Lyrec Read online

  The figure stood beyond its reach. Elforl could make out the shadows of the eyes, the darkness of the beard. He moved ahead, expecting at any moment to be deceived by some spell, to see monsters come at him. “I wish I’d smashed in your skull this morning,” he said. The figure did not move or answer. “The captain was a fool to bring you along. Abo tried to tell them you were a sorcerer, and they ignored it.” The figure shifted stance, presenting less body to him.

  Elforl carefully took out his dagger. He lunged with the stick, swinging it up at the figure’s head from the side, following it with a low dagger thrust at the abdomen. With a minimum of motion, Lyrec’s sword swatted the jeit stick in one direction and swung back to block low in the other. The dagger screeched along the blade.

  Elforl retreated in anticipation of an attack, but none followed. He was amazed at the precision of his enemy’s movements—how could the fellow have learned such swordplay since this morning? And how was it that he held the sword so well in hands that should have been swollen and useless by now? So he was indeed Kobach. He must be killed quickly before some further phantoms emerged.

  Elforl lunged again. He brought the jeit stick around in a spinning circle, nearly impossible to fend off with a sword.

  Lyrec stuck his sword straight up, blocking at such an angle that the blade pared into the haft of the jeit. The two weapons stuck together. Elforl jerked the stick away fiercely and the blade snapped in half. He used the backward tug to drive his other hand, and the dagger, forward. The blade should have sunk into the center of the shadowy figure, but somehow it missed, and his hand rasped against leather. Elforl tried to draw it back for a second stab, but it would not come free: A hand had closed upon his wrist like a manacle. Elforl brought the jeit up again, swung it as he tried to yank his arm free. Instead of resisting, Lyrec launched into him, twisting and throwing him off balance, and ducking in too close for the jeit stick to strike. Elforl lost the dagger and stumbled as Lyrec caught the jeit’s metal ball in his free hand and gave a sudden sharp pull. The Ladomantine had to run forward or else give up his remaining weapon. He realized just before both his feet left the ground that Lyrec had brought him to the edge of the buttertub. “Fools,” he uttered, took one final helpless swipe with the stick, and vanished into the pit.

  Lyrec knelt down to retrieve Elforl’s dagger. He glanced over his shoulder into the buttertub. I hated that. He was very good in his way—master of an art. He heard what he assumed was Borregad approaching and turned back casually.

  The soldier with the shoulder wound stood wavering, trying with all his might to hold his sword steady for a killing blow. His face was pasty and shone with the painful exertion.

  “Put it down,” Lyrec said. “Put it down now and stop.”

  The young soldier’s eyes opened wider. His agonized face twisted, and with a snarl, he launched himself in a charge. He struck at Lyrec, but Lyrec had already moved. The sword cut into moist ground, the soldier ran up against it. His boot split open. The blade sliced into his foot and he shrieked. He tripped and stumbled to one side, away from Lyrec, who made a desperate attempt to grab him as he plunged into the hole. The soldier’s scream ended abruptly with a crack, followed by the sound of sprinkling stones.

  Lyrec stared at the embedded sword in disbelief. They’re crazy, Borregad. Did you see him? He drew it out of the ground, and threw his broken one into the pit. He could have put down his sword—he could barely hold it. He preferred to die.

  The cat emerged from the shadows ahead. And you risked your life for the likes of them.

  I don’t understand this behavior.

  Poor innocent. It’s simply that—Lyrec, behind the stone! The cat scrambled to one side as the tip of a sword cleaved the ground where he had stood. Lyrec drew back two paces and raised his new sword defensively.

  From behind the rock, the Ladomantine captain stepped into view. He watched Borregad fleeing into the fog. “Rotten beast, I’d forgotten about you.” He looked up at Lyrec. “Ah, did you think I was dead? You’re too gentle and humane, foreigner, to live in our kingdom. You should have slain me. Too bad, because that’s not the sort of mistake I’m likely to make. I want you.”

  “Do you?” replied Lyrec. “Perhaps I’ll enlist. If the likes of you can reach such a lofty post just think of how high someone with a brain might go.”

