Hero in the Shadows Page 7

  The Gray Man opened it. He was dressed in the same manner as when first she had seen him, dark leggings over riding boots and a shirt of thin, supple leather. He wore no rings or chains of gold, and his clothes boasted no brooches and no embroidery. He beckoned her inside. “Come through,” he said, swinging away from her and strolling into the main living area. It was a rectangular room with only two hide-covered chairs and an old rug. There were no shelves or cabinets, and the fireplace was bare of ornament. A pile of logs was set beside it, with a blackened iron poker. The Gray Man wandered through the room and out through a door at the rear. Keeva followed him, expecting to see a bedroom. Her anger began to rise once more.

  She crossed the doorway and paused, surprised. It was not a bedroom. The thirty-foot wall on the left was paneled with pine, and on it hung many weapons: longbows, crossbows, Chiatze war darts, swords, and knives of all descriptions, some small, others long and double-edged. The right-hand wall was set with six lanterns, their light casting flickering shadows over an array of wooden frames and curious apparatus. Targets had been placed around the room, some round, others crafted from straw, string, and old clothing into the forms of men.

  The Gray Man moved to a bench table, from which he took his crossbow. Loading it with two bolts, he carried it back to Keeva. Then he pointed at the round target some twenty feet away. “Direct two bolts into the center,” he told her.

  Keeva’s arm came up, her hand settling into the worn pistol grip, her fingers on the two bronze triggers. As she had learned when shooting at the pigeons, the weapon was front-heavy, and as the triggers were depressed, it tipped slightly downward. Adjusting for this, she loosed both bolts. They flew across the room, slamming into the small red center of the target. The Gray Man said nothing. Relieving her of the weapon, he moved to the target, retrieving the bolts. Returning the crossbow to the bench, he took up two throwing blades. They were diamond-shaped and around four inches in length. There were no hilts, but grooves had been cut into the metal for a better grip.

  “Handle this with care,” he said, passing her a blade. “It is very sharp.” She took it gingerly. It was heavier than it appeared. “It is not just about direction and speed,” he told her, “but about spin. The blade must reach its target point first.” He pointed to a nearby straw man. “Hit that.”

  “Where?”

  “In the throat.”

  Her hand came up, the arm snapping forward. The blade struck the throat area hilt first and then bounced away. “I see what you mean,” she said. “Can I have the second?” He passed it to her. This time the blade sliced home through the straw man’s chin. “Damn!” she swore.

  “Not bad,” he said. “You have a good eye and excellent coordination. That is rare.”

  “In a woman, you mean?”

  “In anyone.” Moving to the straw target, he extracted the blade, picked up the second one from the floor, and returned to her side. “Turn your back to the target,” he said. Keeva did so. The Gray Man handed her a blade. “At my command spin and throw, aiming for the chest.”

  He stepped back from her. “Now,” he said softly.

  Keeva whirled, the blade slashing through the air to cannon from the target’s shoulder and strike the far wall. Sparks flashed briefly from the stone.

  “Again,” he said, offering her the second blade. This time it thumped home, once more in the shoulder but closer to the chest.

  “Why are we doing this?” she asked.

  “Because we can,” he answered with a smile. “You are very talented. With a little work you could be exceptional.”

  “If I wanted to spend my life throwing knives,” she observed.

  “You told me you had no craft but were willing to learn. Skilled marksmen can earn a good living at market fairs and celebration days. Not one man in a hundred could have brought down three pigeons in four shots with an unfamiliar weapon. Not one in a thousand could have achieved it without some rudimentary training. In short, like me, you are a freak of nature. Mind and body in harmony. The gauging of distance, the balancing of weight, the power of the throw—all these require precise judgment. For some it takes a lifetime to acquire. For others it can be learned in a matter of moments.”

  “But I missed the chest. Twice.”

  “Try again,” he said, gathering up the fallen blade.

  She spun and sent it hurtling into the target.

  “Straight through the heart,” he said. “Trust me. With training you can be among the best.”

