The Forever Knight: A Novel of the Bronze Knight (Books of the Bronze Knight) (5 page)

M
alator had been strangely quiet since we left Jador. For the first two days I felt him hovering just out of reach, like a child peeking around a corner. Within the sword I could feel his presence, stoic but solid, but by our fifth day I could barely sense him at all. He had stopped speaking to me entirely, and when I touched the sword it was almost like a normal blade at my side.

Perhaps I had been hard on Malator, and perhaps his silence was just childish payback, but I was determined that he should be my servant now and not the other way around. Akari are kind and generous with their powers, but they aren’t angels, and they aren’t selfless. They see the world from a mountain peak none of us can ever reach, but there’s one thing they forget—they need us, we poor humans. I intended to remind Malator of that.

Our fifth day in the desert was blazing hot. By noon the sun felt like fire on our hoods. The sand, which was everywhere now, blinded us as we tried to look ahead. We had already skirted south of Ganjor, making good progress east. Maybe two more days of riding and we’d be out of the desert. That alone was enough to give us confidence. With the sun mighty on our backs, I let Cricket drink her fill from our canteens. Head down, I rode without thinking.

“Lukien?”

Cricket’s voice took me out of my daydream.

“Look at that,” she said, pointing north. A caravan of drowa riders were heading east as well, their path slowly crossing our own. They were still far away, but I knew they had seen us; the gait of their hairy mounts slowed a little.

“Ganjeese,” I said.

Cricket’s voice rose. “Really? How do you know that?”

“First, because no one else would be traveling east. And look how they ride—like an arrowhead, you see?”

“Uh huh.”

“They ride like that to keep the rass away,” I said. “It doesn’t work.”

We had gone all this way without seeing another soul. We were practically knocking on the door of the Bitter Kingdoms. And now Ganjeese. My hand went fast to my sword.

“Malator? You still here?”

I don’t know why I doubted it, because Malator barreled into my mind.

Company?

“Maybe trouble, maybe not,” I said. Cricket looked at me, but she knew who I was talking to. “We can’t avoid them.”

“They’re coming this way,” said Cricket.

“Hospitality of the desert. They’ll ask if we need anything, maybe try to trade.”

“But they’re gonna know we’re from Jador.”

“No way to hide it. Keep riding,” I said, “and don’t be afraid.”

As we closed the distance I could see their expensive looking clothes, the kind of colored silks and dyed skins the wealthy of the city wore. There were four men, with a big, well-fed fellow leading them. He rode at the tip of the arrow, bouncing on his drowa with a scimitar strapped across his chest. A jet mustache glistened against his dark face. When we were finally close enough, he raised his hand in greeting.

“Aman da Vala,” he called.

The words mean ‘Vala watches us.’ Even Cricket understood, but as a girl she wasn’t supposed to return the greeting. I lifted my own hand and called back the response.

“Vala kabar shahan.”

‘The great god Vala blesses us,’ I said, and didn’t believe a word of it. I brought my horse abreast with Cricket’s pony. The big man puzzled over my accent, looking at our clothes.

“North,” he said. “You come from Ganjor?”

“From Jador,” I answered and pulled back my hood.

All of them—the big man and the younger ones behind him—fixed on my eye patch. The big man’s hand twitched like he might go for his weapon.

“A one-eyed man from Jador,” he said, effortlessly using my own language. Instead of reaching for his scimitar he twirled his oiled mustache. “You are like I see when I have dreams of you, Bronze Knight of Liiria.”

We’d all stopped dead in front of each other, and no one moved an inch closer. “Do you know me,
azizi
?” I asked, using the Ganjeese word for friend. Cricket was so quiet next to me that I thought she’d stopped breathing.

“The desert is too hot for games,” said the big man. “I am Sariyah of Ganjor, and these are my sons . . .” He gestured to the others. “And you are Lukien of Liiria. How many sons do you see, please?”

His question startled me. “I see three sons.”

Sariyah nodded. “You see three sons. You do not see a fourth son because my fourth son is dead. Killed by Jadori.”

Sariyah looked at me without flinching. I tried to read his face but couldn’t.

“Your son was a warrior for Baralosus,” I guessed. “A lot of men died that day. Many
azizi
. Many Jadori.”

Sariyah leaned over and spat into the sand to his right. “Baralosus is a pig.”

