The Warrior Returns - Anteros 04 Read online

  I considered the many errors I'd made in only two attempts. I thought about Polillo and how she'd trained our green troops in the art of axe throwing.

  "What do I have to do to get your attention?" she'd snarl at an errant recruit. "Get your tit out of your ear and listen. See yon target?" The frightened recruit would nod. "How far is it?" The recruit's bobbing head would now swerve side to side.

  "Are you telling me you've been tossing that damned thing all day and you don't know how far you're throwing it?" There'd be a shamed nod of yes. "Well, step it off, then." The recruit would pace the distance then trot back to tell Polillo the result. 'Twenty paces, you say? Very good. Now, watch closely."

  Polillo would haul back, talking as she moved. "Think of your throwing arm as a bar of iron. Completely straight Don't bend your elbow. And for Te-Date's sake, do not—I repeat, do not bend your wrist. Now the leg. The one on the same side as your throwing arm. Think of it as the extension of your arm—that iron-bar arm.

  "Next, when you throw, take a step forward with your opposite foot. Not quite a full pace. Keep the whole side of your body stiff. Don't use just the strength of your arm and shoulder. Your throw will be as weak as a lad who tends the tavern piss pots. Use all the power of your body as you come forward... and let go... like this!"

  And she'd let the axe go. It would turn once in a long slow tumble, then thunk into the target dead on—burying its head so deep that only Polillo could draw it out.

  "You saw how many turns it made?" she'd ask. The recruit would nod, yes, and hold up a single finger.

  "That's right, once. So properly thrown, this particular axe will turn once in twenty paces. If it's forty, it'll turn twice. Ten, half a turn. Thirty, a turn and a half. Got it?" Much eager nodding would commence, for now that the recruit had learned the secret, she'd be anxious to test it. If she followed Polillo's direction, she'd rarely fail again.

  I remembered Polillo's barked instructions as I made my third try. How far? Ten paces. Half a turn, then. Iron-bar arm. Welded to the leg. No elbow bending. No wrist bending. Step forward with the opposite foot. Throw.

  The axe bit deeply into the hatch.

  An axe has never been my weapon of choice, and it should only be thrown as a last resort. But it can come in handy when pressed by large numbers, and there are few things that can tone you up faster than repeatedly hurling it, switching hands frequently to give all parts of the body a heavy working.

  My left hand, the false one, is very strong. So I have to be careful that the right gets full attention; although it can never be the equal, for not only is my sinister hand metal, but it's enchanted metal, formed from a substance I stole from Novari. I call it my ether hand.

  It can withstand intense heat and cold. It has a grip that can crush stone. More remarkably, with my mind I can command it to behave exactly as a living hand would behave, flexing the fingers, rotating the thumb—anything but cracking the knuckles.

  My etherhand is a wondrous thing indeed. But I missed its warm, weaker sister. She'd been a good hand to me, and ghostly nerves ached to have her back.

  I practiced until the misses were minimal. It took getting used to, because with only one eye it's sometimes difficult to judge distance accurately. This infirmity is lessened because the golden eyepatch I wear is made of the same material as my hand. With it I can see into the Otherworlds at will and with no spell-casting. I call it my ethereye.

  Next came sword practice.

  With my strength growing daily, I had to concentrate on being nimble. The sword has always been my favorite, and I do not boast when I say I've never met a man or woman who could best me with the blade. Naturally, such a person does exist somewhere. That is the nature of all human abilities. No matter how good you are, there's always someone who is your equal, or better. In my tavern-brawling youth I used to dream of meeting that person so I could really test my talent. Which only goes to prove that you don't have to be a man whose bravado is commanded by his balls to consider such folly.

  While I continued to grunt and strain with the physical, it was most important that I didn't forget my Otherworldly self. So I got out my wizard's chest and unpacked the scrolls and unguents and powders and other Evocator's devices.

