John Marco - The Forever Knight

“Good-bye, Wrestler,” I sneered. “Let’s see how you do with a broken neck.”

I jerked back, flexed my arm, and snapped him like a toy, twisting his head around as the last breath gurgled from his lips. He died instantly, falling against me, then into the river. I leaned back and watched the water wash through his ruined eye, and I remembered how much losing an eye had hurt. It was so much worse than when my neck broke. I was glad Wrestler had experienced both.

His horse nibbled at the grass by the riverbank. The horses of the three dead legionnaires wandered aimlessly around their corpses. I stood up in the river, and when I did Venger came to me, splashing through the water to reach me. It took a moment for me to realize it was over. I rubbed Venger’s eager nose, my mind strangely blank. With the legionnaires dead, surely Isowon was safe now. There was almost no reason for me to return there.

Almost no reason. There was still the matter of friendship.

The next afternoon, I returned to Sklar Valley.

I rode like a savage onto the bloodied sands, half-naked, my ruined shirt left behind at the tombs. I had even left my bronze armor there. I supposed it could have been repaired again, but I didn’t feel like the “Bronze Knight” any longer. I wasn’t sure who I was now. Without a soul I wasn’t really human. Humans weren’t immortal. Gods were, I supposed, but I certainly wasn’t one of those. Mostly I felt lost, and very, very anxious to go home to Jador.

Finding the valley was simple enough. I merely followed the cloud of buzzards. The roar of battle had fled, but people still moved among the dead in the field. Mostly these were folk from Isowon, men and women who’d come out from the city to look for survivors and start burying the countless dead. A stench had already started rising from the corpses. Buzzards and other beasties pulled at fallen flesh. I rode Venger into the heart of the field, going mostly unnoticed by the soldiers and civilians. At once I saw the bodies of legionnaires scattered in the human wreckage. Like their brothers at the tomb they had collapsed when Diriel left. It was a mystery even Malator couldn’t quite explain-something about his being the one who called them. I reined in Venger over one of the figures, looking into his white face. He’d already been dead, long before yesterday.

“Are you with Diriel in Gahoreth now?” I wondered out loud.

“Lukien!”

I turned at the sound of my name, seeing Kiryk striding up to me through the carnage. He had a huge gash down his face, still unbandaged, and had not even cleaned off his blood-soaked uniform. He looked exhausted, too, barely recognizable. Worse than that, he was all alone. My head swiveled to scan the field, and I did see a handful of Drinmen, but none of the proud trio that always accompanied the young king. Kiryk stopped just in front of my horse, looking up at me in shock, immediately asking the question I knew he would.

“Why’d you leave us?”

I tossed my leg over Venger’s back, dropping down to face him. “I had to. It was the only way. Diriel’s gone, Kiryk.”

“You could have killed him on the battlefield. You could have done it easily.”

“I had other business.” I kicked at the dead legionnaire with my boot. “They fell like dolls. All I had to do was cut the strings.” I glanced around the grim scene. “Lenhart?”

“Dead,” said Kiryk.

“Jaracz?”

“Dead. Sulimer too.”

I hesitated. “Sariyah?”

Kiryk’s face caved with sadness. “He found his son. They’re both dead, Lukien.”

“How?” I asked softly.

Kiryk unbuttoned the top of his uniform and sighed. “Asadel wasn’t a conscript. He’d been given the powder, Lukien. He was one of Diriel’s. When the rest of them fell, so did he. They just kind of dropped where they were standing. And then. .” He shrugged. “Then it was over. It was just over.” He looked around, still trying to make sense of the horror. “Over.”

We stood like that for awhile, together and alive in a sea of heads and body parts. A good many mercenaries were among the fallen. Zurans, too. I thought of Chuluun, my friend for so brief a time, and how anxious he’d been to fight with me. I still wore the hahlag he’d given me around my neck, only now it was splattered with blood. Where was he in this slaughter, I wondered?

“We buried Sariyah with his son,” said Kiryk. He pointed to the very sand dune where Cern had waited with Venger the day before. Now it was covered with men with shovels, burying the dead who’d been dragged to the berm.

“Not exactly a hero’s grave,” I sighed.

“My men are there too. Better than being food for vermin.”

I nodded at that. So far, I’d been too afraid to ask my final question. “Kiryk,” I said. “I see a whole lot of dead mercenaries.”

“Yes.”

“Did Marilius make it?”

At last, Kiryk cracked a grin. “He did.”

“He did?”

“That’s one lucky man,” said Kiryk. “Lost a hand, though.” He flexed his right hand. “This one. Lost it in the last charge. No more freelancing for him.”

It was an unholy thing to smile in such a place, but I did. Of all the men who’d died here, Marilius had survived. That, at least, was something. I wanted to go to him, to tell him about Diriel and Wrestler and to see his missing hand.

First, though, there were bodies to bury.

Late that night I returned to Anton’s palace with Kiryk. Instead of mercenaries, servants greeted us, hurrying us to Anton’s lush baths and filling us with food and drink. The palace was less grand than I remembered-Anton had given most of his belongings to his mercenaries-yet there remained that sense of wonder to the place, and I let the bare-breasted serving girls pamper me, massaging my shoulders in the bath and feeding me newly plucked grapes. Kiryk dismissed himself quickly after that, anxious to be with his fellow Drinmen and make his way home. He left the very next day.

I remained in the palace for a week. Occasionally I visited Marilius in his sick bed and jibed him about his missing hand. Anton spared no expense for his dear captain’s comfort, of course. Marilius had his own room and his own servants, even a musician who sometimes sang to him while he tried to sleep. The pain of his wounds was excruciating, but it would pass. Not only had he lost his right hand to a legionnaire, but he’d taken a sword to the side of his belly as well. He looked like a real man now, I told him. The father who had so easily disowned him would have been proud.

I healed, too. I spent my time looking at what was left of Anton’s art collection. I swam in his pools and made love to his servant girls. I even sniffed some of his spices. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t. Cricket was always in the back of my mind, dying over and over again in my arms, and no amount of spice or lovemaking could make her go away.

Anton and I made peace, and I no longer blamed him for all that had happened. The tattoo of Crezil had vanished from his forehead, and he delighted at the story of Diriel’s demise, insisting I tell it to him again and again. He’d lost so many men, but he would rebuild. He still had his spice routes, and he still had his guile. Each day he implored me to stay behind, to be his personal bodyguard or help rebuild his private army, and although Isowon was truly like paradise, I was never tempted by his offer. I had my own home and ached to see it again.

Finally, with Venger beneath me and fresh new clothes on my back, I left Isowon. I pointed us toward Arad, said my good-byes to the city on the sea, and rode for Jador. I had many days of travel ahead of me and no real hurry. Gilwyn and White-Eye’s baby wasn’t due for a while yet, and without Cricket I had no mission for myself. I wore the Sword of Angels, of course, but without my armor didn’t think myself a knight-errant anymore. My time in the Bitter Kingdoms had cured me of that. Now it was back to the boredom of Jador, of hunting rass for sport and lying out in the desert to wonder at the stars.