Simon Brown - Keys of Power 02 - Fire and Sword

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What was I doing?

I am a prince of the realm,

not a beast in the night.

Lynan laughed wryly at his own pride. Some prince of the realm: exiled to the Oceans

of Grass, with a future only the greatest optimist would find any hope in, and now plagued

by desires that were inhuman. Areava would not be surprised, of course, she always

thought of him as almost less than human. He could remember vividly their last

conversation on the palace’s south gallery only hours before Berayma was murdered; he

had seen in her eyes then how she truly thought of him.

With that memory came a very human anger, and the emotion threw out the last

vestige of his unnatural hunger. This is how I control it, he thought with surprise. By

never forgetting the first cause of my exile and transformation.

His confidence renewed if not wholly restored, Lynan walked back past the sentry and

into the camp. He reached his tent and looked east, back toward civilization, back toward

his enemies. He imagined Areava in her throne room, thinking he was dead and

celebrating the fact, Berayma’s murderers by her side.

If only she knew what had truly become of him.

The Keys of Power

INHERITANCE

FIRE AND SWORD

SOVEREIGN*

* coming soon from DAW

Fire and Sword

Book Two of Keys of Power

SIMON BROWN

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM

SHEILA E. GILBERT

PUBLISHERS

http://www.dawbooks.com

DAW Book Collectors No. 1287.

Cover art by Romas.

DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA).

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may

have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In

such case neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for this “stripped

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First Printing, March 2004

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DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

—MARCA REGISTRADA

HECHO EN U.S.A. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

Contents

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

31

For Guy Miklenda, Janet Delfosse,

and Del Delfosse.

Also family.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

All my thanks to my readers, Alison Tokley and Sean Williams, and to my editors, Julia

Stiles, Stephanie Smith and Debra Euler. Thanks to them this is a better book than it

would otherwise have been. Many thanks also to my agents, Garth Nix and Russell Galen,

for all their wondrous efforts on my behalf.

Hverr of kom Heráss á

hí a land gotna?

Fiskr ór fjanda vim svimandi,

fogl a fjanda lith galandi.

As whom came the god of war

to the land of men?

A fish from the torrent of enemies swimming,

a bird against a troop of enemies screaming.

—from the Eggjum gravestone, Sogn, Norway (based on

translation by Peter Foote & David M. Wilson)

Chapter 1

In autumn, when the hot summer winds have passed and the fierce winter storms are

yet to come, the Oceans of Grass is the most silent place on the continent of Theare. The

occasional breeze will brush the yellow land but make no more sound than a lover’s

whisper, a dying enemy’s curse. Even insects stop their chirruping and burrow deep

underground, waiting for spring and fresh rain.

On this day the sun, still with its summer strength, arced high over the plain, making

the air above the ground shimmer like silk. The only water hole for leagues around was

nothing more than a silted puddle, and the tracks of a hundred animals crisscrossed its

muddy ring. A family of karaks drank from the hole, their long ears drooping with thirst.

The heat had made them careless and they had not caught scent of the grass wolf

carefully studying them from the fringe of growth not more than fifty paces away.

The wolf had been following them for over two hours, always keeping behind, waiting

for her chance to charge in and take one of the calves. She sensed the time had come. A

sow had moved farther into the water hole and started to roll in it, leaving her calf behind.

The wolf measured the distance, carefully noting how far the big boar had wandered from

the main group, and tensed her muscles.

And then came a sound so deep it was first felt by the wolf as a vibration in the ground.

The karaks sensed something as well. Their ears pricked up, their nostrils flared. The

boar grunted and the herd hurried to join him; younger males took up their positions on

flank and rear.

The sound swelled in the still air like the thunder of a distant storm. The wolf was

puzzled. She had heard something like it many years ago, when she was not much older

than a cub, but she could not remember what it meant.

The karaks were getting skittish. The calf the wolf had set on squealed and broke from

the group. Again the wolf tensed, ready to take advantage of the herd’s confusion.

And then the terrible riders appeared. Their gray mounts kicked up sods of mud,

screaming as bits were pulled deep into their mouths. The riders shouted. There was a

flurry of javelins and arrows. A young male karak went down, and then another. A sow,

trying to protect a calf, took a spear through the neck.

The wolf watched in a daze. The calf she had selected was pierced by two arrows, and

squealed for the last time. Her confusion gave way to a great and sudden anger. She

leaped from the bushes, charging not toward the karaks, but toward the riders.

