Available for the iPad

by

Robert E. Vardeman & Geo. W. Proctor

Death, eyes ablaze like burning rubies set amid the black void of nothingness, riveted Neith Rigmar with its gaze. The Bistonian bargemaster's pulse tripled in a runaway pace. A cold sweat trickled down the river man's body in spite of the cool afternoon spring breeze.

To be certain, this was not the Death whom Raemllyn's denizens deified and gave the name Black Qar, but it was death just the same.. In a coarse-woven, black, cowled robe, this death came riding astride a glistening, ebon battle stallion, with flaming hooves and fire streaming from its quivering nostrils.

A Faceless One! Neither giving a name to the demonic apparition nor the twenty feet of muddy water separating Neith's craft from the hellrider on the bank of the River Stane quelled the bargemaster's terror. When he had accepted the pouch of golden bists from High King Zarek Yannis' emissary in payment for the betrayal of the two passengers aboard his River Runner, he had not bargained to commerce with hell creatures—with the legendary death horde from the shadowy dawn of Raemllyn's history!

May Jajhana visit the usurper Yannis with a plague of misfortune for this! Neith silently invoked the Goddess of Chance and Fortune to deliver the ill will that he, a mere mortal, could never hope to repay the would-be ruler of Upper and Lower Raemllyn for binding him to such hellish beings.

"A half league ahead, Neith Rigmar."

A cold, flat voice that betrayed no hint of human tone or emotion called to the bargemaster. Neith was uncertain whether those words were born in the center of his mind or carried on the breeze from the Faceless One's unseen lips to his ears.

"I will await your boat half a league upstream where the river turns sharply eastward."

Unable to drag his gaze from the demon rider, Neith watched the Faceless One lift a skeletal talon and point one yellowed, bony finger northward. In the batting of an eye, a long, broad tail flicked from beneath the hem of the hellrider's black cloak. Silver scales flashed as that unearthly appendage writhed. Then the mounted demon and its unholy steed were gone.

Neith Rigmar blinked as an icy finger of fear ran up his spine, then worked its way back down. Had the Faceless One vanished into the air, or merely hidden behind a copse of morda trees that grew near the Stane's bank? The bargemaster shook his head; when mortal man dealt with supernatural beings tom from another realm of existence, one could never be certain.

A half league more. Neith glanced at the team of six oxen, and their driver, who pulled his barge up river. A half league more and I can wash my hands of these damnable matters!

A smile touched the comers of the man's thin lips at the thought of the gold-laden pouch safely hidden within his quarters on the barge's stem. Remembering Zarek Yannis' generosity, he added a postscript to his thoughts: at a handsome profit.

* * *

Lijena Farleigh rose from a pallet of sleeping furs within the tent raised on the barge's deck. Listlessly, she stretched and yawned, her aquamarine eyes shifting to a second mound of furs piled across the tent. There Count luBonfil sat cross-legged, busying himself with quill and scroll.

"How long since I drifted off?" Lijena asked, edging aside a stray strand of frosty blonde hair that tumbled across her forehead.

"Slept, Lijena," luBonfil corrected with a thin, dark eyebrow arched in reprimand. "You did not drift, but were soundly asleep. You spend far too much time in sleep, my lady. It's as though you seek to lose yourself in dreams."

"What else is there to do aboard this damnably slow barge?" Irritation crept into Lijena's voice.

Count luBonfil was right. Since leaving Bistonia two weeks past, a rootless lethargy had cloaked her mind and body, leaving her like one lost in the narcotic daze brought by inhaling the fumes of smoldering calokin buds.

Rootless? A wry, bitter smile twisted the young woman's lips. She lied to herself, and luBonfil was correct once more. She slept to escape the agony of the memories haunting her mind. Only there was no surcease. Even in her dreams, Chal's fair face beamed that smile her eyes would never again behold.

"Will you accompany me in a walk around the barge?" Lijena asked her traveling companion as she reached for the sheathed sword lying beside her pallet. "Oh!"