  I conjured up small things first—a glass bead, a fiery scrap of parchment, a drop of perfume so powerful it filled the cabin with its odor, a large beetle with wings of green and black who made a song as sweet as a bird's as it flew around looking for a way out. Then I turned the beetle into a glittering-jeweled scarab necklace for Salimar that would make music and scent

  I came to the Evocator's craft late in my life and with much reluctance. Dire circumstances and a blind master wizard forced me to overcome that reluctance. I eventually realized my abilities were a gift from my mother. And that it is from her side of the family that some Anteros inherited the talent for sorcery. I'd used it to destroy the Archons of Lycanth and end that ancient threat to Orissa.

  Amalric was not magically blessed—or cursed, depending how you looked at it—but his presence seemed to act as a magnifier when he was in the company of the two Greycloaks, first Janos and then Janela. With Janos he found the Far Kingdoms, at that time the greatest feat in our people's history. With Janela he'd topped even that accomplishment by traveling to the Kingdoms of the Night and joining with the Old Ones to defeat the demon king, Ba'land, who'd plunged humankind into a thousand years of darkness and ignorance. As a parting gift to all, he helped Janela Greycloak discover the principle that unifies all physical forces with the magical.

  He'd made his final, most difficult expedition as an old man. The dangers he'd faced awakened me enough to see his troubles in a vision. It was the only time in my fifty years of blissful sleep that I'd been so disturbed. At first I'd seen no means to help him. Then I'd cast a spell that made Amalric grow younger as he traveled until he had the strength and stamina of a man in his prime. My brother never realized I was the cause of this, but he questioned the effect so little that I sometimes wonder if deep inside he knew.

  I'd thought when he'd found his peace and I had returned to mine that all would be the best it could be in the world we'd both abandoned. What should have commenced was an age of great challenge and enlightenment

  As I trained myself to face whatever task lay ahead, I hammered my skull for some hint of what could have gone wrong.

  Then I remembered Amalric's parting words. As he'd written them in his journal, his thoughts had been so powerful that they'd echoed across the vast distances separating us. I'd heard them in my ice chamber as clear as if he'd been sitting next to me speaking aloud:

  "... I have made a pact with King Solaris. All the knowledge Janela gained will be shared with Orissa. A company of wizards will depart soon and I beg you to make them welcome in Orissa. They bring truth that two Greycloaks stole from the gods. If that truth is freely and generously bestowed to all, then we will at last be free of our masters who so jealously guarded it. There will be nothing you will fear to dare. But if it is kept locked away in a miser's treasure house, there will come the fated day when all will curse the ones who slew Ba 'land, and call his lashes a father's stern kindness."

  My brother's warning had been quite clear. But had it been ignored? Was this the source of the troubles now threatening Orissa? Was this why my sisters of the Guard were in grave peril? The reason all the Anteros had been slain save my little niece Emilie?

  Maranonia hadn't said. I felt my ire stir anew when I thought of the goddess. Why couldn't she have been plain? Why had she kept all a mystery, other than telling me my task in the vaguest of terms?

  I polished my casting bones with angry vigor. The gods are such a maddening lot, I thought. They sit in their heavenly palaces, posing and deposing, judging this, punishing that, bidding and forbidding all the live long day. And it's up to us poor mortals to dash about trying to make sense of it all.

  Well, she'd been plain about three things at least:

  I had one y
ear to set things straight.

  Failure would result in a great disaster.

  And the Lyre Bird was behind it all.

  Novari—the beautiful and powerful succubus who'd nearly destroyed me once. I'd lost an eye and a hand in that war.

  If Novari was my foe, I'd need more wits and tricks than even the last Archon of Lycanth had required.

  I went back to my self-training, doubling all my efforts. The key to Novari, I thought, must lie in all the events that led to our first meeting.

  I cast my mind back ...

  Remembering.

  THERE ARE FEW alive who knew my brother. He's a man remembered mostly in books. Some of the treasures from his travels are displayed in our museums, and his likeness can be seen in portraits, busts, and statues that gather bird droppings in the parks. He has no tomb—no grand sepulchre—to mark an Orissan of such renown, for his ashes had been mixed with Janela Greycloak's and, following the wishes of both, sprinkled on the waters of the river he loved that flows past our city to the sea.

