The Man In The Wind (11 page)

       As if in sync, eight cockpits sprung open, and eight fighter pilots vaulted smoothly to the ground. They surrounded Rai and Iris, guns drawn. “Don’t move!” one of them shouted. Rai’s eyes scoured the group until he located the one whose voice they had heard. They stared at each other. “There’s nowhere to run,” the pilot said.

       “No,” Rai answered. “Not for you.”

       Beside him, Iris crumpled to the ground.

       Right away, the captain’s face went slack. “What did you do to her?” he demanded. “What did you—” The sentence was never completed. Calmly, his face inscrutable, Rai raised the hand that had formerly been holding Iris’. The pilot captain made a choked sound. He dropped his gun, clutching madly at his throat. His officers stood around him, reeling. None of them had any idea what to do.

       “Didn’t you read the notice?” Rai said casually. “It says ‘DANGEROUS’ directly underneath the picture. Did you think that was a lie?” With a flick of his wrist, he lifted the man off his feet, allowing him to hang, squirming, in mid-air. He wasn’t sure what made him do that; he was positive it only made the captain’s suffering worse. Every now and then, the brutality which Serberos had worked so hard to engender in him reared its hideous head. Rai tightened his psychic grip. The man’s face had turned from ruddy to pale to a sickening bluish grey. When the sorcerer finally released his grip, the pilot, now a corpse, dropped heavily to the ground. “Who’s next?” Rai asked.

       “You’re one sick puppy, you know that?” Again, the necromancer identified the owner of the voice. This one was young, fresh-faced, impetuous. “Are we trophies to you? You think you’re just gonna march us home in a zombie conga line and hang our asses on the wall?”

       Rai did not think this at all. In fact, he had derived no real pleasure from killing the captain, and he would feel no better about any of the others. But the young airman’s blustery accusations bored him. He was numb to the righteous anger.

       “The real question,” he said quietly, “is why you won’t shoot me if you all have guns.” Simultaneously, with all the synchronization of clockwork, the remaining men dropped their eyes to the weapons they cradled in their hands. “You’ve been instructed to take me alive. Both of us, probably.” He nodded absently to Iris’ prostrate form. “That would explain why your leader was so upset when she fell.”

       In front of him, the group exchanged hasty glances. Not one of them wished to go against the king’s direct orders and risk his wrath, but it was clear to them that the necromancer was not going to surrender peacefully. Enraged by the death of his superior, the young soldier with the loud mouth made the first move. “Screw it,” he said, raising his gun. “If the king kills me, I’ll see this bastard in hell.”

       Rai was looking down the barrel of the gun when it was fired. The bullets struck his chest and shoulder, rocking him back a little—but only a little. That was when he knew for sure that these troops had not been informed of all the details; they simply did not know that death was not an option. Slightly regretfully, he shifted his eyes to the holes the gunshots had torn in the sweater Iris had bought. The young recruit stared too.

       “You’re not bleeding,” he said. His mouth gaped. “Why aren’t you bleeding? What are you?”

       Rai thought about that for a moment. “I’ve been told that I’m a nightmare. Do you want to see why?” The youth was paper white, watching him with wide, wary eyes.

       “What do you want from us?” he asked. His cocksure voice quivered. “What the hell do you want?”

       “I want you to understand,” Rai told him. “I was a child when King Serberos took me prisoner.” The expressions on the soldiers’ faces switched from sick uneasiness to mystification. “I doubt he ever told you how he made an abomination out of me.” Slowly, they all shook their heads. “He killed me. I was thirteen.” He gestured to the burnt gaps in his sweater. “This is why I do not bleed.”

       “You’re…dead.” The cast in the youthful officer’s eyes was a mix of horror and fascination. “And the king killed you.”

       “Then he kept me alone in a tower room for who knows how many years. How do you think he got me to do his bidding? The army of the dead was his conception, not mine. He was the mind, I was the vessel.”

       Another of the squad spoke up. “So you’re a slave,” he said. “That’s what you’re saying.”

       “That’s correct.” The soldiers looked uncomfortably at each other. “Then…” The second man pointed at Iris. “…where does she come in?”

       “She broke into the castle on the night I left,” said Rai. “She was planning to steal from the royal treasure.” Several of the men whistled. “Instead, she found me and decided to take me with her.”

       “And then you murdered her?” they asked, incredulous.

       Rai sighed. “She’s not dead. I’m protecting her…from me.” He looked at the twisted form of the captain on the asphalt. “Speaking of, would you like your compatriot back? I’ll revive him on one condition.”

       “You can bring people back to life?”

       The utter ignorance of this pack of militants really surprised him. “These powers would be fairly useless if I couldn’t employ both sides,” he explained patiently. He elected not to tell them of any possible side effects, reasoning that a shorter life was a suitable price to pay for spending years in the service of a man like Serberos. “Now, do you want him back or not?”

       “Yes.” The first man spoke with a serious face. “What are your terms?”

       “Go away,” Rai said. “I don’t want to harm you or anyone else. Tell the king I was destroyed. He will not be able to refute you.”

       “That’s all you want?” The soldier seemed genuinely surprised.