Her fingers jerked back the instant they brushed the weapon's hilt. A preternatural heat coursed through the blade. "What?" Count IuBonfil's head straightened. His eyes went round when he saw the source of his weaponswoman's distress. "The sword's fire is returned?"

Lijena nodded as she firmly grasped the magic-forged Sword of Kwerin Bloodhawk in both hands and lifted it by hilt and scabbard. "It pulses with heat!"

"Wait here!" The count tossed scroll and writing utensils aside, pushed from his piled furs, and darted from the tent ere Lijena could strap the ancient blade about her slender waist.

"Nothing," luBonfil said with a perplexed shake of his head when the blonde-tressed woman opened the tent's flaps. "I like this not. Give me a moment with our bargemaster. Perhaps he can provide a hint to the mysterious forces that stir the Bloodhawk's sword."

While Count luBonfil strode toward Neith Rigmar, who stood near the barge's prow, Lijena turned and walked to a rail on the craft's port side.

"Master Neith!" called Count luBonfil. "Are we nearing our evening's port?"

"Nay, Lord, not for another hour. Maybe more. The oxen're tiring quicker'n I ever seen. The bags of bones! Heavy spring runoff makes the river run fast and deep, dragging us backward. Harder for them to pull. Slippery mud on yon bank path adds to the beasts' burden."

"And all remains quiet?" luBonfil eyed the burly master of the river craft.

Neith Rigmar, the Bistonian bargemaster, spat thick and black into the River Stane and watched the swift currents seize the gobbet and absorb it into the muddy murk of the river. "The Stane is an old river, my lord. Except for drought or flooding, little changes it. Quiet is another name for the Stane."

Neith turned slightly and, out of the corner of his eye, caught sight of the lovely blonde wench dressed in gray doeskin. The sheathed, old longsword dangled from the shapely flare of her hip as it had for the whole journey.

The bargemaster's attention returned to the ferret-faced lord clothed in fine, embroidered silks. "All is quiet on the River Stane, my lord."

Neith spat again, his full contempt for this blue-blooded peacock in the gesture.

A needle of doubt pricked the bargemaster's scorn. Was Count luBonfil's suspicion aroused? Should he give a more detailed explanation for their slow progress upriver?

No, probably not, Neith decided. This fancy-dressed dandy gave no indication that he knew spit about river travel. Count luBonfil's arse looked like it'd be more at home in a fancy, gilded carriage drawn by white, prancing horses with jewel-studded harnesses. Neith's chapped lips pulled back in a smile that rapidly turned to a sneer, revealing black, mylo-weed stained teeth.

For the Count, Neith had nothing but contempt. For the woman he had nothing but lust. Yet he knew better than to kill the Count outright and have his way with the wench, especially when Zarek Yannis' minister had promised additional rewards when these two were delivered.

But the wench! Even the man's clothing she wore could not disguise her trim figure, the upthrust of high, firm breasts, and the womanly flared hips. Aye, a temptation in that beauty! By the gods, I bet she would scratch and claw like a she-devil! Might be worth defying High King Zarek's dictum.

The grizzled sailor rejected the idea as quickly as it was born in his mind. He knew well the whispered rumors about Zarek Yannis' Hall of Screams and the punishments meted out to those who disobeyed the usurper's orders. Neith doubted none of those grisly tales of torture. Nor did he deny the reality of the Faceless Ones.

The hellriders had returned to Raemllyn after ten thousand generations, summoned by the High King to enforce his rule across the face of the world. Twice a day since leaving Bistonia's docks, the demonic riders and their hellish mounts had appeared on the Stane's bank to remind the bargemaster of the powers Zarek Yannis wielded.

'Tis no time to think with my gonads! Neith decided as he watched luBonfil scan the river's bank, then turn to rejoin the enticing blonde.

Neith would remain loyal to the Velvet Throne. It mattered naught if Zarek Yannis had deposed and killed Bedrich the Fair, that many called Yannis a usurper and believed Prince Felrad the rightful heir and high king. The bargemaster simply plied his trade on the River Stane, made a decent wage and tried to ignore all the political intrigues emanating from Kavindra.