“We agree.” Quickly I offered him honors. “The warriors of Ganjor were brave that day. I am told they died like heroes. In Jador we grieve all your sons.”

Sariyah’s dark face softened. He turned to his sons and ordered them to reveal their faces, a sign of respect. All shared their father’s sharp, handsome nose, especially the youngest one, who looked barely Cricket’s age.

“Many in Ganjor blame you for that battle, Shalafein,” said Sariyah. He wasn’t at all afraid, though he clearly knew my reputation. “But I am wiser.”

“I was far away from that battle,” I said.

“And now you are far from Jador again.”

He looked inquisitive, too polite to ask directly what was on his mind.

“We go east,” I told him. I turned to Cricket. “It’s all right. Show yourself.”

She pulled back her hood, shaking out her brown hair to the astonishment of the Ganjeese. Sariyah’s mouth fell open, but he closed it quickly, inclining his head. His sons just stared.

“We go east, too,” said Sariyah. “To Zura for spices.”

“Our business is in Akyre,” I replied.

Sariyah hid his surprise poorly but said, “We have bread to share and good drink from Ganjor. And I have heard you are talented at killing rass, Bronze Knight. We can ride together as far as Arad. Is it a bargain?”

Cricket glanced a warning at me, but Sariyah was right—it was too hot for games.

“We welcome the company,” I told Sariyah. In Ganjeese, I said, “
Our water is yours
.”

*   *   *

We ate and drank with Sariyah and his sons, spending the hottest part of the day beneath a tent while trading stories about the desert. Sariyah was good at telling stories. Cricket and I both relaxed quickly around him. He told us about sleeping in the sand with scorpions and how to pit stone fruit with your teeth and how the stars and moon follow
him
when he rides at night but not the others with him. He told us about Ganjor and about the wife and daughters waiting for him there, and how his spice business had grown, so that now he and his family had everything they needed. And like a true man of the desert, he asked few questions, careful to walk the thin line between his code and curiosity.

I learned quickly that Sariyah wasn’t a man to be feared, though he did look fearsome to me. He kept his scimitar as close to him as I kept my sword, and he was at least as tall as me and probably twice as heavy. They talk in the desert about men who are lions, and Sariyah was surely one of them. His voice was a quiet roar, his manners commanding. His sons didn’t just respect him but, rather, did his bidding with something like reverence. Even Cricket warmed to him, laughing at his tales. In Ganjor a girl her age had almost no rights at all, and yet Sariyah and his sons treated her with respect.

I didn’t want our time beneath the tent to end, but the day was still young and we had many miles left to go.

*   *   *

We rode into the desert night, refreshed by the cool air and the brightest moon I’d ever seen.

“You see?” Sariyah laughed as it he pointed at the sky. “It follows me!”

We all followed Sariyah, even me, riding beside him at the front of our arrowhead. Cricket rode a few paces back, while Sariyah’s youngest son, Asadel, eyed her the way boys that age naturally do. Cricket blushed at the attention but not enough to say she minded it, and that’s when I realized I didn’t have a girl with me, but a young woman. Sariyah glanced at them, then leaned over and spoke to me softly.

“I have three daughters,” he whispered. “Never would I bring one to the Bitter Kingdoms.”

“Three daughters
and
three sons? You’re quite a man, Sariyah,” I joked.

Sariyah grinned. “My wife likes to be busy,” he said. But I had my opening and took it.

“What can you tell me about the Bitter Kingdoms?” I asked. “I’ve never been to that part of the world. I only know what I hear.”

“Then you should know it’s not a place to take a girl. The kings there are lawless. They do nothing but fight and kill. I would not be going myself if there was a better way to Zura.” Sariyah looked down at his big knuckles. “I wonder if this trip will be my last.”

“If it’s so dangerous why are you going?”

“Because that’s where the spices are, Lukien. Your world lives on spices! They are like gold. Many men get rich sending spices to the continent. If Vala wills it, I will be one of them.” Sariyah’s smile filled his face. “My sons have families to feed. We are together in this. One day we will be rich. Like Anton Fallon.”

“Fallon? I know that name.” I thought about it a moment, sure I’d heard of him once in Norvor. “A spice trader, right?”

“He is the prince of spices,” said Sariyah. “Anton Fallon is the most powerful man in the Bitter Kingdoms. And not a drop of royal blood! They say he has a palace as big as a sea. The most beautiful women in the world serve him.” He wagged a finger in the air. “Spices, Lukien.”

