Waylander III: Hero In The Shadows

Chapter Fourteen

Lord Aric of House Kilraith lounged back in the carriage and stared idly out of the window at the houses along the Avenue of Pines. There were few people on the streets of Carlis. The massacre of the Duke and his followers had been shocking enough, but to learn that demons were responsible had terrified the population. Most stayed behind locked doors, rediscovering the delights of prayer. Several hundred families were congregated within the temple, believing its walls would keep out all evil spirits. They were hoping for an appearance from Chardyn, but the priest had wisely gone into hiding.

The carriage moved on through the deserted town.

Aric's mood was not good. As he had told Eldicar Manushan, he was bored. It was impolite of the man to have forbidden him to see the torture of the Chiatze. There was something about screams of pain that cut through the malaise Aric had been suffering for some while.

His spirits lifted a little as he thought of Lalitia, remembering the slim, red-haired girl he had discovered in the prison. She had courage and ambition, and a body she had soon learnt how to use. Those had been good days, he thought.

Aric had been lord of the Crescent then, enjoying a fine life on the taxes he received from the farmers and fishermen. But not so fine as some of the other nobles, notably Ruall, whose income was ten times that of Aric. One night, at the old Duke's palace in Masyn, Aric had taken part in a gambling tourney. He had won twenty thousand gold pieces. Ruall had been the biggest loser. From being moderately wealthy Aric had suddenly become, in his own eyes at least, rich. He had spent like a man with ten hands, and within a year had debts at least the equal of the money he had won. So he gambled again, and this time lost heavily. The more he lost, the greater he gambled.

He had been saved from destitution only by the death of the old Duke and the accession of Elphons. This, in turn, allowed Aric to assume the lordship of Kilraith. With the new funds from taxes he was able at least to maintain the interest on his debts.

The arrival of the Grey Man had been his salvation. He had leased the mysterious stranger the lands of the Crescent, against ten years of taxation. It should have been enough to allow Aric freedom from debt. And it would have – had he not accepted Ruall's wager of forty thousand gold pieces on a single horse-race. Aric had been delighted for, though the two horses were evenly matched, Aric had already paid a stable-boy to feed Ruall's thoroughbred a potion that would seriously affect its stamina. The potion had worked better than expected, and the horse had died during the night. So Ruall had substituted another racing mount. Aric could not object. The new horse had beaten Aric's racer by half a length.

The memory still galled, and was made only slightly less bitter by the recollection of Ruall's death, the look of surprise as the black sword sliced into him, and the expression of dreadful agony as life fled from him.

Aric recalled the night Eldicar Manushan had appeared at his door, the beautiful child beside him. It had been almost midnight. Aric had been mildly drunk, and his head was pounding. He swore at the servant who announced the visitors, hurling his goblet at the man and missing him by a yard. The black-bearded magicker had strolled into the Long Room, bowed once, then approached the bleary-eyed noble. 'I see that you are suffering, my lord,' he said. 'Let us remove that head pain.' He had reached out and touched Aric on the brow. It was as if a cooling breeze was flowing inside Aric's head. He felt wonderful. Better than he had in years.

The boy had fallen asleep on a couch, and he and Eldicar had talked long into the night.

It was around dawn when the magicker first mentioned immortality. Aric had been sceptical. Who would not be? Eldicar leant forward and asked him if he wanted proof.

'If you can supply it, of course.'

'The servant you threw the goblet at, is he valuable to you?'

'Why do you ask?'

'Would it distress you were he to die?'

'Die? Why would he die?'

'He is not a young man. He will die when I steal what remains of his life, and give it to you,' said Eldicar.

'You are jesting, surely.'

'Not at all, Lord Aric. I can make you young and strong in a matter of minutes. But the life force I will give you must come from somewhere.'

Looking back, Aric could not remember why he had hesitated. What possible difference could the death of a servant make to the world? And yet, he recalled, he had wondered if the man had a family. Baffling. As the dawn came up, Eldicar moved to a cabinet and took a small, ornately embellished mirror. He approached Aric, holding the mirror before the nobleman's face. 'Look at yourself. See what is.' Aric saw the sagging face, the hooded eyes, all the signs of age and a life of mild debauchery. 'Now see what could be,' said Eldicar softly. The image in the mirror shimmered and changed. Aric had sighed with genuine regret as he looked upon the man he had once been, hawkishly handsome and clear-eyed. 'Is the servant important to you?' whispered Eldicar.

'No.'