The crookback Ager Parmer was flushed with excitement. A crazed laugh escaped

from his lips. He wheeled his horse to the right of the group and retrieved his short spear

from the flank of a still panting boar. He looked up and saw Lynan corner a karak and

pierce it with a javelin. The prince caught Ager’s glance and grinned wildly. Ager laughed

again, overjoyed to see the pale young man starting to enjoy life once more. Lynan was

joined by his Chett friend and guardian Gudon, and the two of them went off in pursuit of

more prey. Another rider cut behind them, and Ager turned to see Korigan, the Chett

queen. He watched in admiration as she used only her knees to direct her mare, keeping

her hands free to shoot with her recurve bow.

Something at the edge of his vision caught Ager’s attention; he saw a young sow

making a break for the tall grass and spurred his horse after it. The sow saw him and

turned away. Ager cursed loudly. Now he would have to put the spear between the

karak’s shoulder blades, a much more difficult shot, especially with his one eye. He waited

until the mare was close enough to trip up the sow and thrust down with his weapon. The

spear lodged in the hollow just above the sow’s neck. The karak grunted and its forelegs

collapsed; it somersaulted into the dirt, jerking Ager’s spear out of his hand, and was still.

Ager gave a triumphant cry. That’s my second! Won’t Kumul be sorry he didn’t come

on the hunt!

He checked to make sure there were no karaks nearby, quickly dismounted, and used

his knife to finish off the sow. Then he heard a sound that came from no karak. He spun

around and saw something long and gray and half the size of a Chett mare leap from the

grass into the clearing. It ran under one of the horses and flashed wide jaws, tearing at the

horse’s belly. The mare screamed, bucked, and its rider fell heavily to the ground, the

horse collapsing on top.

My God! Ager thought. That’s a grass wolf!

The beast had not waited to finish off its first victim, but raced on to get under another

horse. The rider saw the wolf coming and tried to wheel away, but the wolf was too quick;

it used its teeth to slash at the horse’s throat. There was a whip of blood and the horse

went down, her rider still in the saddle. The wolf jumped over the mount and tore at the

rider’s throat, then leaped away.

Ager could not believe the speed of the creature. Most of the remaining horses

clumped together, instinctively trying to get some protection from numbers, but their

riders knew this was the worst thing they could do and desperately tried pulling them

apart to give them some room to maneuver.

Ager pulled his spear out of the sow and jumped onto the back of his own mare. He

tried to get it to charge the wolf, but all she would do was roll her eyes and pull back. He

saw the wolf cutting across the clump of horses, trying to find a way in. A javelin whizzed

by its ear and then an arrow.

One of the horses broke free of the group and Ager saw its rider was Korigan, her tall

golden body leaning low over the horse’s neck. The wolf zigzagged away from her, heading

for the grass, easily outpacing Korigan’s mare. Korigan loosed a short, white hunting

arrow. It twanged into the ground only a step in front of the wolf’s muzzle and the beast

veered back toward the water hole. Without hesitation, Korigan’s mare followed it and

her Chetts shouted in admiration. And then they shouted in consternation as the wolf

double backed, slashing at the horse’s fetlocks. The horse stumbled and Korigan flew over

the mare’s head, landing on her shoulder. The queen pinned her bow to her chest and

rolled. The wolf paid her no attention, driving into her horse and disemboweling it with

two savage bites.

By now Gudon had broken free from the mass of stamping horses. He threw his javelin

wildly, hoping to divert the wolf’s attention from his queen. It worked. The wolf leaped,

its jaw snapping only a finger’s breadth from Gudon’s face. The Chett drew his long

sword,and tried desperately to turn his mount, but again the wolf was quicker almost

than the eye could see and was already behind Gudon. His mare panicked, reared back,

and Gudon fell heavily to the ground and was still. Korigan sprinted to his side, grabbing

for his sword. The wolf howled, the sound almost gleeful, and charged toward the two

humans.

And then there was another howl, more terrifying, but it did not come from the wolf. A

third horse split from the main group and Ager saw its rider was Lynan.

“No!” Ager shouted. “Lynan, no!” He dug his spurs so hard into his mare’s flanks the

horse actually started forward, but even so, he knew he would be too late to stop his

prince.