“And you want to be like that? Wealthy?”

“I
will
be like that,” Sariyah declared. “Anton Fallon is just a man like me. Two hands and a brain is all any man needs.
If
he has the will of Vala.”

I tried to smile, but to me Vala was a superstition, just like the Fate I’d grown up with in Liiria.

“Lukien, ride with me,” said Sariyah. He urged his drowa on more quickly, breaking away from the rest of us. I looked back at Cricket, who looked puzzled.

“It’s just to talk,” I assured her, spurring my horse to catch up with Sariyah. Sariyah did not speak until he was sure no one could hear us.

“Don’t go to Akyre, Lukien,” he said. “Nothing good there. Only trouble. I cannot speak these things in front of the girl.” His voice dropped lower. “There is death magic in Akyre.”

Now that was a phrase I’d never heard before. I sidled closer to him. “Tell me.”

“Do they talk about Diriel in Jador?”

I shook my head.

“Diriel is King in Akyre. Calls himself Emperor now, of all the Bitter Kingdoms. An army of dead men serve him. Men without souls.”

“Dead men?” I must have grinned, because Sariyah looked annoyed. “You’ve seen them?” I asked.

“No. And Vala willing I will not. I will ride straight to Zura with my sons, far from Akyre. You must do the same, Lukien. Whatever you seek in Akyre cannot be so important.”

“It’s more important than wealth, Sariyah, and yet you’ll risk yourself for that.”

“You do not believe me?” asked Sariyah. “Men I trust have told me this, Lukien. Diriel commands death itself. His army without souls marches.”

I was glad Cricket couldn’t hear us. “Sariyah,” I said, “I’m not going to turn around because of some stories. You say you’ve heard about me. If so, you know what I can do. If there’s trouble in Akyre, I can handle it.”

Sariyah looked down at my sword. “It is enchanted?”

“It has . . . power.”

“A spirit?”

I nodded. “An Akari. An ancient being, like a ghost.”

Sariyah frowned. “Like death.”

I thought about that a moment. Then I thought about that picture Malator drew in the sand. Death was following me, and I didn’t know why.

Or maybe I was riding toward it.

“I’m not a superstitious man, Sariyah,” I said. “I’ve seen a lot of things that make little sense. If you tell me there’s an army of dead people waiting for me in Akyre, I believe you. One thing, though—maybe someone should warn
them
about what’s coming, too.”

S
ariyah described Arad a day before we arrived. When I finally saw the city for myself, I realized he had lied by calling it a ‘cesspit.’ Like most desert people, Sariyah was too polite.

There are places in the world where laws are meaningless and human life holds no regard. I had seen those kinds of places in Norvor, a fractured country where I’d spent far too much of my life, and as I rode into Arad I smelled that same stink of debauchery. Arad, a city just beyond the borders of both the continent and the desert, was how the Bitter Kingdoms greeted new comers, where all the effluence of those places sloshed together in a pool of human vices. We were no more than a minute past the city outskirts when I saw the crowded slave market.

“Cricket,” I said, trying to get her attention, but it was too late. She gaped at the men and women on the rickety stage, surrounded by onlookers. A naked woman stood before the crowd, sucking the finger of a prospective buyer as he roughly checked her teeth. Men from the continent and men from the desert leered at the woman, their pockets bulging with money.

Sariyah brought his drowa up quickly, blocking the market from Cricket’s view. She looked stunned and frightened.

“Never mind it,” I told her.

“But that woman—”

“Never mind it.”

Sariyah’s son Asadel rode up as if to protect her, and suddenly Cricket was surrounded. She craned her neck to see between us. The gambling halls spilled drunks into the streets. Stray dogs ran through the crowded market. There were children, too, some of them playing barefoot among the stalls, others skulking like orphans in the alleys. Men in unremarkable uniforms laughed as they wandered aimlessly through the streets. I knew at once they were mercenaries. The city had no tall buildings or great cathedrals, nothing that would draw a traveler other than its prostitutes.

“Any vice can be brought in Arad,” Sariyah had told me, confiding it to me as we fell asleep in the desert the night before. He was afraid for Cricket, that was plain, and now I knew why. I kept one hand low toward my sword as we rode, aware of Malator’s presence in my mind. There were no quips from him this time. Instead, I could feel his vigilance.

