Talion Revenant Read online

  I looked around for other signs and easily discovered another pair of tracks. This individual had harvested a number of plants from the surrounding woods. He didn't leave much behind but I knew he'd selected poisonous plants almost exclusively. That told me the man traveling with Vareck was Grath ra Memkar.

  Memkar is a strange nation. To an outside observer it appears normal, if a bit crowded. Many of the families are quite large and the Memkarians are blessed with long lives. These two factors combine, though, to make things difficult for ambitious younger members of the family. Helping a relative into the grave has become an accepted method of advancement if a patriarch seems reluctant to share his power and wealth with his kin. In most cases a mild illness brought on by poison is usually enough to wrest a share of power for a relative, but the nation is so full of plot and counterplot that only the poisoner can be sure who did what to whom.

  Grath ra Memkar was a poisoner. The trick to his trade was not to get caught, because murder is still murder in Memkar. A professional poisoner has to be careful, and that word summed Grath up rather neatly.

  Openly acknowledged as one of the best, Grath probably would still be working in his homeland had his last assignment not gone awry. His patron paid him for the deaths of the sire and eldest scion of a noble family. Grath managed to accidentally slay the whole family, so his employer, a noble who planned to marry into that family and acquire its wealth, refused to pay him. Grath retaliated and gave his patron a taste of the viper.

  That rash act put others off and forced Grath out of Memkar. He traveled to Chala, where he poisoned thieves and extorted money from them for the antidotes. He probably would have stayed there, but Morai recruited him. Grath kept his skills sharp by visiting towns a day before the rest of the bandits would arrive. Not surprisingly, the town guards would become mysteriously ill and would be unable to harass the bandits.

  That night I took very great care when I prepared my food. And, even though I did not face north as the sun went down, no demons came to disturb my sleep.

  I reached Pine Springs in the late afternoon. I'd removed my black leathers and traveled in more traditional garb. I wore a dark blue linen tunic, brown trousers, and a brown vest woven of undyed wool. I was not certain Vareck and Grath still hid in Pine Springs, but it was a fair guess. Pine Springs, as small as it was, had a full city quarter devoted to taverns and boardinghouses catering exclusively to the transient trade. Those two would be anonymously safe there, for a short while anyway, so I chose not to reveal my identity before I knew where my quarry lurked.

  The town guards didn't even glance at me as I passed through the gate. Following a caravan up from Chala, I reined Wolf around and rode into the east end of town. The caravan passed through the foreign quarter toward the stableyards while I stopped at the first tavern I saw. I strapped my sword-belt on, paid a child a silver Provincial to take Wolf to the nearest stable, and promised him another coin when he returned to tell me where the horse was housed.

  The rough-hewn wooden door centered in the tavern's south wall opened and admitted me into a dark and crowded common room. The bar ran the length of the west wall, ending a few feet before the stairs up to the second floor. A small stage ate into the lower half of the north wall, and above it stood the balcony leading to rooms on the second floor. They could be rented for the night or just an hour's company with one of the numerous women circulating through the crowd. A number of alcoves dotted the east wall and made me uneasy because I could not see past the thick curtains shielding them from the common room. Tables and chairs choked the common room, along with a thick cloud of sweat, the rumbling roar of conversation, and boisterous caravaneers.

  I crossed to the bar and caught the bartender's attention. He was a big man—still powerful though he was running to beerfat—who'd lost the last three fingers on his right hand. "Ale." I deposited a silver coin on the bar. I held another in my left hand. "Is there a Daari about?"

  The bartender set the wooden tankard down in front of me. The frothy ale sloshed over the lip, but he made no move to wipe it up. "Woman?" He shook his head. "No, we got no call for them." He grabbed for the coin, but I shifted it to my right hand before his fingers closed on it. I raised my left index finger to my lips and opened my right hand.

  His eyes opened wide enough that I thought his bloodshot orbs might fall out of his head. He saw my sign to silence, thought for a moment, and then nodded. He pointed to the shrouded alcove deep in the northeast corner of the room. I flipped him the coin and smiled grimly. He nodded nervously and obviously did not like the idea of conspiring with a Justice.