       “That’s all I want,” Rai confirmed. “I do not intend to ever show my face in Volikar again.”

       The young man nodded sympathetically. It was a sentiment he could understand.

       “Hey, uh, I’m sorry I shot you,” he said awkwardly. “I just…you know how it is.”

       Rai shook his head. “That’s of no concern to me. Let me keep my end of the deal.” Obligingly, the men stepped back, and Rai raised his hand. A beat passed in silence. Then the commanding pilot gasped.

       “God!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “That was the worst—” As recognition of his surroundings sunk in, he passed his eyes around the circle of his men. Eventually, they came to rest on Rai, who acknowledged him and then turned back to his subordinate.

       “There,” he said. “Now, you keep yours.”

       “Yes sir!” The young soldier saluted as the others helped their captain to his feet.

       “What is the meaning of this?” the captain demanded. “What is going on?”

       “Sir,” said the young soldier, “an agreement’s been reached. We have to go now.”

       “Is he coming with?”

       “No, sir.”

       “Son, do you mean to tell me that you want me to defy a direct order from the king? Because let me tell you, that ain’t happening.” The troop gave Rai an apologetic look, which was answered with a shrug.

       “With all due respect, sir,” said the man, “do you realize you were dead?” The commander’s brow furrowed intensely.

       “What?” He looked between his secondary and the sorcerer. Rai nodded, as if to confirm the veracity of the statement. “That’s impossible.”

       “No, sir. He brought you back to life on one condition, that we let him be.”

       “Yeah?” This piece of information greatly reduced the remaining animosity that was separating Rai and the pilot captain. “Well, how do we know he won’t start using his powers for…whatever?” Rai rubbed his face.

       “Sir, can we just…?” The young soldier took the captain by the arm and started to lead him toward the planes. “He can’t do that without the king anyway. Isn’t that where he got all the bodies? Besides, there’s no way we can fight him. If we make this into a war, every one of us is going to die. Think of it as cutting our losses.” His voice gradually faded. There looked to be no more real opposition from his boss, and presently, all eight planes were running and ready for takeoff. Rai watched them ascend in a vertical line from the places where they had landed, and he marveled briefly at the variance of technology in the world. Serberos himself refused to use anything more high-tech than a candle holder, and yet his army was kitted out with the best that he could get. It was, he thought, an accurate representation of the king’s priorities.

       When the wind had died down from the aircraft, Rai knelt beside Iris’ body and placed his hand lightly on her forehead. Presently, her eyes opened. She gazed at him a moment, confused. “It’s over,” he said. “It’s okay.” Momentarily, she was relieved. Then a blast of anger rushed across her face. Before he could react, she had punched him in the jaw.

       “You said you wouldn’t kill me!” she shouted. “You said—” Her throat became choked with tears and she had to stop. Rai touched her face and she slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

       “Would you listen for a second of your life?” he asked affectionately. “I didn’t kill you. I knocked you out, and I’m sorry.”

       “What?” She was staring at him like she hadn’t understood a thing he said. “But I was—” She fell silent. Then she said, “I’m an idiot.”

       “You were just afraid.” He helped her sit up. “I wasn’t going to show you my magic.”

       “I didn’t want to see it.” She reached up and touched the spot where her fist had collided with his face. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

       “I was expecting it.”

       Iris grinned. Sighing, she slumped down against his chest. “Can we go home now?”

       “Where’s home?”

       The girl looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I have to bring you home to my father. I promised him, didn’t I?”

       “I’m not sure this is what he’s expecting.”

       She laughed. “He’ll get over it.”

---

The news from the returning squadron of pilots was both incomprehensible and very bad. The necromancer had been cornered, but then lost. There was some sort of immense destruction. Inexplicably, the boy was dead. Steward Tarnslen tried his best to make sense of the report, but despite his diligence, the pieces refused to fit. He had the distinct feeling that there was something he hadn’t been told.

       Making his way toward the throne room to deliver the dissatisfying conclusion, Tarnslen rehearsed the words in his head, which was something he did only rarely. But this was such a delicate matter that he knew he had to navigate carefully. If mishandled, the results would be disastrous.

       He would soon find out that it no longer mattered.

       As was customary, the steward knocked on the throne room doors. Unlike usual, he received no answer. A baseless feeling of dread spawned in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the king is in his chambers, he thought, and it crossed his mind that he ought to check. Still, the throne room had always been Serberos’ favorite place; given the state of his mental health, it was unlikely that he would have left. Holding his breath, the steward reached out, putting his weight against the enormously heavy carved doors. They gave. It was not a good sign.

       At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. None of the rich ornamentations were disturbed, none of the tapestries askew, none of the rugs rolled up at the corners. It wasn’t until he looked at the throne that Steward Tarnslen realized what was wrong.

       Positioned between the arms of the throne, in the same place he had been for the past six days, was Serberos, King of Volikar. But even from his current distance, Tarnslen could tell that he was dead. Though his eyes were open, they had long since turned glassy, and the wrinkled skin of the old sovereign’s face was slack against his skull. In the middle of the throne aisle, Serberos’ chief steward, his most devoted servant, stopped.