“He shouldn’t be out there!” Kumul declared, waving his hand vaguely toward the

horizon. Some nearby Chetts instinctively moved back from the giant’s reach.

Jenrosa, diminutive next to him, suppressed a smile. “And where exactly should

Lynan be?”

“Back here, of course, planning his next move. Instead, he’s out gallivanting with Ager

and Gudon—both of whom should know better!”

“It was Korigan’s idea. She is not someone to be ignored.”

Kumul looked around him sourly and lowered his voice. “She may be queen of these

Chetts we’ve landed with, but Lynan outranks her. Instead, he behaves as if she was heir

to the throne of Grenda Lear.”

“He is making friends.”

“He has friends.”

Jenrosa could not help the smile this time. “Really, Kumul. I know you are an

impressive figure, and Ager is a great fighter, but if he’s to win back his birthright, he

needs more than the three of us on his side.”

Kumul harrumphed and returned to staring out over the horizon. “Be that as it may—”

“Besides, Lynan needs to build up his confidence again. He hasn’t been on a horse since

the battle with Rendle’s mercenaries. And he deserves some time free of worry.”

“Don’t we all?”

“You could have gone on the hunt.”

“I’ve got more important things to do.”

“Like standing here complaining about Lynan having more important things to do?”

The giant nodded. “Exactly.” He heard Jenrosa laugh, and refused to face her. Just the

same, he could not help grinning through his salt-and-pepper beard.

“I must sound like a fool sometimes,” he said quietly after a while.

Jenrosa gently touched his arm. “No, never a fool.”

Kumul turned to her. He wanted to take her hand and hold it close to him. He wanted

to kiss her face. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am. But about what in particular this time?”

“Lynan. He needs a break from the camp. He’s been sick for so long the ride will

probably do him good. I hope he’s all right.”

Jenrosa saw in his eyes the great love he held for the prince. When Lynan was so badly

wounded he was at death’s door, she had overheard Kumul speaking to him, and for the

first time had truly understood that he looked on Lynan as his own son. It was also the

first time she suspected she might feel more for Kumul than respect and grudging

friendship.

“I worry about him, that’s all,” Kumul added. “I worry about him all the time,

especially since ...”

“Since the change?”

Kumul nodded. “I know you had no choice. If you hadn’t given him the wood vampire’s

blood, he would have died from his wounds after his encounter with Rendle’s

mercenaries. You saved his life, Jenrosa. But although we know it’s changed his skin and

his reaction to light, we don’t know what’s happened to his mind.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jenrosa said and heard the doubt in her own voice. This time she had to

force a smile. “Anyway, what could go wrong when Ager and Gudon are with him?”

* * *

The wolf lunged at Korigan. She fended it off with a clumsily aimed blow from Gudon’s

sword. The beast twisted aside and lunged again. Korigan fell back, tripped over Gudon’s

body, and fell to the ground. The wolf tensed for a final assault, and Korigan knew she was

going to die.

The wolf leaped.

And suddenly was hurled aside. At first Korigan did not know what had happened.

There was a spray of dust and a wild melee, the wolf bending over itself to snap at

whatever it was that had grappled it. Then she recognized the Kendran prince. His small

white figure was attached to the wolf’s back. She gasped and stood up, ready to go to his

rescue, then realized with shock he needed no rescuing. Somehow he was bearing the wolf

down to the ground. She saw one of his arms curl under the wolf’s neck and pull up. There

was a sickening crack and the beast went limp, its tongue lolling from its great jaws.

A horse skidded to a halt and the crookback Ager was on the ground next to Lynan,

pulling him away from the animal, his spear ready to strike.

For a moment no one moved. Ager held his spear, Korigan her sword, and Lynan, not

even panting, stood over the dead wolf.

“How did you do that?” Korigan asked in amazement.

Lynan said nothing, but stared at his hands.

“Lynan?” Ager prompted. “That’s a grass wolf. It’s as strong as Kumul. How did you

break its neck?”

Lynan eased off the chin strap of his wide-brimmed Chett hat. His ivory-colored skin

shone with sweat. He squinted in the bright light and shook his head. “I don’t know.” He

met Ager’s anxious gaze, then Korigan’s mystified one. Then he saw Gudon.

“Oh, no,” he moaned, and knelt down next to his friend. Korigan and Ager joined him.

Ager felt the Chett’s thin throat, placed a hand gently on his chest.