  I doubt his name is spoken much by the average man or woman, many of whom are the children and the grandchildren of the slaves he set free. Oh, you'll hear it now and then in phrases that've fallen into the language. "Lucky as Amalric Antero," is one. And if you say, "You have my Amalric on that," it means a gilt-edged assurance or IOU. Most people probably don't even know the origin of such sayings. One of my favorite sarcasms is, "Thinks he knows more'n Amalric Antero." My brother would've seen double irony in that phrase. Amalric, more than any I've known, enjoyed irony.

  He'd put his eyes on more places and things than any other. He'd faced and overcome the greatest of obstacles and dangers. He'd experienced much sadness in his life, including betrayal by his greatest friend and, late in his years, by

  his only living child. But he'd also known love and known it deeply.

  Amalric used to say that Janos Greycloak was the wisest man he'd ever met because the learned Greycloak knew how ignorant he really was. This was doubly true of my brother, who in the end knew more than even Janos.

  So I'm sister to a legend. Amalric Antero, the greatest adventurer and discoverer, merchant prince—and some say even scholar—in our history.

  To me he'll always be the boy with fiery hair and skin so fair it showed his every emotion. He was a mischief as a child, a wastrel as a youth, and I think the kindest person I ever met.

  As a boy he'd do small favors for scullery servants and young lords alike, but in such a way that the other person would never know a favor had been done and chalk it up to good fortune. When he grew older, overcoming all the temptations of wealthy sloth, he ventured all for friendship. He was betrayed by Janos Greycloak in an act so sinister that in my view Janos' name should be a curse to describe traitorous friendships. Yet my brother was Greycloak's greatest defender. He strove his whole later life to understand Janos' action, and in the end forgave him, concluding that the good outweighed the evil.

  Despite the several years that separated us, Amalric and I were the closest of friends and confidants. As a child he thought of me as a hero, and I must say when I was a raw recruit it made me feel good to see the pride shine in his young eyes. I'd be on leave after weeks of drill sergeants blistering my ears with curses at my clumsiness, and he'd come shyly to my rooms to beg me to show him a new sword trick.

  He never thought it strange that his sister was a soldier. He found my taste for women rather than men the natural order of things. In fact he used it to his advantage during his wild seed-scattering youth by questioning me closely about the ways of women, figuring I'd be doubly wise in those matters.

  He understood instinctively that women in Orissa had only four roles they were allowed: daughter, mother, wife, or whore. A few, like myself, were permitted a fifth role as a member of the all-woman Maranon Guard that had defended the city for many generations, forswearing men for the honor. For most of us that was no sacrifice at all.

  In later years Amalric opened a sixth door to me. When I'd returned from my adventures in the Western Sea, I realized my profession as a soldier had to end. I'd seen too much flowing blood and been the cause of much of it. Besides, along with my newly discovered abilities as a wizard came the wanderlust that is the curse of the Antero family. Familiar horizons quickly bored me. I yearned for the scented mysteries of fresh winds on virgin seas, the cast of the sun setting on distant mountains no man or woman had crossed before.

  Amalric won me an appointment as the first woman Evocator to lead an expedition. It wasn't the favor that impressed me so much as that he'd thought of it at all. I hadn't known myself what I'd wanted ... what it was that troubled me. As an aside, I'll note it's no credit to the all-male leadership of Orissa that I'm still the only woman who has ever held that post.

  What I remember most about Amalric is his smile. By the gods, my brother had a smile! It was so broad and white in that beardless face of his, his features flushing nearly as red as his hair at the pleasure of seeing me.

  The last time I saw that smile was fifty years ago.

  I SAILED INTO Orissa with four ships loaded to the rails with rich cargo. I had every reason to be pleased with myself. The trading expedition had been my most successful yet. I now had four such voyages under my belt, three as fleet Evocator and this last as chief trader, as well.