Sariyah spoke in a low voice to his sons, his Ganjeese words too soft for me to understand. Cricket kept her pony close as we rode past the markets of the city’s main road, watching with disgust as an old man pissed against a house. Chickens screamed in a nearby stall while a crusty-looking butcher cut their heads off with a cleaver. I glanced ahead of us, hoping to find a spot to stop. I wanted a bed with a real pillow. I wanted food that didn’t come out of a saddlebag. Mostly, though, I wanted to get Cricket somewhere safe. I looked at her. She seemed mesmerized.

“This look familiar to you?” I asked. “Any of it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her dark eyes studied everything. Her face had a hardness a girl her age should never have.

“No,” she said finally.

“No? You sure?”

She looked at me sharply. “I’m sure, Lukien. I’m sorry, no.”

Sariyah talked to his sons while Cricket and I rode ahead. A crowd was gathered on the side of the street, where a barker called them to attention. A boy moved quickly through the throng collecting bets. A patchy spot of grass had been cleared away on the roadside.

That’s when I first saw him. His shaved, shining head.

Sometimes you see a thing and just have to stare. I once saw a cat choking on a lizard, with just the tail and hind legs sticking out of its mouth. This man was like that—an obscenity. Stripped to the waist, big hands resting on his hips, chest puffed out like a robin’s. Taller than me, taller than Sariyah, he taunted the crowd, his nostrils flaring as the barker sought a challenger. Ropey sinew bulged on the back of his neck. His hairless body flexed one muscle at a time, like some sideshow freak. I couldn’t imagine what had given him such a physique, both mountainous and willowy, and when he looked at me his eyes got wide and curious. His smile seemed to call me down from my horse.

“A wrestler,” said Sariyah, coming up beside me on his drowa. “They are all criminals here. Bodyguards mostly. Come, Lukien . . .”

But my gaze wouldn’t leave the man.

“Hey.” Sariyah reached out and tapped my face. “He goads you. Enough now.”

I don’t know why I wanted to fight the wrestler, but I did. You only had to look at him once to hate him. When another man stepped out of the crowd—someone dumb enough to take the barker’s bet—Sariyah looked relieved. He turned his drowa toward the road, his sons quickly following. Cricket waited for me, her eyes glazed.

“We’ll find a place,” I told her. “Someplace safe and away from all this noise.”

“We need water, at least. And a place for the horses.”

“And beds for us and good food,” I added with a smile. “We made it across the desert. We should be happy for that.”

My words put a little bounce into her as we followed after Sariyah. We rode out into the middle of the street, away from the crowds and shouting. Sariyah came to a stop and looked around, a long bead of spit dribbling from the mouth of his drowa.

“It needs rest,” I said. Drowas are hearty beasts but not indestructible.

“She’ll rest when we are ready,” said Sariyah. His sons remained quiet. Sariyah sighed. “Akyre is north and east. South and east is Mosvar, and the road to Zura. Beyond Arad is scrub land, then forest in all directions.”

“The Bitter Kingdoms,” I said, unimpressed with what I’d seen so far. “Let’s stop now. Then we’ll talk.”

“We do not stop, not here. Not us,” said Sariyah. “We go south and east.”

“What, now? Sariyah, we need to rest, get fresh supplies . . .”

“Lukien, we are people of Vala. We cannot stop here, not even for a sip of water.”

“Sariyah, look at your animals,” said Cricket. “They won’t make it.”

“We’ll camp beyond the city tonight. The drowa can rest there, and rest is all they need for now.” Sariyah looked at me. “
Azizi
, I will ask you this, though I know you will refuse me—come with us to Zura. Come with us and forget whatever it is you came here for.”

“He came here for me,” said Cricket.

“No, I didn’t,” I said quickly. “I came because I wanted to, Sariyah. I didn’t come for spices or riches or anything like that.” I put my hand out for him. “I’m sorry.”

Sariyah took my hand with a powerful squeeze. “Good-bye Bronze Knight.”

I knew how badly I would miss him. “North and east, right?”

He nodded sadly. “North and east.” Then he looked straight at Cricket. “And you, girl—mind yourself here, always. The men of these nations have no honor.”

“I’m not afraid, Sariyah,” Cricket told him. “But I’ll be careful.”

Then, after days and days in the desert, Sariyah and his sons rode away from the food and shelter of Arad.

“Now that’s dignity,” I whispered.

I wondered if I would see him again. Cricket looked sad, staring after them. The world seemed to shrink, growing silent as Sariyah disappeared.

