The Forever Knight: A Novel of the Bronze Knight (Books of the Bronze Knight) (21 page)

“Not Cricket,” she said. “Lisea.”

“Lisea.” I cooed the name like she was a baby. “Your name is Lisea.”

She gave a little nod. “Cricket was my sister.”

That made me freeze. She locked eyes on me and wouldn’t look away. Her newfound memories made her battered face slacken. She was waiting to unburden herself, and like a priest I gave her leave.

“Go on.”

“Don’t take me to shore. Keep me here in the water.”

“I will, Lisea.”

Her breath came in bursts. “Cricket drowned here,” she said. “My father sent us here. To hide us.”

I held her as still as I could. “All right,” I whispered. “It’s all right.”

“I was the protector that time, Lukien.” She laughed, then started to cry. “We ran. I couldn’t save her . . .”

She started shaking. A line of red saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. I didn’t know if she and her sister had run from the war, or who her father was, or . . .

“She was just a baby!” Cricket wailed. “And I . . . I . . . I . . . dropped . . . her!”

Then she screamed so loud it nearly drowned out the waterfall. Her hands curled into claws and her whole body stiffened, and there was nothing I could do to stop her enormous grief. Suddenly I was screaming too, cursing the Fate and the Akari and all creation. Cricket—
Lisea
—was dying. It might have been merciful, but I couldn’t bear it.

“Malator!” I cried. “Help her!”

My sword vibrated with his sorrow. I felt him inside me, watching Cricket through my own sight.

I cannot.

“You can! Do it! I command it!”

No.

“You black-hearted jackal . . .”

She’s dying, Lukien. Don’t let your curses be the last thing she hears.

In my arms Cricket went on screaming, her whole body a spasm of pain. I lifted her out of the water completely and hugged her to my breast. I put her wet head to my lips and spoke softly in her ear.

“I love you, Lisea,” I said. “I love you, and you’re going to a better place.”

She stopped her cries. She held her breath. Her muscles tightened, and she rubbed against my cheek, the only reply she could marshal. I could feel her heart struggling inside her, beating wildly and weakly, losing its battle. Her hair smelled young and girlish. I kissed her, I rocked her, I did the only things I knew to do. Her last breath came in a rush, pushing past her lips to warm my face.

And then she was gone.

I held on to her for long minutes, standing with her in the river with the spray and roar of the Falls all around me. Malator hovered somewhere in the distance. A fish brushed past my leg. I waited, and when the anguish came I crushed it down, deep down. I had work to do first. So I waded to shore with Cricket in my arms and looked for a place to bury her.

I
chose a spot far enough from the river so that she wouldn’t be disturbed, yet close enough for her to see the waterfall. A wise-looking tree stood guard over the spot, giving her shade and a place for her spirit to sit and remember the better life she’d had before war and madness touched her world. I had no shovel, so I used my hands to dig out the soft earth enough to cover her slight remains. I worked in a fog, alone, cutting my fingers on rocks and ignoring the blood. This was her death place, and I wanted to make it beautiful.

Ten at a time I carried armloads of stones from the river banks, choosing the largest and prettiest ones I could find. I stacked them neatly atop her grave, saying nothing as I worked, oblivious to the hours slipping away. I suppose I was exhausted. I really can’t remember. Those hours are like broken glass in my memory, almost impossible to piece together. Malator did not come to me nor speak to me, nor offer any apology for letting her die. I wrote her name in smaller stones at the foot of the grave.

L I S E A

To me, she was Cricket. I’d call her that forever. But she had a name before she’d taken her sister’s, a name given by a mother and father, and I meant to honor that. I looked at her name and said it softly to myself. I touched the stones that made it. And I realized I never really knew her. Over and over I heard her cries in my mind. Her screams reminded me of someone else I’d lost.

“Lukien?”

I turned from the grave and saw Malator standing behind me near the river bank. His long face looked as if he’d been weeping, but I knew that wasn’t possible. He looked at me cautiously, reminding me that time was wasting. He took two shimmering steps forward then stopped. His vaporous feet made no marks in the sand at all. I remained kneeling over Cricket’s grave.

