The Lost Ones (4)
Drink, and you grow drunk. Wake, and you suffer for it.
That was how the Helmet Knight described honor and pride. Najin heard him out in silence.
"…"
Lips pressed shut, Najin studied the man. The eyes behind the helm were hidden. Najin had always read people by their gaze, by the weight of a look and the weather of a mood—but against this knight, that gift was useless.
So he would have to try another way.
"Are you saying honor and pride are worthless, then?"
"No. Never said that. I told you—it's strong liquor. And liquor is essential to living."
"Sir?"
"How's a man supposed to live without a drink? Nothing drier than a life without it. Every so often you take a swallow, let yourself get a little drunk—that's what makes life halfway bearable."
The Helmet Knight played it light, almost roguish.
"But you can't stay drunk forever. Sooner or later you have to sober up, and when you do, you pay for every drop you took."
And what do you pay that price with?
Those who live on the Continent say: with my life. But the Outer Land asks them again—
Is that all?
"The deeper you drink, the worse the hangover. I don't know how you lived on the Continent, but thin out the liquor in your blood. Otherwise life out here is going to grind you down."
With a scarred hand he pointed toward the Forgotten Ones wandering the Outer Land—corpses that had died still clutching their weapons, locked in endless struggle.
"They were knights once, too. They simply couldn't be knights forever."
A death without honor. A death without pride.
That, the Helmet Knight said, was the end that waited for those who had lived drunk on both.
The Forgotten Ones.
Those who had been forgotten.
Najin looked at them. Some still had spear shafts driven through their bodies, and the banners hanging from those shafts snapped and streamed in the wind.
Knightly orders. The Empire. Houses and bloodlines.
Bearing every kind of standard, the Forgotten Ones drifted across the Outer Land as if those flags were the only honor still permitted them.
2.
Najin followed the Helmet Knight a long way before they came to a place crowded with massive stones. The shapes were not natural. These were not rocks that had risen from the earth or been worn down by weather; they looked as if they had been hurled from somewhere far away and driven into the ground. Among those great stones the Helmet Knight stopped, picked up a rock of a suitable size from the scatter on the ground, and sat on it.
"You sit too."
He glanced around, gathered up what passed for firewood, stacked it, and lit a fire. The catch—if it was a catch—was that the "firewood" was severed human arms. The flames caught readily enough.
Crack. Crackle…
Watching the fire burn, the Helmet Knight spoke.
"You said you came from the Empire."
"Yes."
"How much history do you know?"
"Enough."
"Lucky for us. Then do you know the Dawn War?"
Najin nodded.
He did. It was a war he had learned about while digging into Yuel Razian—the first place she had ever been sighted was the Dawn War itself.
"The war that broke out when one of the Empire's Pillars raised a rebellion. Yes, I know it."
"How long since that war?"
"A hundred and fifty years."
"A hundred and fifty."
The Helmet Knight murmured it to himself.
"Quite a while. And after that—what became of the Empire?"
"The Empire won. Sir Gerd, who led the Royal Guard at the time, executed the ringleaders of the revolt and carried the victory."
"Gerd? That bastard?"
The Helmet Knight sounded genuinely startled.
"Well, I'll be damned. He was never that good a fighter. What happened to him after?"
"In recognition of that service, Sir Gerd became one of the Empire's Pillars. He started at the lowest seat, but now they call him the Empire's First Pillar."
The Helmet Knight fell silent for a moment. The silence did not last. Then he rattled his helm and burst out laughing.
"I didn't mishear that, did I? Gerd—that bastard—became the Empire's First Pillar? The first of the pillars? Then he must be a Sword Master by now. Stars and all."
"He is."
"How many stars does the bastard have?"
"Seven."
"Ha! Seven? I'll be damned."
"Do you know Sir Gerd?"
"Oh, I know him. He won't remember me, though."
The Helmet Knight chuckled low in his throat.
After that he kept asking Najin about the world outside—mostly the state of the Empire. Is the Empire at peace? Who sits the throne now? Questions like that.