An hour later the youth and vitality he had been promised had become a reality. The servant died in his bed.

'He did not have a great deal of life left,' said Eldicar. 'We will need to find someone else soon.'

Aric had been too delighted to care about such matters.

The carriage trundled on, turning right into Merchants Square. Aric saw the sign for the Starlight tavern, a brightly painted shield showing a woman's head surrounded by stars. He remembered his first meeting with Rena there. She had served him his food, and curtsied prettily. Not a very bright woman, he recalled, but she had been warm in bed, and she had loved him. He had taken her on as the housekeeper of a comfortable villa he owned just outside Carlis, on the shores of Willow Lake. She had borne him a daughter, a delightful child, curly-haired and precocious. She would perch on Aric's lap and demand stories of olden times, of fairies and magic.

The carriage slowed as it climbed the hill. The driver cracked his whip and the two horses lurched into the traces. Aric settled back into the deep horsehair-filled leather seat.

Rena had been crying about something on that final day. Aric couldn't remember what. She had taken to crying a lot in the last few months. Women, thought Aric, could be so selfish. She should have realized that, with his new youth and vigour, he would need other outlets. The plump, docile Rena had been entirely adequate for the tired, middle-aged man he had been. But she was not equipped to dance the night away in gowns of satin, or to attend the various banquets and functions that Aric now gloried in. She was, after all, merely a low-born housekeeper. Then he remembered why she had been crying. Yes, he had tried to explain this to her. She had prattled on about his promise of marriage. She should have realized that such a promise from an ageing, poverty-stricken noble should not have been held against the young and powerful man he had become. A different man had made that promise. But she did not have the wit to understand, and had begun to wail. He had warned her to be quiet. She took no notice. So he had strangled her. It was a most satisfying experience, he recalled. Looking back, he wished he had made it last a little longer.

Under different circumstances Aric would have raised the child himself, but with the need to plan for the Duke's assassination he had had no time. Anyway Eldicar Manushan had pointed out that the girl's life force would prove far more efficacious than the servant whose death had provided Aric with his first taste of immortality. 'Being of your own blood she will supply years of youth and health.'

Aric had no doubt that it was true. He had stood in the child's bedroom as she lay sleeping and felt the tremendous surge of vitality that flowed into him as she died.

The carriage came to a halt and Aric climbed out. He strode to the front door, which was opened by a large middle-aged woman. She curtsied and led him through to a beautifully furnished room. Lalitia, wearing a simple dress of green silk, was sitting beneath a lantern, reading.

'Wine for our guest,' she told the fat woman. Aric strolled across the room, kissed Lalitia's hand, then seated himself on a couch opposite her.

As he looked at her, noting the whiteness of her neck and the beautiful curve of her breasts, he found himself thinking of how it would feel to slide a dagger through that green dress. He pictured it flowering with blood. Eldicar should have let him see the Chiatze tortured. He had been thinking about the music of screams all day. And he had no more use for Lalitia. So there was no reason why he should not kill her.

'You seem in good humour, my lord,' said Lalitia.

'I am, my sweet. I feel . . . immortal.'

There was something in Aric's manner that caused a tremor of fear in Lalitia. She couldn't quite pin down the reason. He seemed relaxed, but his eyes were glittering strangely. 'It was a great relief to me that you survived the massacre,' she said. 'It must have been terrifying.'

'No,' he said. 'It was exhilarating. To see so many enemies die at one time. I wish I could do it again.'

Now the fear was really growing. 'So you will be the new Duke,' said Lalitia.

'For a while,' he said, rising and drawing his dagger.

Lalitia sat very still.

'I am so bored, Red,' he said conversationally. 'So little seems to pique my interest of late. Would you scream for me?'

'Not for you or any man,' she said. Aric moved in closer. Lalitia rolled away from him, her hand dipping down behind a satin cushion and emerging holding a thin-bladed knife.

'Ah, Red, you were always such a delight!' said Aric. 'I am not bored at all now.'

'Come any closer and you'll never be bored again,' she told him.

The door behind Lalitia opened and the Source priest Chardyn entered. Aric smiled as he saw him. 'So this is where you've been hiding, priest? Who would have thought it? My men have searched the houses of your congregation. They didn't think to check the homes of local whores.'

The burly priest stood very quietly for a moment. 'What has become of you, Aric?' he asked.

'Become of me? What a ridiculous question. I am younger, stronger and immortal.'

'Last year I visited you at Willow Lake. You seemed content. You were playing with a child, I recall.'

'My daughter. A sweet creature.'