  “I do not know that I want to be skilled with weapons,” she told him. “I loathe men of war: their posturing, their arrogance, and their endless cruelties.”

  Removing the knives from the target, the Gray Man took them to the bench and began to clean them with a soft cloth. Placing them in sheaths of black leather, he turned again to Keeva. “I was once a farmer. I lived with a woman I adored. We had three children: a boy of seven and two babes. One day, when I was out hunting, a group of men came to my farm. Nineteen men. Mercenaries seeking employment between wars.” He fell silent for a moment. “I rarely speak of this, Keeva. But today it is strong in my mind.” He took a deep breath. “The men tied my Tanya to a bed, then—after a little time—killed her. They also killed my children. Then they left.

  “When I rode out that morning, I recall the sound of laughter in the air. My wife and my son were playing a chasing game in the meadow; my babes were asleep in their cots. When I returned, all was silence and there was blood upon the walls. So I, too, loathe the men of war and their cruelty.”

  His face was terribly calm, and there was no sign of the emotional struggle Keeva guessed was raging below the surface. “And that is when you became a hunter of men,” she said.

  The Gray Man ignored the question. “My point is that there will always be vile men, just as there will always be men of kindness and compassion. It should have no bearing on whether you choose to develop your talents. This world is a troubled, savage place. It would, however, be even more ghastly if only evil men took the time to master weapons.”

  “Was your wife skilled with weapons?” she asked.

  “No. And before you ask, it would have made no difference had she been the finest archer in the land. Nineteen killers would have overpowered her, and the result would have been the same.”

  “Did you go after them, Gray Man?” she asked softly.

  “Yes. It took many years, and in that time some of them committed other foul deeds. Others married, settled down, and raised families of their own. But I found them all. Every one.”

  It was suddenly quiet in the room, the air heavy. Keeva watched the Gray Man. His gaze seemed far away, and on his face was a look of infinite sadness. In that moment she understood this grim and gloomy dwelling place set alongside the gleaming white marble of his palace. The Gray Man had no home, for the home of his heart had been destroyed a long time ago. She glanced around at the targets of straw and the array of weapons on the walls. When she looked back, she met his gaze.

  “I do not wish to learn this craft,” she said. “I am sorry if that disappoints you.”

  “People long ago ceased to disappoint me, Keeva Taliana,” he told her with a rueful smile. “But let me ask you this: How did you feel when you killed the raider captain?”

  “I do not want to talk about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? You have been a killer so long, I wonder if you do.” She reddened as she realized what she had said. “I’m sorry if that sounds disrespectful, Gray Man. I do not mean it to be. You saved my life, and I will be forever in your debt. But what I mean is that I do not want to experience again the feelings I had when I killed Camran. What I did was needless. He was dying anyway. All I did was to inflict a little more agony. If I had the time again, I would merely have walked away from him. What hurts and angers me is that in those few heartbeats I allowed myself to be dragged down in the filth of his evil. I became him. You understand?”

  He smil
ed sadly. “I understood that long before you were born, Keeva, and I respect what you say. Now you had better return to your duties.”

  Yu Yu Liang was not a happy man. A little distance away the arguments were still raging among the dozen survivors, and Yu Yu struggled to hear what they were saying. His understanding of the roundeye tongue was merely fair, and he found that many of the words and phrases sailed by him before his ears could catch them and his mind translate them. He was concentrating hard, for he knew it was only a matter of time before someone pointed an accusing finger at him.

  Sitting on the rock, his stolen sword in his lap, the former ditchdigger did his best to look silently ferocious like the warrior he pretended to be. Yu Yu had been with the group for only three days. In that time he had heard many fine promises from the now-dead leader, Rukar, about life on the road and the riches to be made from passing merchants. Instead Rukar had been cut down by the Rajnee, and Yu Yu had moved faster than ever in his twenty-three years to escape the swinging swords of the charging horsemen.

