The Forever Knight: A Novel of the Bronze Knight (Books of the Bronze Knight) (23 page)

T
he way west was harder than I remembered. The sky was clear and the road was good, and I had gotten enough sleep in the tomb to last me a week. Yet I could not ride fast enough to suit me and pushed Venger more and more to reach Isowon on time. By now I’d lost count of the seven days Diriel had granted me. It had been morning when I left Crezil’s lair, and all that day I followed the sun’s movements west, finally reaching the road to Zura. Fallon himself had come across the road as a teenager, even younger than Cricket, he’d told me, and made a fortune looting spices from his homeland. Now, though, the road was quiet, tottering between sandy coastline and sparse forests.

I needed no map to find my way back, and so spent my hours planning Isowon’s defense and daydreaming of my vengeance. By now Marilius and Kiryk had reached the palace, I supposed, and Fallon had no doubt bolstered his defenses. So far, Fallon had been a disappointment. I doubted he’d be much help in the coming battle. But that hardly mattered. All I really needed from him was his gold and a promise to pay his mercenaries on time. Given the odds against us, I was sure many of the mercenaries had already fled, but with Kiryk’s men to strengthen us and enough of Anton’s own remaining, maybe we had a chance.

If I was lucky and reached Isowon by nightfall, I told myself, I could meet with Anton and the others. We could council and make plans. There were so many questions going through my mind. How many men had Diriel brought with him? How many of them were legionnaires? Had Marilius made it back yet? I could barely keep my mind together. Questions flew through me like arrows.

“Enough!” I shouted.

The birds scattered from the treetops. I took a breath to calm myself, then heard a surprising reply.

“Someone?”

The call came from far ahead, buried from view and muffled by trees. Venger’s ears perked up. I listened, eased Venger ahead, then heard the noise of riders. I rounded the bend and saw them ahead of me—a dozen men, all on horseback, each horse the deepest black I’d ever seen. The men wore fur-lined helmets of riveted iron, with leather and animal skins cloaking their bodies. Long arrows fletched with white feathers stuck from the quivers on their backs, and some carried spears in their hands. A skirt of metal-rings draped around their legs, falling down to their ankles. Each had a sword as well, a curved scimitar that bounced inside its dangling sheath.

These were men riding to war. Even their horses were armed, shielded with plates and iron spikes. Red and yellow ribbons flowed from their bridles. The man in the lead paused when he saw me, bringing his companions to a halt. His dark eyes stared at me from a face of bronze. He had turned the company around to find me, and now just seemed confused. Or was he delighted?

“Luck upon your journey,” he called to me.

I had never heard that greeting before. “To you as well,” I offered.

He and his men looked at me and at my horse. Their own mounts were spectacular. Clearly they knew horseflesh, and appreciated Venger. With no reason to fear them, I trotted closer, raising my hand.

“I ride for Isowon,” I said. “From Drin territory.”

The man’s face brightened. “We ride for Isowon! We ride from Zura.” He poked a thumb to his breast. “We are Zurans.
Bogati
.”

“’Bogati’? I do not know that word,” I said. “But Zura I know. You’re far from home.”

“Bogati always hear the call of war,” he said. This time he touched his ear. “We follow the wind and listen. If it is just, we come. Do you ride to the war in Isowon?”

His accent made him hard to understand. “Yes,” I answered. “I’ve been to Isowon—I know the man who leads there. Have you heard of Anton Fallon? He’s a Zuran, like yourself.”

The man laughed, then turned to his fellows and translated the joke. The man looked at me and said proudly, “I am the only one of us who speaks the western words. All Zurans know Anton Fallon! Fallon not Bogati, though. Fallon is . . .” His face scrunched as he searched for the word. “A soft man.”

“And Bogati?” I asked. “Horsemen?”

His smile broadened to show his big teeth. “Ah, you know Bogati! None are horsemen like Bogati horsemen. We are twice other men. Three times.” He studied my horse. “But you are horseman.” He put his hand over his heart. “My greeting is sincere. No offending. You will ride with us to Isowon. We fight together.”

“Why would you fight for Anton Fallon?” I asked. I still didn’t know how the news from Isowon had reached them. “Because he’s a Zuran?”

“No,” said the man flatly. “Never for Anton Fallon. For the bronze man.”