“He will be fine,” Ager said, and Lynan sighed with relief. “Bring me some water.”

Lynan went to Ager’s mare and returned with a water bottle. Ager dampened a

kerchief and used it to pat Gudon’s forehead, then poured some of the water over his lips.

Gudon’s mouth moved, and Ager let him swallow some of the water.

“Oh, all the gods hate me,” Gudon muttered. He blinked and looked straight into

Ager’s face. “I am in hell.”

Ager grunted. “Not yet.”

“What happened?” he asked weakly as he tried to sit up. Ager placed an arm under his

shoulders. Gudon saw the wolf. “You did that?”

Ager shook his head, nodded to Lynan. “Our young prince did that.”

Gudon smiled at Lynan. “Your aim was sure.”

“He did it with his hands,” Ager said.

Gudon’s eyes widened. “Three of our strongest warriors could not have subdued that

creature.”

Lynan stood up uneasily. He did not know what to do with his hands. “What has

happened to me?”

No one could answer him.

Chapter 2

Orkid Gravespear, Chancellor of Grenda Lear, found his queen standing on the south

gallery of the palace. When he did not find Areava in her sitting room, he had known she

would be here. It struck him as ironic that, like her hated brother Lynan had once done,

she came to this place when she wanted to be alone. He paused at the wide double doors

that led to the gallery, his bearlike frame almost filling the space, and studied her for a

moment.

Areava was a tall, blonde-haired woman whose back was as straight as a stone wall.

She inherited her beauty from her mother, the late Queen Usharna, but her character

was a strange amalgam of her mother’s wisdom and her father’s selfish willfulness. He

had not yet hit upon a method to get his way with her as he had with Usharna.

The thought made him smile ruefully. It had occurred to him after Usharna’s death

that she had in fact hit upon a method of getting her way with him and making it seem it

was the other way around. But Areava was too direct for that and had not yet learned her

mother’s trick of subtle cajoling.

Areava was staring out over the royal city of Kendra, toward the harbor and Kestrel

Bay beyond. She held her tiara in her right hand, and her long hair sifted gently with a

cooling southerly breeze.

Orkid coughed politely into a hand and came to her side.

“I need some time alone, Chancellor,” she said without looking at him.

“We all need that, your Majesty, but you of all people can least afford it.”

He saw her grimace in irritation. “I hear my mother’s voice when you speak like that.”

“She was the wisest of women.”

“Not so wise, perhaps.”

“How so?”

“After my father died she married the General and begat Lynan.”

Orkid sighed deeply. He had suspected her current mood had more to do with Lynan

than with other affairs of state.

“You are being wise at her expense,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. That was unfair of me.” She faced him. “Strange, isn’t it, how we

always refer to Lynan’s father as ‘the General’? Why not ‘the Commoner’ or simply

‘Elynd Chisal’?”

“Because he was the greatest general Kendra has ever seen.”

“Was Usharna the greatest queen Kendra has ever seen?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then why do we not call her simply ‘the Queen’?”

“In time, we may. But you may surpass her, your Majesty. Future generations may

quibble about which of you should be called nothing but ‘the Queen.’”

“And the other nothing more than ‘the mother of the Queen’ or ‘the daughter of the

Queen’? I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t want to be greater than Usharna.”

“You should. If you do not strive to be the very best monarch Kendra has ever had,

you will not be doing your duty.”

Orkid watched with fascination as the red Rosetheme rage filled her cheeks. “How

dare you—!”

“Do I have your attention now?” he interrupted sharply, his thick beard adding to his

grim expression.

Areava’s mouth snapped shut. Her face was still flushed, but the corner of her lips

turned up in a smile she was finding hard to repress. “Is this how you treated my

mother?”

“No, your Majesty. She was my teacher in all things.”

Areava heard the genuine sadness in Orkid’s voice, and felt pity for him. “You are my

teacher, then?”

“No, Queen Areava. I am your chancellor. And we have work to do.”

She resumed looking out over the city. The trees that filled the gardens and parks of

Kendra’s richest citizens had turned red and gold, filling the city with splendid color. “I

cannot get Lynan out of my head. I had truly believed he was dead and gone forever, and

when that mercenary ...”

“Jes Prado,” Orkid said with some distaste.

“... Prado told me he was still alive, I felt like I had died instead.”

“I understand. I felt the same way. But we still have work to do.”