  Truth to tell, he felt a little stab of pride that it had been a Chiatze who had cowed them, a true Rajnee. Not a fraud with a stolen blade. Yu Yu shivered. Six years of training before a Rajnee could own a blood-tempered blade and a further five years of philosophical study before he was allowed to fight. But only the very, very best were allowed to wear the gray robes and black sash sported by the man who had killed Rukar. As soon as Yu Yu had seen him, he had carefully eased himself to the back of the second group and had been primed to flee the moment the horsemen charged.

  The reality was that Rukar had been a dead man from the moment the Rajnee had approached him.

  “One little swordsman,” someone said, “and you all run like frightened rabbits.” Yu Yu understood the word “rabbits” and guessed the moment of truth was approaching.

  “I didn’t notice you standing up to him,” another man pointed out.

  “I was caught up in the rush,” the first responded. “It was like being in a stampede. If I hadn’t run, I’d have been crushed to death.”

  “I thought we had our own Chiatze Rajnee,” put in a third voice. “Where in Shem’s balls was he when we needed him?”

  Here it comes, Yu Yu Liang thought miserably. He turned his bearded face toward the twelve men in the group and glowered. “Well, he ran past me like his ass was on fire,” someone observed. A ripple of laughter sounded. Yu Yu rose slowly to his feet, his double-handed sword glinting as he swept it left and right in what he hoped might look a menacing fashion. Plunging the blade into the ground dramatically, he drew himself up to his full height. “Any man think me afraid?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Do you?” he thundered, leaping forward and stabbing his finger at the nearest man, who, surprised by the suddenness of the move, fell backward. “Or you?” No one spoke. Yu Yu breathed an inner sigh of relief. “I am Yu Yu Liang!” he shouted. “Feared from Blood River to shores of Jian Seas. I kill you all!” he bellowed.

  In that instant he saw their faces change from surprise to stark horror. It was very satisfying. Suddenly one of them scrambled to his feet and ran toward the south. Immediately the others followed, leaving behind their meager possessions. Yu Yu laughed and threw his hands in the air. “Rabbits!” he shouted after them. He expected the men to retreat a little distance, but they carried on running. Surely I cannot have been that terrifying, he thought. Must have been the firelight glinting on the muscles of my arms and shoulders, he reasoned, looking down and clenching his fists. Ten years of ditch-digging had honed his upper body beautifully. This warrior life is really not so hard, thought Yu Yu. Bluff and bravado could achieve wonders.

  Even so, their reaction was, to say the least, unusual. He squinted into the distance, looking for signs of their return. “I am Yu Yu Liang,” he shouted again, keeping his voice gruff. Then he laughed and swung back to where he had left his sword.

  Standing quietly in the firelight was the little gray-garbed swordsman.

  Yu Yu’s heart skipped a beat. He leapt backward, his heel landing in the fire. He swore and jumped forward, then scrabbled for the sword, yanking it from the ground and waving it furiously back and forth while shouting a battle cry. The cry would have been more impressive, he realized, had it not burst forth in a shrill falsetto.

  The Rajnee stood very still, watching him. He had not drawn his sword. Yu Yu, still holding his sword aloft, glared at him. “I am Yu Yu Liang,” he began, this time in Chiatze.

  “Yes, I heard,” said the swordsman. “Are you left-handed?”

  “Left-handed?” echoed Yu Yu, bemused. “No, I am not left-handed.”

  “Then you are holding the sword incorrectly,” observed the Rajnee. Moving past Yu Yu, he glanced toward the south.

  “Are you going to fight me?” Yu Yu asked him.

  “Do you wish me to?”

  “Isn’t that why you came here?”

  “No. I came to see if the robbers were planning another attack. Obviously they are not. Where did you find the sword?”

  “It has been in my family for generations,” said Yu Yu.

  “May I see it?”

  Yu Yu was about to hand it to the man. Then he jumped back again, slashing it through the empty air. “You seek to trick me?” he shouted. “Very clever!”

  The Rajnee shook his head. “I am not trying to trick you,” he said quietly. “Farewell.”