  “I’ll cut you into little pieces!” The captain charged. His sword swung out in an arc aimed at Lyrec’s jaw. Lyrec batted it aside with the slightest of parries. The captain muttered a curse and came on again. His blade whistled through the air, but his target moved back a step and slapped down his blade with enough force to pull the captain off balance. He stumbled back into position, growled, and made a blind, enraged run at Lyrec. With both hands he swung the sword down.

  Lyrec stepped aside and stopped it against the flat of his own. The two blades rang, sending shock-waves into the captain’s arms that nearly broke his elbows. For a moment his sword touched the ground, his arms were drained of strength. In that moment of helplessness, he expected to die; but Lyrec did not attack. The captain shook sweat from his brow and smiled to himself. An honorable man…well, he’d warned him about showing kindness.

  “I-I’ve no fight left in me,” the captain feigned. “What did you…my arms, they’re so weak.”

  “Put down your sword and let me see.”

  “Why would you help me? We’re enemies.”

  “You’re proud of that, aren’t you? You enjoy being somebody’s enemy.” He took a step forward. The captain jerked his sword straight up at Lyrec’s groin. But it whined against metal and stopped. In his left hand Lyrec held Elforl’s dagger parallel with the ground. The sword had driven against its haft. Lyrec glared at the captain. “And a liar, as well.” He pushed down with the dagger, took a step over the sword.

  The captain saw death in the black eyes. He bounded away, drew back his arm and then thrust to impale Lyrec. He watched, unable to believe his eyes, as his opponent’s blade skimmed precisely around his own and turned it to the side.

  Lyrec slammed his dagger into the captain’s breastbone. The captain convulsed and choked. The sword fell from his grip, lie looked imploringly at Lyrec and saw all consideration erased from that face.

  Using the dagger as a handle, Lyrec lifted the captain off his feet. The Ladomantine’s fingers clawed at the air, his body shook with spasms he could not control. Each step Lyrec took brought the captain more pain—an escalating, protracted agony. Bright glitter ringed his vision. Vultures screeched in his ears. Then the pain lessened and he experienced a moment of great calmness and clarity. The dagger had gone. He floated in space above his enemy. Lyrec seemed to be moving away. The captain realized that he’d been thrown into the pit. He was reaching his arc, beginning to descend with nothing below. “Wait!” he sobbed. “Wait, wait now, please!” The last word became a long scream that pursued him into the black abyss and did not end so much as fade like a ghost into the background of the night.

  Lyrec marched away from the pit. He paused only to take the captain’s sword and fling it into the buttertub, too. He could hear Borregad trying desperately to communicate with him, but he sealed himself off.

  Engorged by a new emotion, he required solitude. This was not something he ever wanted share with anyone. Most of all, he never wanted Borregad to know how much cruel pleasure he’d just felt.

  Chapter 10.

  Alcemon, the baker of Trufege, tugged at the jacket of the man going up the trail ahead of him and said, “He’s mad to make us do this.” He meant this to be a whisper for the ears of his comrade alone, but the night was crisply cold and Alcemon’s words carried all the way to the man about whom he was speaking—Varenukha, the priest of Trufege.

  Hearing what was said, Varenukha stepped off the trail and motioned the others to keep going. He watched the shadowy shape of the short, swarthy baker approach, and considered how to deal with him. It was imperative that he undo Alcemon’s doubt, quash
it before it spread like disease through the group. They had almost reached the top of the ridge. In a few minutes they would look down on the valley of Ukobachia. This was no time for doubt.

  Weighed down by the bundle of torches he carried, Alcemon trudged up to Varenukha without even seeing him. The tall, thin priest simply pulled the baker out of line.

  Before Alcemon could react, Varenukha’s sour breath was warming his cheek. “Did I hear you say I’m mad?” His scowl sharpened the lines of his face, repeated in the crescent of his mustache.

  The unnerved baker surprised Varenukha by defending his statement. “We’re going to do murder,” he said.