  I turned and leaned back on the bar. I sipped the ale so I'd not look conspicuous and found I liked the woody bite of this particular brew. I weighed and rejected various plans of action. I wanted to take Vareck quickly and, if I could manage it, without too much notice. Taverns such as this one were home to all sorts of skittish people and their reasons for being on the road might not invite unwanted attention. Caution hung in the air and an unusual action by anyone would scatter the crowd like a herd of antelope.

  Before I reached any decision on a plan, the room fell silent. A minstrel walked from an alcove more central than Vareck's and mounted a short flight of steps to the stage. She seated herself on a tall stool and intently studied her lute for a second or two, then she looked out at her audience. She flashed us a warm smile that drew everyone's attention.

  Long blond hair reflected gold highlights even in the tavern's dim light. A narrow nose, high cheekbones, and bright blue eyes made her very attractive, and her smile only increased her beauty. Someone to her right called out a song title; she laughed and shook her head. Her hair fell back and revealed her bare shoulders.

  She wore a white, short-sleeved blouse off her shoulders. A royal blue ribbon trimmed its bosom and sleeve, and picked up the color of her eyes. A wide brown belt drew it to her slender waist, and a brown leather skirt, made of a patchwork of squares, fell to below her knees. A pair of well-polished riding boots completed her outfit.

  She strummed slender fingers across the lute's strings and filled the room with a familiar melody. "I am Selia ra Jania, and am very glad to perform here tonight. If you don't mind, for my first song I'd like to play 'The Peasant's Revenge,' " she announced in a silken voice.

  She'd chosen well her first selection, because it was a song popular throughout Ell and the Shattered Empire. No one gainsaid her choice. Hard, grim men closed their eyes and remembered days when they'd heard the song at home amid family and friends.

  Grime and black soil

  and years of toil

  this a farmer doth make.

  But give the boy

  a warrior's toy;

  it's a soldier they take.

  She sang the song perfectly in the voice of the boy's mother. She filled the words with passion and resentment at the boy's forced enlistment by Imperial recruiters. Her voice rang with the mother's pride when her son outsmarted the military wisdom of the day and earned himself a title by valorously winning a hopeless battle. Then she finished the song with just the right touch of contempt for nobility creeping into the final verse:

  Awards galore,

  carpeted floor,

  he plans still in his keep.

  For even now

  new fields to plow;

  bloody harvests to reap.

  Thunderous applause greeted her song's finish, and she accepted it graciously. I enjoyed the song a great deal and remembered it had been my grandmother's favorite—one she always followed with a detailed recitation of the real-world facts behind it. For a moment I was able to forget who I was and why I stood in the tavern. I relaxed and clapped as heartily as anyone else.

  Even though the first song was not overly demanding, it hinted at her range and abilities. I wondered if she would just sing old familiar and popular songs, or if she would try some newer tunes. Racing her fingers over silvery strings, she gave me little time to ponder my question. The no
tes, though I knew I'd not heard them played before, surprised me and then, as I identified them, made me cringe.

  Selia smiled up at the audience. "Now a song some of you might have heard, and a song I'm proud of because I wrote it. It's called 'Morai's Song.' "

  A few patrons who'd heard it before cheered and I slumped back against the bar. Jevin had heard it on a trip, hummed the melody for me once back in Talianna, and laughed his way through the words to torment me. I locked a smile on my face and endured.

  Ride, Talion, ride,

  But ere you reach my side,

  Slay yourself my brave man,

  Then catch me if you can.

  Morai's man was dark and tall,

  Had caused his father's fatal fall.

  "The Talion' s mine, wait and see

  I'll nail his body to a tree. "

  So he waited in a meadow green,

  "Come Talion, my blade is keen."

  Challenged so the Talion drew his sword

  And cut a man from Moral's horde.