"Hearing news from outside after so long is a pleasure. I've asked too many. Fair's fair—I'll take some. Anything you want to know? Anything except about me, and I'll answer."
"What are the Crows?"
"Ah. Those."
Graf had called Najin's attackers Crows, and so had the Helmet Knight in front of him. Najin wanted to know what that meant. Merlin had only grimaced and said, I think I know what they are, but the terminology's shifted since my day…
"Hunters. The ones who hunt newcomers the moment they set foot on this land. Also the ones who pick over whatever scraps someone else already killed."
"Hunt?"
"That's right. Nothing easier than a hunt."
The Helmet Knight watched the campfire as he spoke.
"This damned ground they call the Outer Land never stops wearing a man down. Erosion. Push it far enough and you turn into one of the Forgotten. If you don't want that ugly end, you have to fight it—and there aren't many ways."
He held up two fingers.
"Either you pile up great deeds, take stars, and keep proving yourself without end…"
He folded one finger down.
"Or," he said, with a sneer, "you hunt someone else's stars. Of course, if you could bring down the constellations in that night sky you'd get the deeds and the stars both—two birds with one stone—but when is that ever easy? Facing a transcendent is exhausting work. Hard work."
"So…"
"Exactly."
The Helmet Knight stretched out a hand and pointed at Najin.
"You hunt newcomers like you."
"…"
"Devour the starlight nested in a heart and you can slow the Erosion a little. Keep yourself from becoming one of the Forgotten. Out here, the ones who hunt newcomers and the weak for their stars are called Crows."
So that was why. Crows.
Filthy beasts that lived by picking at corpses.
"Stupid bastards."
The Helmet Knight's voice dropped.
"They're weak, so they pack up. Move in groups. And that is the stupidest thing they could do. Even swallowing a newcomer's star whole wouldn't be enough—and instead they have to split it. Before a hunt the Crows go on and on about contribution shares and dividing the starlight and all the rest of it…"
He let out a contemptuous breath.
"Who keeps a promise like that? These are men who've already lost pride and honor. Men who've sold everything they are just to live through today. They're not going to honor an agreement."
When the hunt ends, the Crows fracture.
The starlight was already thin to begin with; divide it and divide it again and it wouldn't even reach the liver. Muttering that, the Helmet Knight went on.
"Not a soul among them you can trust. Nothing but bastards waiting for a chance to crack you over the back of the head and run. The ones who travel in packs are fakes. They don't deserve to be called hunters—so they get the insult instead. Crows."
"Then what are the real ones?"
"The real ones? What do you think real hunters are. The ones who hunt alone."
The Helmet Knight laughed.
"They lure the prey away from the Crows, pretending to help. Every excuse in the book—kindness, goodwill—until the prey lets its guard down. They wait for the moment they've shaken off the nuisance Crows and are left alone with the quarry."
The laugh struck the inside of the helm and came out heavy.
"And after that—well. I don't have to spell it out, do I?"
He lifted his head.
Firelight swam across the helm as it regarded Najin without moving. The eyes behind it could not be read. Whatever expression he wore in there was impossible to know.
Only the voice. The temperature of that voice could be felt.
It was cold. Najin thought the unseen eyes would hold much the same chill as the voice.
"Kindness, goodwill—whatever works. They use everything they have to draw the prey in, and the instant it drops its guard, they bite. They take the whole kill for themselves. That's how real hunters do it."
"I see."
"I'm turning it over right now, as it happens. Whether to tear out your heart—or offer you one more kindness."
"So it seems."
The Helmet Knight spoke flatly, and Najin answered just as flatly. Faced with a man meeting him in the same register, the Helmet Knight's gaze dropped a fraction lower.
"Did you miss the point? I was saying I'm deciding whether or not to kill you."
"I understood."
"You look awfully calm for a man who did."
"I was thinking it was a remarkably courteous declaration of war."
"What?"
Najin shrugged.
"You're standing there telling me to my face, I'm thinking of killing you—how do you feel about that? What kind of hunter runs a hunt that sloppy?"