“I want to be rid of him, Orkid. I want my kingdom free of his influence, free of his

taint.”

“He is harmless, your Majesty. He is with the distant Chetts, a petty people living in a

wasteland without cities or armies.”

“No, you are wrong. While he is alive, Lynan can never be harmless. The idea of Lynan

is a canker and, like a canker, it will spread if not cut out. He is a mule born of a monarch

and a commoner. And he is a kingslayer.”

Orkid sighed deeply. “This is something you should discuss with your council. Indeed,

there are many pressing matters that you should discuss with your council.”

“And what will be their advice, do you think? The same as yours, mayhap?”

“Your Majesty, if I had that kind of influence with the council, I would not be an

Amanite. They will support you in all things, but can advise beyond my poor measure to

do so.”

“Oh, now you tease me,” she said disdainfully. “Mother depended on your advice as

heavily as I do. And you may be an Amanite, but most on the council look upon your

people with a kinder light now.”

“Because you are to marry one of us? Maybe.”

Areava frowned in concentration. “Perhaps you are right. I will call the council on this.”

“They will help you steer the right course, I am sure.” He turned to leave, having

achieved what he came for. He would tell Harnan Beresard, the queen’s private secretary,

to issue the summons for the council immediately. Areava needed hard work to drive her

out of the despondence brought on by Jes Prado’s news.

“Orkid,” Areava called after him.

He turned around. “Your Majesty?”

Areava licked her lips, seemed hesitant to speak.

“Is there something else?”

“My brother, Prince Olio. Have you noticed anything ... peculiar ... about him lately?”

“Peculiar?” Orkid looked down in thought. “He seems overly tired.”

“Nothing else?”

Orkid shook his head. Prince Olio? He had given the young man barely a thought since

Prado’s arrival at the palace. Had he missed something important? “Is something wrong

with his Highness?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is my imagination.”

“What exactly concerns you, Queen Areava? I will help if I can.”

“He is changing,” she said quickly, as if she did not really want to say the words.

“Changing?”

“He is not as, well, sweet as he once was.”

Orkid’s expression showed his surprise. “Sweet?”

“As gentle. He often seems sullen.”

“I am sorry, I have not noticed. I will make some enquiries, if you wish.”

Areava nodded. “Yes, but not so he knows.”

Orkid bowed and turned again to leave.

“And, Orkid, I may have agreed to call the council, but my mind will not be changed

about Lynan. I want him hunted down. I want him killed.”

Olio was in a long, dark room filled with a thousand cots, and in each cot was a child. He

looked at the first one, saw the rash of milk disease. The child’s eyes were half-opened,

the pupils so wide there was almost no white; her breath came in short pants, like a

stricken dog. Olio placed his right hand on the child’s head, and with the left tightly

grasped the Key of the Heart. He felt the gentle touch of a magicker on his shoulder and

power surged through the Key into his body and then into the body of the child. The rash

evaporated, her eyes closed, and her breath deepened as she fell into a healing sleep.

A hole appeared in Olio’s chest, narrow as the nib on a pen, but he could see right

through it. He heard a moan from the next cot. In it was a boy, tossing and turning,

scratching the boils that disfigured his arms and face. Olio placed his right hand on one of

the boils; again the power surged through him. The boils dissolved, the child sighed

deeply, and smiled up at him. Olio smiled back, then noticed the hole in his chest had

widened.

A cry of pain from the next cot. Olio saw another boy, his whole torso scarred by

burns, the flesh turned black and red.

Olio healed him. The hole in his chest widened to the size of a spear shaft.

And now the whole room filled with the sounds of suffering children. It battered

against him like a storm tide. “I’m coming,” he said. “Give me time.”

He went from cot to cot, healing each child, and the hole in his chest grew so large he

was cut in half by it, its entire circumference no longer visible. He was exhausted, but still

the children needed him.

On and on he went, curing the sick, all the while slowly being eaten away until, when

he finally reached the last cot, he saw his right hand glimmer, become translucent and

then disappear entirely.

He looked into the last cot. It was Lynan, small Lynan, his body white and swollen with

the sea, his eyes gnawed away, his lips nothing but torn shreds. “Brother, I will heal you,”

Olio said, and put out his hand. But there was no hand. Olio was nothing but air and light.

“Oh, no!” he cried. “Not now!”

Simon Brown - Keys of Power 02 - Fire and Sword

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