  Ride, Talion, ride,

  But ere you reach my side,

  Slay yourself my man bold,

  And catch me ere you grow old

  Cull was quick and possessed great heart,

  And well versed in the killing art.

  "Sword or bolt, each kills quite well

  Either will send the Talion to Hell."

  In an alley dark did Cull wait,

  And open threats served as bait.

  But he missed with the dirk he threw,

  And the Talion cut old Cull in two!

  Ride, Talion, ride

  But e're you reach my side,

  Slay yourself this noble foe,

  And catch me ere winter winds blow.

  Eric prince, bastard and fool

  Was just another Morai tool.

  The Talion' s head he swore to deliver,

  And promised to taste the dead man's liver.

  Eric met the Justice with no fear

  And passed on with a grin from ear to ear.

  All the dupes with their lives did pay,

  While Morai laughed and rode away.

  Ride, Talion, ride,

  But ere you reach my side

  More men I'll get and throw to you,

  And you'll never catch me when you're through.

  I joined the enthusiastic applause mechanically so no one would have any reason to look at me. My face felt on fire with embarrassment, and it surprised me the blush's red glow didn't bathe the back of the common room in lurid scarlet hues. I drank some ale to wash the cotton from my mouth and decided I'd wait and take Vareck whenever he decided to leave the tavern. After that song I didn't want anyone to know a Talion stood in their midst.

  Vareck denied me the anonymity I desired. He burst from behind the black curtain shrouding his alcove with spiritlance firmly grasped in his white-knuckled right hand. He stared at the minstrel and jabbed the steel-tipped stick in her direction. His position gave the audience, which had fallen into a stunned silence, full view of his left profile. Hideous, twisted scars and arcane symbols puckered the flesh on his left arm and face, making him more a monster than a man.

  "You lie, that's not how Morai is!" Spittle flecked his lips as he screamed at her. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "I know!"

  Fear leached the color from her face as Selia stared at him. She paused as if trying to decide if he was just an angry drunk or a serious threat, saying nothing that might antagonize him. No one in the audience made a move to stop the Daari, and wrapping his left hand around the spear's shaft, he stalked toward her.

  I stepped away from the bar. "Put the stick down, Daari, and leave her alone. She meant no harm." I kept my voice even and tried not to threaten him. I acted like a man who merely wanted to calm the situation. "Come"—I smiled warmly—"I'll buy you a drink."

  Vareck whirled and snarled at me. "Stay back. I'm a bad man. I ride with Morai."

  The people seated nearest the Daari slowly pulled away from him, and he growled at them. Everyone kept their hands away from their weapons and, if he'd been anything but a Daari, the situation would have cooled and been forgotten. But to a Daari, any insult, real or imagined, was demonspawn, and there was only one cure for that.

  I swallowed hard. Vareck meant to kill her and would be as difficult as a hound with a good scent to deflect. She'd made herself a target, though she didn't know it at the time, and his peculiar view of the world told him that killing her put him one rung higher on the ladder to paradise. Nothing could deflect him from that.

  Nothing but a target that would earn him even more rungs.

  I took one step toward him. "I'm afraid, Vareck ra Daar, you're not bad enough." I raised my right hand and showed everyone my palm. "I ride after Morai."

  The patrons seated around me shrank back and isolated the two of us on the floor. Vareck's dark eyes glazed over. He shifted his grip and caressed the symbol-scored spear with a lover's passion. The two blue feathers dangling by a leather cord from the spear's butt twitched in rhythm with Vareck's heartbeat. "I must kill you, Demonhost."

  I shook my head. "Why? You heard the song. Morai used you. Prove you're more than just his tool."

  A handsome smile slithered onto Vareck's face, but the scarred left profile ate into it like a disease. "Am I a tool, Talion? You know the saying, 'A tool is a tool unless it does the job by itself.' " He tightened his grip on the spiritlance and pointed it at my heart. "I will do the job and you will then have your proof."

  He dropped into a crouch and I summoned my tsincaat. Vareck inched forward the shielded himself from my demongaze with his disfigurement. His spiritlance darted forward like a serpent's tongue. The steel point—a handspan in length and a third that broad at the base—had only two edges, but both gleamed razor-sharp in the weak light.