“Cassandra died screaming, too,” I said softly. “She died like Cricket died. With me. Because of me.”

Malator glided closer. “Cricket didn’t die because of you, Lukien.”

“She did. And you knew she would. You warned me.” I turned to look at his glowing face. “You never wanted her to come with me. You saw this, didn’t you?”

Of course, Malator didn’t answer that.

“I thought it would be the monster,” I said. “I thought it would be Crezil. Why’d you let me believe that?”

“Did I ever tell you that? No, I did not. I warned you not to bring her, and that was all I ever said.”

“I let her get between us. Is that why you wouldn’t save her?”

“Are you angry with me for not saving her?” he asked.

I thought about that. “At first,” I replied. “But not anymore. Not with you. But I am angry.”

My fury burgeoned like a thunderhead. I could barely check it. And now I didn’t have to. I got off my knees and went to the place where the rass skin cape still hung upon the stick. Malator floated after me without a word.

“He followed her here,” I said. “To try and get to me.”

“He must have thought she was going north to meet you,” agreed Malator.

“I could have stopped him. I could have killed him when I saw him.” I bent and picked up the cape. Weeks of wear had made the rass skin supple like velvet. “Must I live with that now? That and everything else, every day of my life?”

“How could you know?”

“I didn’t know! I shouldn’t have cared! I just should have ended him, right there!”

“And be killed yourself by the others.”

“But I would have spared her this.” I put the cape against my face. The smell of her overwhelmed me. “She was fourteen, Malator. He raped her.”

“A child,” nodded Malator. “Wrestler is a beast beyond compare. Worse than Crezil.”

I unsheathed the sword, holding it out in my palms and dropping to my knees. “Help me, Malator,” I pleaded. “Only blood can avenge this crime. Give me the magic of life and death. Grant me the power to grind them to dust!”

Malator floated closer, looking down at me with a sober expression. “Vengeance is just, but you must know what you’re asking, Lukien.”

“Give me the power to damn them!”

“Understand me,” he insisted. “I can give you the might to match your fury, but it will change you. There’s no turning back from what you ask.”

“Do it!” I demanded. I slammed the sword point-down in the dirt. “I’ll pay your price. I’ll follow my fate. Just let me destroy them!”

Malator put his hand over my eyes. Though his fingers were translucent, I was suddenly blind. “Hold on to the sword. Do not let go.”

I reached in front of me to where the Sword of Angels stood speared into the ground. My fingers burned as they wrapped around the leather hilt. The bones in my hands fused, unable to move as the blade’s fire entered me.

“Give it to me,” I gasped. Sweat gushed from my skin. A glorious pain boiled my blood. “Make me strong. Make me unstoppable!”

“Feel it,” commanded Malator. “That is the fire of the Akari. The forge of life! No man will stand against you. You are reborn, Lukien. Forever!”

The magic engulfed me, immolating me. I tried to scream but couldn’t. My mind saw my body blazing, kneeling in the sand. And there stood Malator, like a duke of hell, touching me with his ghostly hands. I felt my bones melt, then mend themselves. Every scar burned away. Memories of my long life wailed inside my rattling skull, of Cassandra young and beautiful, of Akeela old and mad. I opened my mouth and a tongue of flame spat out.

“Help me . . . !”

This was hell, I thought. This was Crezil’s Gahoreth. But I kept hold of that sword. I didn’t care if Malator turned me to ash or a spirit like himself. I wanted my revenge, and I knew he alone could give it to me. Finally, when all my strength had fled, I heard Malator’s voice again.

“One day,” he said, “you will know why I agreed.”

The flames enveloping me died. A cool breeze touched my skin. Malator pulled his hand away. Slowly my fingers unwrapped from the sword. Then, as weak as a newborn, I toppled over into the sand. Malator hung over me, but offered no help. I glanced up and saw him cock his head, then smile. My whole body was soaked with sweat. My hands shook, but when I looked at them they seemed different, like they weren’t mine. I took half a breath. Something more than air filled my lungs.

“How do you feel?” asked Malator.