  The priest shook his head, then patted the baker on the shoulder. “No, Alcemon, no. That’s where you’re so wrong. These are not people—they’ve defied their humanity through their irreverence to the gods. Do you think I lied when I said Chagri came to me in a vision? This is our god’s work we do.”

  “What about the messenger who came to you?”

  This question was so unexpected that the priest could not speak for a moment. Alcemon had seen the Hespet’s messenger. Likely they all had. But the baker had perceived a relationship between that and what they were about to do; and if Alcemon, no gifted thinker, had concluded this, then it was likely the whole party of villagers suspected it. Varenukha wasted no time. He spoke loud enough that some of the others would overhear. “That man brought a message to me from the Hespet—an invitation to Lord Tynec’s coronation. I told him my duties here are too pressing. His appearance and our undertaking this night are utterly unrelated.” He scanned the faces going by, faces that made a point of not looking at him. They must believe him, and Alcemon must be convinced so that he in turn would convince others. Varenukha climbed more than a mountain this night— he climbed a notch higher in his quest for the Hespetacy. More significant by far than being assigned priest to a village of heretics, a victory here would be something the Hespet and others never forgot. Varenukha had succeeded in taking control of them more than anyone had anticipated. Now he would prove it by leading them into Ukobachia. Judgment was at hand for the witches.

  Turning back to Alcemon, the priest produced his fiercest gaze. But the baker was not ready to be intimidated yet. “I want to know what is the word of Voed?” he asked. “You mention Chagri—you always speak of Chagri. But what of Voed? What does he say?”

  “It’s Chagri that your village—our village, for have I not accepted it as mine?—it is Chagri you have all offended. His word, his visitation is synonymous with the word of Voed. Do you reject that? Are you willing to blaspheme further after all the heresy you people exercised? It’s a wonder you aren’t being burned alive right now!” Spittle shot from his mouth, he was so angered. With great effort he steadied his voice. “You lost your wife the last time, Alcemon. It’s your own existence that hangs in the balance now. Yours and theirs.”

  The baker cowered at that: whatever else he doubted about the priest, he believed completely that Varenukha could have Trufege razed and the inhabitants killed. He reached out to touch the priest, but pulled back, afraid to make contact. “Forgive me, priest, I only ask to understand. That’s all. No heresy of thought or deed.” He backed away onto the trail where another of the villagers—one less given to questioning—shoved him on his way up the mountainside.

  Varenukha followed the last of his villagers up to the ridge. He took satisfaction in having silenced Alcemon, but thought that it might do for the baker to suffer some misfortune on the way back home. Perhaps one of those torches he carried would accidentally ignite, setting him on fire. An obvious rebuke from the gods. Yes. That might be necessary.

  The trail emerged in a clearing, which ran along the top of the ridge in either direction. The villagers were gathered there, awaiting further orders from their priest.

  Stars twinkled down on a valley that was like a bowl scooped out of the mountains. Directly across from them were peaks slowly being devoured by a thick ledge of cloud. It rolled ponderously toward them. By the time they reached the valley floor, the cloud would be where they stood now.

  Varenukha caught up with the main body of villagers as they looked down into the valley.

  The village lay directly below them. Barely a dozen lights shone to mark its location. Off to the left perhaps half a stey down the hillside, the starlight pinpointed the main bridge into the village and gave him a better account of their position. The priest moved through the group to lead them down. He smelled suddenly the sweet tang of mulcetta, and realized that the hillside below them was covered in mulcetta vines—endless rows as far as the eye could see. The plump berries on the nearest plants gleamed in the starlight. They grew on all the hillsides surrounding Ukobachia: the making of mulcet from the berries was the Kobachs’ primary source of income. That is, he thought, it was until tonight. The strong drink had even played a critical part in his plan. It was from one of his villagers who had poached the berries for years that he’d learned of this high path, used by the Kobachs to make the harvesting easier. Now he would follow it down between the rows of vines, to where a small rope bridge was strung across the river. The patrol on the main bridge, if there was one, would never even suspect an invading force knew about it. They wouldn’t know what had happened until it was too late.