  As he turned away, Yu Yu called out after him. “Wait!” The Rajnee halted and glanced back.

  “I found it after a battle,” he said. “So I took it. The owner didn’t care. Most of his head was missing.”

  “You are a long way from home, Yu Yu Liang. Is it your ambition to be a robber?”

  “No! I want to be a hero. A great fighter. I want to strut through the market towns and hear people say: ‘There he is. That’s—’ ”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Rajnee. “Yu Yu Liang. Well, all journeys begin with a single step, and at least you have mastered the strutting. Now I suggest you follow me.” With that he walked away.

  Yu Yu sheathed his sword and looped the baldric over his shoulder. Then, grabbing the carry sack containing his meager possessions, he ran to catch up with the departing Rajnee.

  The man said nothing at first, as Yu Yu marched along beside him, but after walking for almost an hour, the Rajnee paused. “Beyond those trees is the camp of my master, the merchant Matze Chai.” Yu Yu nodded sagely and waited. “Should anyone recognize you, what will you tell them?”

  Yu Yu thought about that for a moment. “That I am your pupil and you are teaching me to be a great hero.”

  “Are you an imbecile?”

  “No, I am a ditchdigger.”

  The Rajnee turned toward him and sighed. “Why did you come to this land?” he asked.

  Yu Yu shrugged. “I don’t really know. I was heading west when I found the sword, then I decided to swing northeast.”

  Yu Yu felt uncomfortable under the man’s dark gaze, and the silence grew. “Well,” Yu Yu said at last, “what are you thinking?”

  “We will talk in the morning,” said Kysumu. “There is much to consider.”

  “Then I am your pupil?”

  “You are not my pupil,” said Kysumu. “If you are recognized, you will tell the truth. You will say that you are not a robber and that you were merely traveling with them.”

  “Why was I traveling with them?”

  “What?”

  “If they ask.”

  The Rajnee took a deep breath. “Just tell them about your desire to strut.” Then he strode away toward the campfires.

  4

  THE FIRST OF the outlaws drifted back to the fading campfire, moving in warily, terrified that the gray-robed Rajnee would be hiding somewhere close by, ready to leap out and rip their lives from them with his wickedly curved sword. They had seen Rukar’s body opened from shoulder to belly, his entrails spilling out, and had no wish to share his grisly fate.

  Satisfied that the swordsman
had gone, one of the men gathered up some dead wood, throwing it onto the fire. Flames licked out, the light spreading.

  “What happened to Yu Yu?” said another man, searching the ground for signs of a struggle.

  “He must have run,” said another. “There’s no blood.”

  Within an hour nine men had gathered around the fire. Three were still hiding out on the plain. It was growing colder, and a fine mist had begun to seep across the land, swirling like pale smoke.

  “Where did you hide, Kym?” someone asked.

  “There are some ruined walls. I lay down behind one.”

  “Me, too,” said another. “Must have been a big settlement here once.”

  “It was a city,” said Kym, a small man with sandy hair and buckteeth. “I remember my grandfather used to tell stories about it, great stories. Monsters and demons. Wonderful stuff. Me and my brother used to lie in bed and listen to them. We’d be terrified.” The man laughed. “Then we wouldn’t be able to sleep, and our mother would start shouting at Grandfather for scaring us. Then, the following night, we’d beg him to tell us more.”

  “So what was this place, then?” asked Bragi, a stoop-shouldered figure with thinning black hair.

  “It was called Guanador, I think,” said Kym. “Grandfather said there was a great war and the entire city was destroyed.”

  “So where did the monsters come in?” put in another man.

  Kym shrugged. “There were magickers, and they had great black hounds with teeth of sharpened iron. Then there were the man-bears, eight feet tall with talons like sabers.”

  “How come they got beat, then?” asked Bragi.

  “I don’t know,” said Kym. “It’s only a story.”

  “I hate stories like that,” said Bragi. “Don’t make any sense. Who beat ’em, anyway?”

  “I don’t know! Wish I’d never mentioned it.”