“How do I look?” I croaked.

Malator’s flashed his familiar grin. “Go to the river.”

I dragged myself to the bank of the river. The water moved quickly, but as I hung my face over it the water suddenly stilled like a mirror. What I saw chilled me.

“Is that
me
?”

My hair was yellow again. No fading, no gray at all, just the wheaty gold of my youth. I’d lost the lines of age and my skin was tight again. I peered down further, touching my cheeks, feeling the skin with my soft fingertips. Even my teeth seemed straighter, whiter. I was as I’d been when Cassandra loved me, when I’d first met her years before.

“What did you do to me?” I asked. “I’m young again!”

“You are as old as you ever were,” he assured me. “But stronger. More whole.” He reached down toward my face, gently plucking off my eye patch. I jerked back, surprised and annoyed by the intrusion, then realized an eyeball had replaced the dead, white flesh. “Look at the world now, Lukien.”

Around me everything was clear and beautiful. Deep, the way it hadn’t been in years. I stood up, wobbly at first, flexing my fingers and then my arms. I stomped my feet and felt the strong bones inside my legs. Fresh air swelled my chest. I hardly recognized myself! Malator glided over to where the sword stood in the dirt and pulled it free. He returned and handed it to me. I hesitated.

“Do I still need this?” I asked. “Can I not live without it?”

“We are bound, still and always,” said Malator. “Until the day you decide to discard me, we are together.”

“Then I accept you,” I said and sheathed the sword. “Now we make Diriel’s end.”

“And Wrestler’s,” added Malator.

“Oh, yes.” I had a special end in mind for him. “Wrestler will not die a man’s death.”

“There’s an army to fight too, Lukien. You need to be ready. Those men you tried to save—Diriel’s legionnaires—they won’t stop. You’ll have to kill them.”

“They are forfeit,” I declared. “Every mother’s son of ’em.”

I meant to have them all—not just Diriel and Wrestler, but all the filth that followed them. Everyone pledged to that demented cannibal would be slaughtered. They were the ones who made me this way, I told myself. They deserved the coming storm. But first I needed to find them. I went back to where I’d left the horse, the majestic Ganjeese barb that had brought me all this way. He was standing on the other side of the river, watching me, waiting. I hadn’t even tied him. The stallion’s brown eyes noticed the change in me approvingly.

“You are a prince of horses,” I told him. I patted his barrel, feeling his powerful rib cage. “I have never seen your like or equal. Will you ride with me? Battle with me? We’ll see many bloody days.”

Horses understand. They really do. This one knew exactly what I meant and didn’t buck or complain.

“You’ll need a name,” I told him. “I don’t know what Fallon calls you, and I don’t care. I’m going to name you for myself.” I took his muzzle in my hand and looked into his eyes. “From now on you’ll be called Venger.”

I climbed up onto his broad back, feeling like a Royal Charger again. Malator looked up at me with approval, then disappeared into the sword. I took a long moment to say goodbye to Cricket, trotting Venger over to her grave and trying not to weep. It was just a body, I told myself. Her spirit—her soul—had already left it. Realizing that, I glanced around the serene setting that was her death place, knowing that she was here, in this very spot. I just couldn’t see her.

“Goodbye, Lisea,” I whispered. “I’ll kiss Gilwyn’s baby for you.”

Venger turned from the grave, then led me back down and out of the river valley. I wasn’t sure where I was going—maybe south, maybe east. Just for now, I needed to ride. And to think. I needed to plan the bloodiest doom possible for Diriel and his puppets.

S
outheast was the direction I chose. With Diriel’s army directly south and more of his men probably on the march, I decided to evade them, crossing over the river into Kasse and following one of its many branches south and east toward Drin. The landscape was less dreary here, with fewer mountains and plenty of trees to hide me as I rode. But like all the Bitter Kingdoms, Drin was nearly abandoned now, its people scattered by the threat of war, its farms overgrown or fallow. There were good roads, though, built during more peaceful times, and I moved quickly all that first day. Once I saw some figures watching me from the window of a distant farmhouse, but when I waved they quickly disappeared. I stopped and watered Venger from a trough of rain water, hoping they’d come out to greet me, but they never did.