  Varenukha told his followers, “Sound no alarms. Do whatever’s necessary to ensure that. Remember your particular tasks and perform them swiftly, then make your way back to Trufege.”

  Thirty-three heads all nodded in accord. Their questioning had ceased. Good.

  He turned and they moved after him.

  Once in the vines, the smell of mulcetta made their eyes water. The berries were sticky with juice. It rubbed onto their clothing, onto their skin. It would be days before the odor washed away; the stain might last forever.

  Alcemon handed out most of his torches to his comrades as they passed. He was not supposed to do this until after they’d crossed the rope bridge, but only he and the priest knew that. They stumbled and shuffled down the narrow paths, through the overhanging vines. Alcemon went along sluggishly, lagging behind until the others in their zeal had all passed him by. Then he stepped off the path, and disappeared among the vines. He hid there, listening to his comrades move away. The air seemed to darken. Alcemon looked up to see the heavy cloud rolling across his view of the sky. It seemed scarcely higher than the top of the ridge.

  He snuck back out on the path. The ridge where he had stood a few minutes before became hazy. It faded away as he watched. He’d planned to sneak back over it. Now he decided it might be wiser to spend the night among the vines. He couldn’t say why exactly, but he did not want to enter that cloud. With a shiver, he crept back into the shadows of the vines, making sure he could not be seen from above rather than below.

  *****

  The old man awoke with a start and reached over instinctively to hold and protect his wife. Her nightmare had awakened him: he had heard her calling his name.

  His hand brushed against linen and emptiness. The bed, beside him, was empty. A pain entered his chest, as if a rib had snapped when he sat up and now pierced his lung and heart.

  A dream. It had been a dream.

  He put his palms against his forehead, covering a geometric tattoo etched there, and stared down at the floor. Anralys, he called silently to the goddess, why does the love you represent linger so long in this old soul? It has been nearly nine years, why don’t you let me forget? There are times when I lie here and think I can feel her me warmth beside me, can smell her and hear the soft snores she made. Sometimes her hair brushes my face, tickling, and I’ll shove it away and then realize it cannot be, and sit up to find that she is gone. Of course she’s gone. But if so, then why does she keep reappearing for me, Anralys? Powerful goddess, make me forget the pain of loss. Let me remember her in our daughter. New life, new hope. My Pavra.

  The old man peered across the room to where his daughter slept on her bed of straw. So late in lif
e his wife had borne her. Why had it happened that way? After twenty years of fruitlessness, why the sudden fatal bloom?

  His name was Malchavik, a costumer by trade to the village of Ukobachia. He had lived a good and quiet life before Pavra’s birth, being no maker of laws or director of destinies. He fashioned only clothing, mostly boots and hats and richly embroidered apparel for festivals and weddings. Then his wife had discovered she was pregnant. Forty years old and pregnant. Other shocks followed in ascending progression. The time of birth neared and the midwives had told him calmly that the baby could not come out of its own. She would have to be opened up. He could still remember the acrid smell of their healing herbs and the peculiar odor of her blood that day. The women would not let him enter the room, even when his wife’s cries threatened to drive him mad. Someone—how odd that he could not recollect the person’s identity when all else stood out so clearly—took him out to the tavern and sat with him, buying his drinks, which he downed one after the other with barely enough time in between for a breath. He was calculatedly drunk by the time one of the women came to tell him that his wife, Pavra, had not survived. He had begun to laugh at this, tears pouring down his face—laughing and crying at the same time. What, the woman had asked, did he wish to name the child? All Malchavik had been able to say was his wife’s name, again and again and again.

  Years followed of which he had no recollection. The money he’d saved went to keep him drunk and thoughtless. Later he learned that many people had tried to help him get control of himself, but that he defied them all. The women looked after his daughter all the while.

  One day he’d awakened by the quay, stinking of fish, lying in muck, and somehow coldly sober. He had cried there alone for hours, despising himself for the wretched creature he was. And he had gone home, as simply as that, to a three year old daughter with blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Though her name was that of his wife, the child and mother were separate in his mind—as if his wife had died on the same night that a baby had been abandoned on his doorstep.