside down and fallen upon him, and somehow he continued
to endure.

Bloodshot eyes snapped open to
blackness. Someone moaned softly in the darkness, a cracked, damned
sort of half whisper, half wail. It continued, intermittently, for
several minutes as his head swam with confusion and dizziness,
until, at last, he realized that it was coming from
him
.
Annoyed by the sound, he struggled to end it, and force meaning upon
the random workings of his vocal chords.

Time passed, how much, Aiul
could not say. From time to time, a slave came and administered
medicine or ran a cool, wet cloth over his fevered body. Confused as
he was, Aiul was certain he hated the slave. He was a cruel-faced
man, with a dark, pointed beard and hard, smoldering eyes, and he
had about him a fearful air of purpose. Worse, he was ghostly,
appearing from nowhere in the darkness to loom above Aiul like some
hungry spirit, an angel of death who, for the nonce, chose to spare
Aiul from the abyss. There would be a high price later for such
mercy, Aiul was certain.

“Leave me,” he
whispered at the spirit slave, and struggled vainly to push the cool
cloth away, but the creature was strong, irresistible. “Let me
burn, damn you.”

“Rest,” the slave
admonished, as it ministered to him.

“Too much pain,”
Aiul sighed. “Let me go to her. Please, let me go.”

“It is not my decision,”
the spirit told him. “It was yours, and you have made it. Now
rest.”

Aiul sank into the darkness
again, defeated, and dreamed a pleasant dream of Nihlos burning.

“Slave!” Aiul
shouted. “Come at once!”

He had no idea where he was,
nor how he had come there. But there had been a slave, he was
certain of it, and he would have an explanation soon enough.

He had wakened only moments
before, to bright sunlight streaming in from the room’s single
window. For that small moment, in the confusing semi-amnesia of half
sleep, he had drawn a few, precious breaths of pure joy, untainted
by the bitter taste of failure, loss, and pain. How long had it been
since he had seen the sun, or tasted air not steaming with the scent
of filth and decay? How long since the damnable
agony
of his tooth had been silent?