So I moved on, south and east, sometimes following the river and sometimes following the road, and did my best to forget what I’d seen just hours before. Cricket’s screams were too fresh in my mind to examine head-on; I could only approach them sideways, like a crab, and tell myself I did the best I could. If I’d been faster, or listened more, if I’d taken her to Sky Falls or never taken her with me, she’d still be alive. But none of those things happened, so she was dead. I could only blame myself. And I would, but not today. Not until Diriel and Wrestler both were dead.

As the sun sank behind me I continued on, riding into the sound of crickets. The river reappeared alongside me, fat and sluggish, wider than I’d seen it in some time. Mosquitoes bloomed out of the dusk to feed on me. I thought how strange that was: that Malator had made me nearly immortal, but insects could still abuse me. I had hardly gotten used to having my eye back! Everything seemed clearer to me. I could ride with ease through the darkness. Was this how a hawk felt, I wondered? Or a bat? The night made my senses tingle, tuning them like an instrument. I took a deep breath and smelled the dampness of a coming rain. Looking up revealed clouds gathering around the moon, and when I breathed again I smelled smoke in the air.

“Ho,” I said softly, reining Venger back. He stopped, perking up his ears at the noise ahead.

Voices.

Another camp, I supposed, but I was too far south now to turn around, and my newfound strengths made me brash. I eased Venger forward, guiding him around the bends in the river and weaving in and out of the pine trees. Firelight glowed up ahead. The voices gradually grew louder. When I finally slipped out of the cover I saw what looked like a raft on the river, almost empty and tied to the shore by lines of rope. Scores of men stood on the shore, some of them carrying torches, others holding swords across their chests. I drew back at once, not recognizing the standard that waved above them. From the shadows I spied the boat’s cargo—a man-shaped parcel wrapped in grayish cloth, like one of Anton’s mummies.

“A funeral,” I whispered, bending down to speak in Venger’s ear. “Hold back.”

At least two hundred men stood along the bank. Far behind them hid a village, veiled by trees, composed of modest homes and a single cobblestone avenue. People from the village had gathered with the soldiers, mostly women and children, their faces gaunt with sorrow. The soldiers stood nearly silent as a young man stepped out from among them, wading knee-deep into the water. He dressed as the others dressed, in a long, black leather coat with armored shoulders and brass buttons running down his left breast. Articulated gauntlets rode up his forearms. When he bent to touch the raft, his long hair tickled the water. Then he kissed the edge of the raft and spoke a farewell I couldn’t quite hear. I don’t know what made him turn in my direction, but as he trudged ashore he caught a glimpse of me in the shadows.

His eyes met mine, but there was no fear in his young face. Really just a boy, he called toward me. “You—who are you?”

His gathered soldiers turned to see me. I trotted out of the shadows. “My name is Lukien,” I declared. “I’m heading south.”

I didn’t expect anyone to know me, or my name. I certainly didn’t think to hear a familiar voice. So when I did, I started.

“Lukien?”

The voice was incredulous. I looked around, unable to place it until a figure pushed through the throng. And there was Marilius, aghast to see me, looking wholly out of place in mismatched garb. Marilius! He leaned forward, blinking in the torchlight. The boy soldier glanced between us.

“Marilius?” I called back. “Really?”

“Is that you, Lukien?” he asked. He took a few steps forward as I rode closer. “You look . . . what happened to you?”

“This is Lukien?” asked the boy. Now he was incredulous too. “Truly?”

My luck astonished me. I dismounted Venger and led the horse toward Marilius. “Cricket’s dead,” I blurted. “They killed her at Sky Falls.”

Marilius turned the color of milk. “Who?” he gasped.

“Wrestler. Others too, I guess. It doesn’t matter. They called down the storm and now they’re going to face it.”

“Your eye.” Marilius inspected my face. “What happened? You look so young!”

“Malator did it,” I said. “So I could beat them.” I glanced around and discovered the soldiers staring at me. A few of the older ones, men of rank, encircled the boy. “Your Drinmen, I take it?”