Go north, Yannis' emissary had said. Keep those who watched apprised of the count's movements. Do not let the two leave your vessel.

Neith decided that the count and his concubine—for what else could so lovely a wench be?—were criminals fleeing and, at some time to be determined by Zarek Yannis, they would be arrested. Neith saw his duty. He took the gold offered for his services just as he had accepted the count's money for safe passage to the headwaters of the Stane.

Neith spat out the last of his mylo weed and looked back at the oxen pulling the barge upriver. Occasionally, he shouted at the teamster to hasten the sluggish beasts, but mostly Neith watched for the Faceless One.

* * *

Count luBonfil leaned indolently against the barge's rail beside Lijena. He opened a multicolored cloth pouch strung from his jeweled belt, dipped his fingers inside, and popped a candied fruit into his thin-lipped mouth.

The man's words vibrated with an energy and urgency that belied his pampered pose. "The bargemaster hides something! I feel it. We must prepare for the worst."

"How can you be so certain?" Lijena Farleigh glanced over a shoulder and stared at Neith's broad back. "Old Pen said the man was reliable."

"Pen," spat luBonfil. "I do not trust that one. Even if he once served as a captain in Bedrich's guard, I do not trust him. Is he loyal to Prince Felrad? Who can say? Trust me, Lady. This bargemaster schemes!"

Lijena tossed her head and let the gentle breeze from upriver catch the shoulder-length, lustrous, frosty blonde hair and pull it away from her face. She tired of the intrigue, of the constant suspicion of even devoted companions.

A tear came to her aquamarine eyes, and she unashamedly let it spill down her cheek without brushing it away. Chal! How she longed for his gentleness, his truth, his love.

No more would she rejoice in the Elyshah's touch, both physical and emotional. How her heart and soul ached from the emptiness left by Chal's death! The gentle poet-minstrel had given his life to save her from the dark mage Aerisan and his unholy summoning of the Death God's life-consuming aspects.

Black Qar had feasted on countless souls while Aerisan's magicks had held the city-state of Bistonia in their grip. Armed with the mystical Sword of Kwerin Bloodhawk, Raernllyn's fast high king, Lijena had defeated Zarek Yannis' murderous wizard and her old enemy Jun, emperor of Bistonia's thieves, but not before her beloved Chal offered his life to the Dark God in her stead.

The morning she had walked from Aerisan's black tower with the magician's blood running from her sword, Bistonia's citizens had hailed her as their savior and placed the city-state's crown in her hands. Lijena had refused to rule her home city, appointing the old soldier Pen to serve as a regent until Bistonia's exiled lord returned to his throne.

"We might be able to take the skiff and drift back downstream." LuBonfil's words intruded upon Lijena's silent grief. "But I fear that any who might follow would see us—or Neith would alert them."

"Pen assured us Neith Rigmar was an honorable man." Lijena cast another glance at the bargemaster.

The sailor's dark eyes met her gaze, then nervously darted back to the river's bank. A shiver ran down the young woman's spine. She let luBonfil and his constant worrying sway her.

"And what of the sword's fire?" LuBonfil arched an eyebrow. "You admit Kwerin's blade can sense the presence of spells."

Lijena's fingers drifted to the sword forged in antiquity. The blade was no ordinary weapon of tempered steel and fine balance. Lijena carried the Sword of Kwerin Bloodhawk. Once before, when the Faceless Ones had blighted the lands of RaemIlyn, Kwerin Bloodhawk's master mage, Edan, had fashioned this sword so that a mortal might stand against the accursed demons.

Twice Lijena had faced and defeated the Faceless Ones that Zarek Yannis had sent against her. Without the sword, its sheath, and the magicks forged within both, she would now be dead. A single hellrider easily equaled a hundred—more!—human fighters!

"Many spells are woven across the lands," Lijena finally answered the count. "The Bloodhawk's sword merely reacts to errant magicks."