'I was not aware you had a daughter. Where is she now?'

'She died.'

'Did you grieve?' asked Chardyn, his voice low and compelling.

'Grieve? I suppose that I must have.'

'Did you grieve?' asked Chardyn again.

Aric blinked. The man's voice was almost hypnotic. 'How dare you question me?' he blustered. 'You are a hunted – criminal. Yes, a traitor!'

'Why did you not grieve, Aric?'

'Stop this!' shouted the noble, stepping back.

'What have they done to you, my boy? I saw you with that child. You clearly loved her.'

'Loved?' Aric was nonplussed. He turned away, his dagger forgotten. 'Yes, I … seem to remember that I felt . . .'

'What did you feel?'

Aric swung back. 'I don't want to talk about this, priest. Look, leave now and I will not report that I have seen you. Just go. I need to … to talk with Red.'

'You need to talk with me, Aric,' said Chardyn. Aric stared at the powerfully built priest, and found himself looking into the man's deep, dark eyes. He could not look away. Chardyn's gaze seemed to hold him trapped. 'Tell me about the child. Why did you not grieve?'

'I… don't know,' admitted Aric. 'I asked Eldicar . . . on the night of the killings. I couldn't understand why I reacted in the way that I did. I felt. . . nothing. I asked if I had lost something when he gave me my – my youth.'

'What did he say?'

'He said I had lost nothing. No, that's not quite right. He said I had lost nothing that would be of value to Kuan-Hador.'

'And now you want to kill Lalitia?'

'Yes. It would amuse me.'

'Think back, Aric. Think of the man sitting with his child by that lake. Would it have amused him to kill Lalitia?'

Aric tore his gaze away from the priest and sat down, staring at the dagger in his hand. 'You are confusing me, Chardyn,' he said, and became aware of a pounding pain in his head. Placing the dagger on the table before him he began to rub his temples.

'What was your daughter's name?'

'Zarea.'

'Where is her mother?'

'She died too.'

'How did she die?'

'I strangled her. She would not stop crying, you see.'

'Did you kill your daughter too?'

'No. Eldicar did that. Her life force was very strong. It gave me greater youth and strength. Surely you can see how good I look.'

'I see far more than that,' said Chardyn.

Aric looked up and saw Lalitia staring at him, an expression of revulsion on her face. Chardyn came closer, sitting alongside Aric on the couch. 'You once told me that Aldania had been kind to you. Do you remember?'

'Yes. My mother had died and she invited me to the castle in Masyn. She sat and hugged me as I wept.'

'Why did you weep?'

'My mother had died.'

'Your daughter died. Did you weep?'

'No.'

'Do you remember how you felt when your mother died?' asked Chardyn.

Aric looked inside himself. He could see the man he had once been, and watch the tears flow. But he no longer had any inkling as to why the man was crying. It was most peculiar.

'You were right, Aric,' said Chardyn softly. 'You did lose something. Or rather Eldicar Manushan stole it from you. You have lost all understanding of humanity, compassion, kindness and love. You are no longer human. You have murdered a woman who loved you, and agreed to the killing of a child you adored. You have taken part in an unholy massacre, which saw the brutal slaying of Aldania, who was kind to you.'

'I – I am immortal now,' said Aric. 'That is what is important.'

'Yes, you are immortal. Immortal and bored. You were not bored that day by the lake. You were laughing. It was a good sound. You were happy. No one had to die to bring you amusement. Can you not see how they have tricked you? They have given you longer life, and yet removed all the emotions you needed to enjoy that greater life.'

Aric's head was bursting. He pressed his hands to his temples. 'Stop this, Chardyn. It is killing me! My head is on fire.'

'I want you to think of Zarea, and that day by the lake,' said Chardyn. 'I want you to hold to it, to feel her tiny arms around your neck, the sound of happy childish laughter ringing in your ears. Can you hear it, Aric? Can you?'

'I can hear it.'

'Just before we all went inside she was cuddling you. She said something to you. You remember?'

'Yes.'

'Say it.'

'I don't want to.'

'Say it, Aric.'

'She said, "I love you, Papa!'"

'And what did you reply?'

'I told her I loved her too.' Aric gave a groan and fell back, his eyes squeezed shut. 'I can't think . . . the pain . . . !'

'It is the spell upon you, Aric. It is fighting to stop you remembering. Do you want to remember how it felt to be human?'

'Yes!'