  The patrons overturned the rough wooden tables and, seating themselves in the shadows behind the walls of their slender, makeshift arena, showered both of us with encouragement and abuse. A puddle of ale roughly marked the center of our strip, but drained through the worn floorboard before it could become a hazard to hamper either one of us.

  Gamblers in the crowd immediately called out odds and accepted wagers on our fight. They favored me initially—for who could stand against a Talion in combat?—but my support eroded quickly enough. One bettor pointed out that Vareck did ride with Morai and his weapon outreached my tsincaat. Someone else noted that the spear had spells on it to counter Talion magick, and in seconds the pundits determined one silver Provincial bet on Vareck would earn half again that much if he won.

  I faced Vareck, wrapped both hands around the tsincaat's hilt, and set myself. I carried the blade out in front, so the tsincaat protected me from head to groin, and slid my right foot slightly ahead of my left. I made no move to parry Vareck's jabbed feints until he got near enough to actually hit me. He inched closer and closer, and with each shuffling step forward tension crushed in on me.

  Vareck slipped into lethal range and delayed for a second. With one thrust he could reach my chest and punch the spirit-lance through it. A last second shift in his attack and he could guide his spear beneath a parry to transfix my right thigh. If he was quick enough, he could even pin my foot to the floor and batter me to death with a table or chair. A legion of assaults suggested themselves to him, and he tried to select the most horrible, because a Talion should die in agony.

  He made his choice and started his attack. Then he shuddered, looked at me, and saw his mistake in my eyes, just as I read it in the slackened expression of horror washing over his face. He knew, even as his spear shot forward toward my chest, he was nothing but a tool.

  I shifted forward on my left foot and twisted away from the thrust he aimed at my chest. His spear slid between my right arm and body, then retreated without touching me. Vareck raised the spiritlance and tried to parry my chopping blow, but the rune-decorated haft cracked and splintered. My tsincaat sheared through it to cleave Var
eck's collarbone and on into his chest.

  The Daari lived for a second or two after he hit the floor. His lips moved, forming a curse, but the gurgle of blood filling his lungs drowned the words. His fingers held tightly to the broken ends of his spiritlance, then went limp and let the broken lengths of wood clatter to the floor beside him.

  I knelt on one knee and closed Vareck's eyes. Straightening up, I took the stained gray cloth offered by the barkeeper and wiped the blood from my fsincaat's blade. Two men grabbed Vareck's ankles and dragged him out of the tavern, while a third man followed behind them throwing down handfuls of sawdust from a bucket to absorb the bloody trail leaking from the bandit.

  Around me the tavern returned to near normal. Conversation started again, men tipped tables upright, and servants scurried among the patrons to renew orders and refill mugs. They kept their voices lower than before I'd revealed myself, and a few patrons seated themselves in the deeper shadows of the room, but the fight had changed no one besides Vareck and me. And the minstrel.

  I looked up and tried to catch her gaze, but she only stared at the spot where Vareck fell. Her lower lip trembled and her moonshadow-pale face looked devoid of life and emotion. I grabbed one serving woman's bare shoulder. "Have you strong wine or brandy?"

  She shivered and slipped her shoulder from my grasp. "Yes, Master Talion." Her dark eyes dulled with fear and her lips quivered.

  "Two goblets, then. Bring them to her alcove." The woman hurried to the bar while I walked to the stage, leaped up, and filled the minstrel's view. She started and looked up at me as if I were a ghost. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came.

  I extended my left hand to her and tried to smile as reassuringly as I could. "Let us sit at your table."

  She stood without my help. I dropped my hand to my side and followed her from the stage. She walked stiffly, but with a certain hint of feline grace. She lovingly cradled her lute to her chest then, when we reached her alcove and she pulled the heavy, dark woolen curtain back, she laid the instrument gently on a soft-leather traveling case. She slid onto the bench beside it and I sat facing her across the table.