  This meant not only had I been in charge of the sorcery used to protect our sailors and ships and goods, but I'd been in command of all things dealing with commerce. Naturally, as is the custom of Orissan merchant expeditions, sailing and soldiery were dealt with by the captains and fighting masters. Since the sole purpose of such voyages is profit, however, my word held sway in almost all circumstances. It goes without saying that as an Antero sailing with a fleet flying our family flag, my word had been taken very seriously indeed. I'd also had a lucky streak, and my holds were swelling with all sorts of rare goods—colorful carpets and healing herbs, perfumes and raw gems, precious metals and great bundles of buttery leather, and wondrous furs.

  All this was to my credit, and I knew Amalric would be pleased that everyone in Orissa could see how correct he'd been to break all precedent to win me this berth. The point would be doubly hammered home because I was returning during the festival that ends the Harvest Month. Wine, sin, high spirits, and money would be flowing freely as the whole city celebrated. As any merchant will tell you, this is an excellent climate to set profit records, which would add even more to my prestige.

  But my emotional barometer, as they say, was set more to storm than fair when we sailed up to the docks. I traded my Evocator's robes for a nondescript costume and slipped away as soon as we were tied up near the Antero warehouses, leaving the business of unloading and port inspections to Carale, captain of our tiny fleet

  It was a warm, sunny afternoon and the streets and taverns were already thronging with celebrants. I cut through Cheapside and the great Central Market

  Drunken farmers reeled down the avenue flush with liquor and coin, ripe for a plucking by the Cheapside's denizens, who regularly harvested a different kind of crop this time of year.

  The atmosphere was a heady brew of incense, sacrificial smoke, roasted meats and nuts, and the musk of women wearing masks and little else, who beckoned from dark alleys where curtained carriages awaited. I saw dinksmen playing "find the pea" with greedy-eyed farmers. Shills cried out from gaming taverns, extolling the fortunes waiting to be made tossing dice, or playing Evocators and Demons with cards they guaranteed were the most honest in Orissa. Pickpockets worked the crowds, bumping into people or engaging them in conversation while their mates felt for their purses.

  There was music everywhere, and I was hard-pressed to push through the crowds who'd gathered to see troupes of entertainers juggle and vault and balance on ropes strung high across the streets. Small boys threw smoke bombs at the unwary; little girls with solemn faces plucked at their fathers' sleeves, begging to be hoisted up so they could see. Brawny lads flexed their muscles
for giggling maids in bright dresses and hair decked with strings of flowers and bells and beads.

  The main avenue was roped off for that night's parade, when all would be treated to fireworks and magical displays, culminating in a grand costume parade.

  I paid too much money to rent a spavined horse and set off for my brother's villa, about an hour's journey from Orissa. It came up lame about halfway there and I had to lead it along the dusty road. We made a sorry sight; the horse limping, me sweating under the midday sun and rolling back and forth on legs made unsteady by months at sea.

  As I approached the long low walls of his sprawling estate I could hear Omerye piping a sweet tune, and I felt the weariness fall away. The breeze seemed cooler and the air had the scent of blossoming vines and fruited trees.

  Omerye must have sensed my presence, for the tune shifted to a sailor's welcome home, and my heart stirred and my arms tingled to embrace my family. Amalric himself greeted me at the door and his pleasure was so great at seeing me that for a time I nearly forgot the main reason I'd hastened to him.

  After I'd washed away the grime of the journey and donned a clean robe borrowed from Omerye, my brother and his wife led me to the garden and my mother's shrine.

  The flowering plants and trees had been one of my mother's greatest joys, and after she'd died, first my father and then Amalric had spent much effort to keep all the way she'd have preferred. Instead of the perfection you see at most grand homes, there was a pleasant untidiness about the garden, making it feel more like a natural glade. The paths were neat, the beds clean, but plants and trees were allowed to sprawl and some things were permitted to grow amongst others to purposefully mar the symmetry.

  I was the one responsible for my mother's shrine, a simple stone edifice set under a small rose tree. A spell coaxed a trickle of water down the face of the stone, misting a fragrant moss.

  Amalric knew how much I loved this spot, so he had the servants set up a picnic near the shrine. Bees fat with rose pollen and honey buzzed lazily about, and a wasp—drunk from fermenting grapes on a nearby arbor—bumped against the stone, confused that it didn't part before him.