Chardyn opened his collar and lifted clear the golden necklet he wore. A talisman hung from it, a piece of jade in the shape of a tear-drop. Runes had been cut into the surface. 'This was blessed by the Abbot Dardalion,' said Chardyn. 'It is said to ward off spells and cure disease. I do not know, in truth, if it carries magic or is merely a trinket. But, if you are willing, I will place it around your neck.'

Aric stared at the jade. A part of him wanted to push it away, to ram his dagger into the bearded throat of the priest. Another part wanted to remember how he felt when his daughter told him she loved him. He sat very still, then he looked into Chardyn's eyes. 'Help me!' he said. Chardyn looped the necklet over Aric's head.

Nothing happened. The pain came again, almost blinding him, and he cried out. He felt Chardyn take his hand and lift it to the jade tear-drop. 'Hold to it,' said the priest. 'And think of Zarea.'

l love you, Papa!

From deep below the pain came a rush of emotion, swamping Aric's mind. He felt again his daughter's arms around his neck, her soft hair rubbing on his cheek. For a moment pure joy filled him. Then he saw himself standing by the little girl's bed, revelling in the theft of her life force. He cried out and began to sob. Lalitia and Chardyn sat silently as the nobleman wept. Slowly the sobbing faded away. Aric gave a groan and snatched up the dagger, turning the point towards his own throat.

Chardyn's hand swept up, grabbing Aric's wrist. 'No!' shouted the priest. 'Not this way, Aric! You were weak, yes, to desire such gifts. But you did not kill your woman. Not the real you. You were under a spell. Don't you see? They used you.'

'I stood and laughed as Aldania died,' said Aric, his voice trembling. 'I joyed in the butchery. And I killed Rena and Zarea.'

'Not you, Aric,' repeated Chardyn. 'The magicker is the real evil. Put down the dagger, and help us find a way to destroy him.'

Aric relaxed and Chardyn released his hand. The lord of Kilraith rose slowly to his feet and turned to Lalitia. 'I am so sorry, Red,' he told her. 'At least I can apologize to you. I can never ask forgiveness from the others.' He swung to Chardyn. 'I thank you, priest, for returning to me that which was stolen from me. I cannot help you, though. The guilt is too great.' Chardyn was about to speak, but Aric held up his hand. 'I hear what you say about Eldicar, and there is truth in it. But I made the choice. I allowed him to kill a man to feed my vanity. Had I been stronger my Rena and little Zarea would still be alive. I cannot live like this.'

Moving past them he went to the door and opened it. Without a backward glance he strolled out into the night. Climbing into his carriage he bade the driver take him to Willow Lake.

Once there he dismissed the man and walked past the deserted villa and out to the moonlit shores. He sat down by the jetty, and pictured again the glorious day when he and his daughter had laughed and played in the sunshine.

Then he cut his throat.

Lord Panagyn had always believed himself immune to fear. He had fought battles and faced enemies all his adult life. Fear was for lesser men. Thus it was that he did not at first recognize the trembling in his belly, or the first tugs of panic pulling at his mind.

He ran headlong through the forest, his arms thrashing aside the overhanging vegetation, ignoring the twigs and thin branches that snapped back against his face. He stopped by a gnarled oak to catch his breath. Sweat had soaked his face, and his close-cropped iron-grey hair lay damp against his skull. Looking around he was no longer sure where he was in relation to the trail. But that did not matter now. Staying alive was all that counted. Unused to running, his legs were cramped and painful, and he sank to his haunches. His scabbard caught against a tree root, ramming the hilt of his cavalry sabre against his ribs. Panagyn grunted with pain, and shifted to his left, lifting the scabbard clear.

A cool breeze filtered through the trees. He wondered if any of his men had survived. He had seen some of them run, throwing aside their crossbows and trying to make it back to the cliffs. Surely Waylander could not have killed them all! It was not humanly possible. One man could not slay twelve skilled fighting men!

'Do not treat this man lightly,' Eldicar Manushan had warned him. 'He is a skilled killer. According to Matze Chai, he is the finest assassin this world has seen.'

'You want him brought in alive or dead?' Panagyn had asked.

'Just kill him,' said Eldicar. 'Be advised that there is a woman with him gifted with far-sight. I shall surround you and your men with a cloak-spell that will prevent her from sensing you. But this will not prevent Waylander, or any of the others, from seeing you with their eyes. You understand?'

'Of course. I am not an idiot.'

'Sadly, in my experience, that is exactly the phrase most used by idiots. As to the priestess, we would prefer her to be taken alive, but this may not be possible. She is a Joining – a were-creature. She can become a tiger. Once in that form you will have to kill her. If you can take her while in her semi-human guise, bind her wrists and ankles and blindfold her.'