One of his companions spoke up. “Others come that way, too. All who have heard. Bogati, Zithras . . . all men from Zura come to see this man.”

The leader quickly nodded. “You say you come from Isowon. Have you seen him?”

“Who?” I asked.

“The man of bronze. The one kissed by heaven. If you’re from Isowon you must know him.”

“I think I might,” I said. I’d left my battered armor back in Isowon, but the reference was obvious. “You mean Lukien.”

“Yes!” said the man, and all his companions nodded when they heard the name. “The Undying.” He turned to the others, gesturing and grinning. The men with the spears shook them excitedly. They shared some words I couldn’t understand before their leader looked back at me. “Have you fought with him? Will you tell us of him?”

“You’re going to Isowon because of Lukien?” I asked.

“Yes, because of the stories,” said the man. “We will join the siege at Isowon. We will join the man of bronze and fight with him.” Suddenly he dropped down from his horse. “I am fool,” he pronounced, bowing deeply with his hand across his heart. “My name is Chuluun. Of the Bogati. All of us. We ride with you, bring you luck and victory.”

I dismounted to face Chuluun, not wanting to tell him the truth but not wanting to lie to him either. “Chuluun, you and your men ride to find Lukien?”

“We do.” Chuluun straightened, waiting for me to give my name.

“To fight with him? He has need of many men, but the fighting is fierce in Isowon.”

“We will leave blood and teeth across the sand,” Chuluun promised. “We know of Diriel’s sorcery. We are not afraid. When we see the bronze man we will prove that.”

They were all looking at me now. Chuluun kept his dark eyes on mine, even when I reached for my sword. Very slowly I pulled it from its sheath, laying it out before me in my upturned palms.

“Have you ever heard of the Sword of Angels?” I asked.

Chuluun shook his head as he stared at my blade. “Is that what you call it?”

“It’s the sword that keeps Lukien alive,” I said. “Inside the sword is an ancient spirit. Do you believe in spirits?”

“All is spirits,” said Chuluun. “The trees, the sky, the flowers. And swords?”

“This is the Sword of Angels, Chuluun. This is the sword Lukien carries. He’s not made of bronze. He’s a man, or at least he was a man.” I held out the sword for him. “Touch it if you want.”

Chuluun looked at me blankly. “You?”

I nodded. “The sword looks plain. So do I. But I’m Lukien, and I need all the men I can find to help me battle Diriel. If your men are up for it, I’ll gladly ride with you to Isowon.”

Chuluun lightly touched the sword, drawing back his fingers quickly. There was no disappointment on his face, only awe.

“I
am
Lukien,” I told him. “Whether I’m kissed by heaven or cursed, I’m him. I’ll set you straight on whatever else you’ve heard about me, but I’m in a hurry and can’t waste time.” I sheathed the sword and looked over their horses. “Can those beasts keep up?”

The Zuran snorted at my challenge. “Bogati means people of the wind,” he said. “Ride with us and let us show you.”

*   *   *

West we rode on the road from Zura, west toward the shore of distant Isowon, like a storm cloud rolling across the horizon. The black horses of the Bogati packed the road and stirred the dust with thunder, crushing the stones beneath their hooves and daring Venger to keep up. Singing to the odd music of their bouncing ring-mail skirts, Chuluun and his men made a show of riding, the ribbons on their tack and clothing spiraling out behind them. On occasion we slowed to rest the horses or to let them drink from one of the rivers we found on our way. At a farmhouse, a woman took one look at us and ran inside to bolt the door. We slaked ourselves with water from her well, and Chuluun put a silver coin on it to repay the “generosity.” As we rode away from the farm, he explained that no act of kindness could go unacknowledged, not for a Bogati. It was the first of many Zuran rules I would learn from him.

Being with Chuluun and his men eased my memories of Cricket. It was good to be with men again, good to be riding toward a certain, bloody battle. But no matter how hard or fast we traveled, there was just no way to reach Isowon by nightfall; as the sun began to set our exhausted horses called an end to our ride. Famished and parched, we set to making camp in a stand of birch trees not far from the road. Chuluun and I tended to the horses while the others built a strange looking tent, a circular shelter of canvas and felt held up by wooden rods and ropes driven into the ground. Each of the Bogati horses carried a different part of the tent—some the stakes, some the rolled up lengths of fabric—and each man did his part with ease. As we fed the horses, Chuluun explained another in his long list of Bogati customs.