“Now what?” asked Cricket.

“A bath,” I declared. “And food and a proper place to rest. How’s that sound?”

She smiled. “Let me pick the house. Men don’t know how to pick clean places to stay.”

She started off on her pony toward a square of buildings up ahead, some of them tidy, others dilapidated, each with a colorful, steepled roof. This, I supposed, was the best part of town. A building with a scarlet façade and a sign reading ‘Central House’ caught Cricket’s eye. She studied it, nodding approvingly.

“That one.”

I looked it over. The house was near some useful shops and the well in the center of the square, and there were enough women and children around to set me at ease. Certainly it was good enough for a night or two. I got off my horse for the first time in hours and handed the reins to Cricket.

“Take them to the trough by the well and let them drink. We’ll hire a boy to brush them once we’re settled.”

Cricket dismounted and almost stumbled on her wobbly legs. Eagerly she led the horses into the square. I pretended not to watch her as I headed for the house, but when I reached the door I turned to steal a glance. No trouble. And no one around to bother her. I headed in to the house where the proprietor took his time renting us a room.

But young girls in places like Arad are never safe for long, and why I didn’t listen to that little voice in my head . . .

I stepped outside and looked for Cricket. She wasn’t near the well. It took only a moment for dread to hit me. I opened my mouth to shout her name, then heard her shouting from around the corner. I ran toward her cry, and when I rounded the alleyway I saw her panicked eyes, looking out from behind a giant body pinning her to the wall. Her hand shot out to reach me.

“Lukien!”

The big, bald wrestler had his fist around her collar. She was like a little bird in his grasp, terrified and fluttering to get away. Still half naked, I knew what he wanted even before his lust-filled eyes turned toward me. Like an angry bull, all I saw was red.

“You ugly gargoyle,” I hissed. “You shit-eating goat fucker. I’m gonna kill you.”

I wanted him to toss Cricket aside, to come at me and let her flee. But he held her as he came, dragging her by the collar to face me.

“One-eye, you own this girl?” he croaked. I could smell his drunken breath.

“I don’t own her. Nobody owns her.” My hand went to my sword. “Let her go.”

He stood up even taller. “I want to buy her. I have gold.”

A crowd gathered behind me, but no one moved to help. Somehow I had to get Cricket free of him.

“Let her go, and you’ll die in one piece,” I warned. “Otherwise you’ll just be a lot of little bits.”

His eyes were the color of stone. “Are you afraid of me, One-eye? You look afraid. Where’s your fat friend?” He look around for Sariyah. “That black-skinned hyena’s not around to save you?”

“You’ll have to let her go to fight me.”

“Not fair, little man. Your sword.”

All my life, my anger has made me stupid. Right then, all I thought about was my hands on his throat and how good it would feel to strangle him. As I undid my sword belt, Malator screamed at me.

No!

But I didn’t want his help. The wrestler gave a smarmy smile as he hurled Cricket toward me. She stumbled then bolted up again like a cat, spitting at the man. I pushed her aside.

“Take my sword.”

“No, Lukien, just kill him with it! Just—”

“Take it!”

I shoved the sword into her arms. Malator shouted in my head as I stepped forward. The crowd behind us swelled. I faced the wrestler, feeling my muscles coil. In a lawless place like this, no one would care if I killed him.

Faster . . .

Big men move like syrup. I struck like lightning. My boot smashed his groin, my fist his shattered nose. His face came down, gushing blood. His arms encircled me. Beneath the fat of his neck, I targeted the vertebrae. My elbow a hammer, I struck. The wrestler faltered . . . and held on.

Faster!

He lifted me, a doll on his shoulder, spinning me toward the ground. I reached back and found his face, clawing his eyes, holding him and sliding head-first down his back. I didn’t let go, dragging him, tugging his huge bulk back with me, sure he would tumble. My face smacked the street.

And still he had me.

On the ground he was an octopus, pulling me, his arms and legs like tentacles. I scrambled, rolling to avoid his hold, driving my fists wherever I could find him. But I was in a puzzle box, and the more I moved the more he tightened. Staring at the sky, I summoned my strength as his calves closed around my neck. Cricket was screaming. Malator tried to reach me. My throat closed up, and my sight went black, and I knew the wrestler’s next move would kill me.

He twisted, and my neck snapped. I heard it without feeling it.

And I was gone.