'What of the others?'

'Kill them all. They are of no use.'

Panagyn had chosen his twelve men with care. They had all fought beside him in a score of battles. Cool men, hardy and tough, they would not panic or run. Equally they would think nothing of killing captives.

So where had it gone wrong? he wondered.

He had guessed rightly that Waylander would seek to escape over the high roads and had led his men in a fast ride to an area called Parsitas Rocks. There they had left the horses and scaled the towering cliff-face, emerging above the escapees. From here they moved through the forest, taking up positions on both sides of the trail and preparing their crossbows. Far below, Panagyn had seen the riders, and glimpsed the shaven-headed priestess walking just behind them. Panagyn ordered his men to shoot high, killing the riders and allowing the walking priestess to be taken alive.

Panagyn himself had crouched down alongside one of the bowmen on the left of the trail, ducking behind a thick bush. Here he waited in silence, listening for the sound of hoofbeats upon the hard-packed trail. Time drifted by. A trickle of sweat ran down Panagyn's cheek. He did not move to brush it away, wanting to risk no sound. The clip-clopping of walking horses drifted to him. He glanced at the bowman, who raised his weapon to his shoulder.

Then came a thud and a crash from the opposite side of the trail. Someone cried out. The sound was followed by a choking gurgle. Then silence. Panagyn risked a glance. One of his men came running from the bushes. Panagyn saw him swing and raise his crossbow. A small black bolt flowered from the man's brow. He staggered back, loosing his own shaft into the air. Then he fell, the body twitching for a few moments.

A man to Panagyn's right screamed and reared up, fingers scrabbling at a bolt jutting from his neck. The warrior beside Panagyn twisted, bringing his crossbow to bear. Panagyn saw something streak through the air. The crossbowman pitched to his right. Panagyn did not see where the bolt had struck him. Panicked by the unseen killer, others of Panagyn's men rose from their hiding places, shooting at shadows. Another man went down, this time with a bolt through the eye. The remaining men threw aside their bows and fled.

Lurching to his feet, Panagyn ran into the trees, his arms flailing at the undergrowth as he blundered through bushes. He scrambled up the hillside, half slid down a steep incline and kept moving until his lungs could take no more.

Now, as he sat by the tree, he started to regain a little composure. If he could just get back to the cliffs, and climb down to the horses . . .

Pushing himself to his feet he started to turn. His foot caught in a tree root and he stumbled. It saved his life. A black bolt slammed into the oak. Panagyn hurled himself to the right and darted away into the trees. He scrambled over the lip of a rise, then half slid down the slope, emerging on to the trail. Several riders were sitting motionless upon their mounts, and Panagyn saw the shaven-headed priestess close by. No one moved.

Panagyn backed away, drawing his sword.

A black-clad figure stepped into sight, long black and silver hair held back from his head by a leather headband. In his hand was a small double-winged crossbow. From the other side of the trail came four of his men. Their hands were raised. A dark-haired woman walked behind them. She, too, was carrying a small crossbow.

Panagyn switched his gaze back to Waylander. The man's face was set and grim, and Panagyn could read his own imminent death in Waylander's eyes. 'Face me like a man!' challenged Panagyn, in desperation.

'No,' said Waylander. The crossbow came up.

'Do not shoot!' ordered Niallad. Panagyn flicked a glance at the young man, who had heeled his horse forward.

'This is not some game, Niallad,' said Waylander. 'This man is a traitor who took part in the killing of your parents. He deserves to die.'

'I know that,' replied Niallad, 'but he is a lord of Kydor and should not be shot down like some common bandit.

'Have you no understanding of the chivalric code? He has challenged you.'

'The chivalric code?' said Waylander. 'Did he use the chivalric code when the demons came? You think he and his killers were hiding here to offer us a challenge?'

'No,' said Niallad, 'they were not. And I accept that Panagyn is a disgrace to all that nobles should hold dear. But I will not be a disgrace, or party to a disgrace. If you will not accept his challenge then let me fight him.'

Waylander gave a rueful smile. 'Very well. . . my lord, it will be as you say. I'll kill him in the time-honoured fashion.' Handing his crossbow to Niallad, the assassin moved into open space and drew one of his shortswords.

Panagyn grinned. 'Well, Waylander,' he said, 'you're good at shooting men from ambush. Let's see how you fare against an Angostin swordsman.'