“We are,” answered the boy.

“Then I need to speak to someone important.”

Marilius took my arm. “Lukien—this is a funeral.”

I looked at the boy, then at the raft, then came to my senses. I’d ridden so hard I’d forgotten myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just came from a funeral. Forgive a stupid man for being tired.”

“Lukien, this is Kiryk,” said Marilius, presenting me to the boy. “Son of King Lutobor.”

“Lutobor?” I remembered the name suddenly. I looked at the raft again and my heart sank. “The body on the raft—your father?”

“He died this morning,” answered Kiryk. Despite his grief he kept his head high. “Killed by raiders from Akyre. They were on their way south to war with you in Isowon.”

“So Marilius told you, then,” I nodded. “This village is Drin?”

“It’s called Jelah,” said Kiryk. “But this is borderland. Diriel’s men have been up and down this area for months.”

“Taking men, stealing food and supplies, anything they can get to use against Isowon,” Marilius explained. “Lutobor told me all about it.”

I had a thousand questions but knew they’d have to wait. “I’m sorry for your father,” I told Kiryk. “Let me stay and pay him homage with you. Then if you’ll listen, we can talk.”

Kiryk nodded with half interest, then turned back to his men. I led Venger up the riverbank, through the throngs of men, waiting for a chance to get some answers. That’s when I saw the other corpses. They were piled up at the edge of the village, waiting to be buried or burned. Most were Drinmen in their black uniforms, but others were unmistakably Diriel’s. Quickly I made an accounting of the bodies, putting the dead easily past a hundred. Marilius followed my gaze toward the village.

“That’s only part of it,” he sighed. “Lutobor’s men have been fighting off Diriel’s raids for weeks.”

“He told you that himself?”

“It took me time to find him. I rode for his castle in Prang first, then on to Akja where he was camped. They’d already been chewed to pieces by the Akyrens. Lutobor let me ride with him here to Jelah.”

That surprised me. “You fought with them?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“The legionnaires?”

Marilius turned away, but I knew that look. He gestured to the villagers. “See their faces?”

They were mute. Filled with fear. A girl grasping her mother’s hand stared straight back at me. I almost smiled, then noticed the fresh scar jutting down her cheek. The others looked the same—vacant, joyless, unable to speak. A handful of men stood with them, mostly old, sickly ones.

“Tell me what they were like,” I said to Marilius. “How were they in battle?”

A sharp hushing from one of Kiryk’s men silenced me. I nodded an apology, then watched as Lutobor’s son took a bow and a single arrow from the eldest of his soldiers. He turned to the raft bearing his dead father, then signaled to another nearby man.

“Cut him loose.”

The man pulled a dagger from his belt, trudged down to the ropes, and one by one sliced them, freeing the raft. The current took it slowly down river, and as it drifted away each soldier stood and waited silently. There were no prayers for the dead king, no wailing from the women on shore. A torch bearer stepped forward. Kiryk nocked his arrow, then bent the tip into the torch, setting it alight. He took his time, drawing a careful bead on the raft as it drifted into the darkness. He took so long I thought he’d miss the craft entirely. But he didn’t. He let the arrow fly and struck that raft dead-eyed perfect. It went up like an inferno, nearly exploding. Whatever they’d used to soak it brought daylight to the shore and a huge spiral of black smoke. I watched as Kiryk lowered the bow and moved his lips in a wordless goodbye. The raft burned and sputtered as it drifted down river. Then, as if the crazy gods of the Bitter Kingdoms had held off long enough, it began to rain.

*   *   *

We met in a house near the center of the village, sitting around a rickety table while thunder shook the window. It was nearly midnight, and we were all exhausted, but Kiryk had agreed to meet with me before retiring. Most of his soldiers had found beds for the night in the homes around the village, but three of them—all confidants of his dead father—sat beside him while Marilius and I made our plea. The house belonged to a woman named Ursilil, chosen for Kiryk because it could be easily guarded. Ursilil was newly widowed, the mother of the scarred child I’d seen at the funeral. As we settled in our chairs Ursilil brought us milk from the only cow in the village that had somehow escaped the Akyren raiders. I was beyond famished, and it was simply the most delicious milk I’d ever drunk.