LuBonfil snorted and shook his head. In truth, the answer did not satisfy Lijena either, but there was no other explanation for the tingling warmth that suddenly awoke within the sword. Neither she nor the count had seen any evidence of mages, magicks, or demons since leaving Bistonia. Nor did she yet fully grasp the source from whence flowed the powers within Kwerin's blade. Perhaps the sword did react to errant spells; she simply didn't know.

Lijena took a deep breath and slowly released it. The stench of the river had long since numbed her nostrils to its odors, and the gentle lapping of waves against the barge hull faded into the background. Her quick eyes fixed on the teamster who clucked to the oxen on shore. The man jerked and twitched at every small sound. His nervousness struck her as strange, as did the way Neith stared at the land rather than studied the river for potential snags and sandbars.

Mayhap Count luBonfil's eyes see more than mine.

If they were being watched, why hadn't Zarek Yannis' troops struck the instant they had been drawn out of sight of Bistonia's lofty spires? Why play a game of seek-and-hide?

Nor did she doubt that the usurper sought her. Of all the men and women in Raemllyn's far realms, only she possessed the key to toppling Zarek Yannis from the Velvet Throne in Kavindra. That key was the legendary sword she wore—a blade she would soon deliver into the hands of Prince Felrad, rightful heir to the crown.

A mirthless smile touched Lijena's lips. The befuddling fog that clouded her thoughts cleared. The usurper sought Prince Felrad throughout all Upper Raemllyn. The prince's movements had become bolder and his victories more impressive until the Faceless turned the tide of battle against him. Lijena touched the Sword of Kwerin again.

The sword, in Prince Felrad's hand, would do more than turn the tide in the rightful heir's favor. It would vanquish Zarek Yannis once and for all time. His most potent weapon, the Faceless Ones, would fall under the sword's magical edges.

If Count luBonfil was correct and Yannis' henchmen followed them, they did so to retrieve the fabled sword.

But they wanted more. They wanted Prince Felrad himself! In one treacherous act they might capture the only weapon capable of dethroning Zarek Yannis, and slay Felrad.

Yannis' minions wanted it all!

Do they believe Count luBonfil and me stupid enough to blindly lead them to the prince? She snorted in disgust at such a naive scheme.

Not even luBonfil knew Prince Felrad's whereabouts. Rumors had been rife in Bistonia that the prince fortified the. city of Rakell on the Isle of Loieter, but that did not mean the prince himself supervised the building. Felrad might be anywhere in Raemllyn. Hadn't she heard that Prince Felrad had climbed the Tower of Lost Mornings in Kavindra and shouted his challenge to the usurper? Zarek Yannis could not allow such a formal and humiliating challenge to go unheeded.

Zarek Yannis wanted Prince Felrad, and his minions no doubt thought that she would lead them directly to him. Lijena laughed harshly. The trap would have to be cleverer than that to ensnare her!

"What amuses you, Lady?" came luBonfil's soft question.

She studied the royal-born lord while he tossed another candied fruit into his mouth. His exaggerated courtly manners, his stylish dress, and his precise speech all seemed so decadent, so weak and vulnerable. The count's outward appearance was deceptive, a master performance by a master actor carefully designed to befuddle his enemies into underestimating his true abilities.

Lijena had seen luBonfil with sword in hand during the rebellion against Jun in Bistonia. The man was no fop. He was a trained leader with a core of tempered steel and nerves to match. Prince Felrad had chosen wisely in naming luBonfil an emissary.

A bellow from an ox on shore and a startled yelp from the animal's driver jerked Lijena's head around. Her heart leaped to lodge in the sudden dryness of her throat.

Brush and bramble set ablaze by flaming hooves, a black stallion burst from the underbrush lining the river's bank. With fire and greasy black smoke snorting from its flared nostrils, the demonic horse reared, forehooves pawing the air.

Astride the beast's back sat one of Zarek Yannis' hellish servants—a Faceless One. The demon-spawn stretched an arm toward the barge, and its burning, coal-like eyes focused on the daughter of Bistonia. A voice like the spitting hiss of a thousand serpents resounded, "Lijena Farleigh, I have come for you!"

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