“It is called a kurelt,” he said. He lifted the hoof of one of the horses, digging out the packed dirt with a knife. “A Bogati never sleeps under the sky. He must be covered, always.”

I worked carefully on one of the black horses, gently removing the bit from its mouth. The men building the kurelt sang while they erected the tent. “Why? I like to watch the stars while I sleep.”

Chuluun shook his head. “Tonight you sleep with us in the kurelt. The stars are for the gods.”

“What about a fire?” I asked. “How can we cook?”

“We cook in the kurelt,” said Chuluun. He looked at me oddly. “I see I have a lot to show you. Never mind. You tell me about how you cannot die, and I will teach you about being a Bogati.”

By the time the sun was down the kurelt was up and all our horses were resting. Two of Chuluun’s men waited outside the tent, guarding the horses and the rest of us while we took our ease inside the spacious kurelt. I leaned against the felt wall, going around the circle of men and practicing their exotic names. Nalinbaatar, Chuluun’s brother, cooked our meal over a fire in the center of the kurelt, the smoke spiraling up and out of a circular cutout in the roof. He laughed, stirring his pots and correcting me, while I worked my tongue around the names.

“
Bahlochchur
,” he said.

Bahlochchur, one of the youngest of the warriors, grinned as I tried to pronounce his name, forcing the sound out of my throat to get the guttural sound just right.

“Bahlochchur,” I said.

“Bahlochchur,” Nalinbaatar corrected.

I tried again. “Bahlochchur.”

Chuluun, who was sitting next to me, shook his head. “No. Bah . . .”

“Bah . . .”

“Lou-ak . . .”

“Loo-ak . . .”

Bahlochchur waved me off, feigning disgust. “
Oyuun ukhaan nandin
.”

Chuluun laughed. “He says you make baby talk.”

I nodded and gave up. “Chuluun, your name is easy. You’ll speak for me then.”

Chuluun shook his head. “Not now. Now we eat.”

It was another of their Bogati rules, I learned later: no talk of war or business over meals. Meals were sacred, Chuluun explained. I liked that. Eating their spicy food and laughing at jokes I didn’t understand made me forget, and forgetting was the one thing I wanted more than anything. They fed me generously, like the desert folk of Ganjor, never letting my cup get dry or my plate too light. I ate as they did, using my knife to push my food from my plate to my mouth, the way men always eat when women aren’t around.

And Chuluun was protective of me, almost jealous of my attention. When questions came my way he let only the most benign ones through, translating for his comrades their inquiries about my horse and the places I’d been and about my family and the children I didn’t have. Never once did they ask me about my sword or how my eye had grown back or about my Akari, and I knew that was because Chuluun wouldn’t let them. They were intensely curious about Isowon and what they would find there, but they didn’t seem at all afraid, and I wasn’t sure how much of what I answered actually got back to them, or how much Chuluun kept to himself.

Finally, when it was long past sundown and all of us had eaten and gotten drunk enough to sleep, Chuluun pulled gently at my sleeve. I had already fallen half asleep against him, my head lolling onto his shoulder. His voice whispered in my ear.

“Lukien, walk with me.”

He got up, tiptoeing past his comrades toward the tent flap. I shook off my grogginess and followed. Bahlochchur opened one eye to watch me but didn’t say a thing as he tracked my leaving, following Chuluun outside. The night air struck my face. It was fabulously dark, with only a few stars poking through the murky skies. The tribesmen who were still on guard looked at Chuluun from their places in the darkness. Chuluun nodded at them and whispered, and the two men gratefully retreated into the kurelt.

Was it our turn to stand guard? All I wanted was to sleep but didn’t moan about it. Plainly Chuluun wanted to talk. He moved away from the kurelt, just out of earshot of his comrades inside. The darkness made his expression even more serious. He scratched at the scraggy hair that bearded his neck, kicked at the dirt, then dug into the pocket of his jacket. I expected a pipe to appear, or just some tobacco for chewing, so when I saw the silk scarf I was surprised.

“This is for you,” he said. He turned to face me. “Put out your hands, please. Both please.”

I did as he asked. “Why?”

“I know you are ignorant so I will teach you. This is a hahlag . . .” He placed the scarf into my palms. “For Zurans, it is a gift of respect and friendship. I brought this with me for you, Lukien, to ask your permission to fight with you.”