After the funeral, I’d spent most of the night conferring with Marilius, listening to everything he knew about Lutobor and Drin and their war with Akyre. Kasse, it turned out, wasn’t the only Bitter Kingdom to fall to Diriel. Large swathes of Drin had been taken as well, the lands ravaged and their men conscripted into Diriel’s army. Lutobor’s own army had slowly been decimated, until now there were only a few hundred soldiers. Most of these belonged to the Silver Dragons, the personal guard of the dead king, of which the three men sitting across the table were members. Each wore the insignia of the order on their leather coats, an embroidered firedrake coiling up the left side collar.

Many things had happened in the short time that Marilius and I had been separated, and much of it I could barely talk about. I told him of my battle with Crezil and how the monster had let me live, but I didn’t tell him about my lost soul. That was still too great a burden for me to confess to anyone. Marilius had his own theories about why the beast had spared me but they were all nonsense. I knew the truth—because I was soulless. I just couldn’t confess it.

And of course I told him about Cricket. Under a jutting roof with the rain falling around us I told him how she’d gone to Sky Falls without me, how Wrestler had tracked her there in hopes of finding me, and how he’d killed her. I described it all; it gushed out of me. He listened stoically to the tale of her rape, but I could tell his guts were turning to stone. Revenge began boiling in his eyes, and it remained there as we sat with Kiryk, drinking milk around the table.

I remained quiet while Kiryk conferred with his men. Their names were Sulimer, Jaracz, and Lenhart, and all of them looked like they’d been at war a very long time. They had the grizzled faces of men who’d spent their lives in the sun, training soldiers and leading them into battle, and Kiryk seemed out of place among them. But there was no smugness from the three, only desire to help the boy through an impossible task. Finally, Kiryk turned to the woman Ursilil, who’d been buzzing around the table filling our glasses.

“Thank you,” he said. “Go to your daughter now. Make sure she’s sleeping.”

Ursilil seemed relieved to be dismissed. She was an attractive woman, or at least she had been before the raiders came. Losing her husband had given her face a glaze. She gave Kiryk a little bow, me a tiny scowl, and eagerly left the room. When she was gone Sulimer, the oldest of the soldiers, reached beneath the table and lifted up a sack he’d brought with him. He dropped it on the table with a thud.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Sulimer smirked through his peppered beard and peeled down the wrapping, revealing a severed head. “From this morning,” he said. “A friend from Akyre.”

The head sat upright, facing me with its dead eyes. The horrible pallor of its skin told me at once it had been dead longer than just a day.

“A legionnaire.”

I reached out and bounced my finger off its cheek. A chalky dust fell from the skin. He’d been a man about my age, with just about my hair color too. The eyes still had that empty look I’d seen in Diriel’s castle—dead and alive at the same time. Marilius had told me there’d been at least twenty of them with the other Akyrens, sent in first like fodder for the Drin. Only the Drin hadn’t cut them down so easily.

“Beheading them is the only way to stop them,” Sulimer pronounced. “Nothing else will do it. Not cutting off an arm, not pumping them full of arrows, nothing. You have to get right up close and swing. You don’t get a second chance.”

“Swords?” I asked.

“Axes are better,” answered Lenhart. He’d been the quiet one so far. “Swords weren’t heavy enough for some. The legion started wearing leather bands around their necks once we discovered their weakness.”

“What about just bashing their brains in?” asked Marilius.

Lenhart shrugged. “That should work if you can manage it.”

“Marilius, I didn’t see a lot of axmen with Fallon’s mercs,” I said. “What about that?”

“Axes aren’t a problem. Anton can buy axes. It’s men we need.” Marilius looked at Kiryk seriously. “I pleaded with your father, now I’m pleading with you. Will you help us?”

Kiryk leaned back in his chair. The weight of his decision made his shoulders slump. “The soldiers in this village are almost all that’s left of our army,” he said. “Some are back in Prang, some are on patrol watching the north. That’s maybe five hundred men.”