"Could be proof of confidence. That I can kill you even if I give you room."
"Maybe so. But—"
Najin rose slowly to his feet.
"There's another way to put it, isn't there?"
"Another way?"
"You tell your opponent you mean to attack them. You say it, and still you don't strike first—you give them time. You wait until they run, or ready themselves, or choose whatever they choose."
Doesn't that sound like a familiar procedure?
Saying so, Najin slid his fingers into the gap between wrist and glove. Then he pulled—slowly, deliberately—and stripped the glove free into his hand.
"All that's left is to throw the glove and exchange names."
Najin cast the glove to the ground.
Well-tanned leather. A gift from Argo, knight of Atanga. Just as the man had boasted, when the glove struck the earth it rang out with a bright, sharp crack.
"Squire to Ivan, knight of Atanga. Najin."
Najin set his hand on his sword hilt.
"I accept the challenge to a duel."
Then he tipped his mouth into a crooked grin aimed at the Helmet Knight. The smile was contagious. The moment the Helmet Knight understood what the gesture meant, he broke into laughter.
You called this a hunt?
I'll call it a duel.
Whether you take it or leave it is your choice.
Hunter and prey. Assailant and victim. Najin shattered that frame by throwing down the glove and speaking his name—not a hierarchy, but an equal footing. At that, the Helmet Knight rattled his helm with laughter.
"You're out of your mind. You're taking this as a duel?"
"Helmet Knight."
Najin said it carefully. Not merely a man in a helm—a Helmet Knight. That was how he named the man before him.
"You said honor and pride were liquor, didn't you?"
"I did."
"Then have a drink. I'll at least be a drinking partner."
A beat of silence. Then laughter.
The Helmet Knight laughed out loud and answered.
"Not a bad offer."
The knight rose slowly from his seat.
"Sorry—but I have no name to give you. I lost it."
"I see."
"Still. Going into a duel without introducing yourself is poor manners."
He lifted his spear. Even without a name, there was a way to present himself.
"Do you know the Golden Horn Knights? Sometimes called the Horned Helm."
"I don't."
"Then remember it. Remember the name of the Golden Horn Knights."
Spear point leveled at Najin, he spoke.
"I am the first captain of the Golden Horn Knights, master of the Horned Helm. This helm is the proof of what I am. This helm, and the story sealed inside it, stand in place of my name."
He rapped the shaft of his spear against his helm. A ringing clang answered, and his laughter echoed with it.
"Najin."
He called Najin by name. Not boy, not brat, not you there—only the name that pointed to Najin alone. That much was courtesy owed an opponent in a duel.
"I'll yield the first move."
3.
Najin looked at the Helmet Knight before him.
The man had said he would yield the first move. Even so, Najin could not simply rush in. The sound of the campfire burning stretched long—crack, crackle—drawn thin. Najin's sense of time had slowed that far.
Crack.
The brief instant a spark leapt from the fire and died stretched for Najin into tens of seconds, or longer. Inside that elongated time he studied his opponent.
A strong one. No room for argument.
Of everyone who had hunted Najin since he entered the Outer Land, not one could be set beside the knight in front of him. And it was not only the Outer Land. Even among those Najin had met on the Continent, the ones who could stand comparison with this man could be counted on one hand.
Sword Masters. Transcendents of that order.
Only men of that caliber did not fade when set against him. The pressure the Helmet Knight put out was easily a match for a Sword Master's. So—was the man before him a transcendent who had reached that height?
No. Not that.
It wasn't. Najin's eyes narrowed.
A strange presence clung to the man. Where had he felt something like this before? It did not take long to find the memory.
Ermina, the Witch of Flickering Flame.
The opponent he had met when he first set foot in the Outer Land—a witch who had lost every star she held, whose circles had been shattered, who was no longer a transcendent. A similar force of presence rolled off the knight before him.
Too thin to call transcendent.
Too fierce to call anything less.
Someone who was once a transcendent—
and no longer is.
Najin steadied his breath.
His reason screamed. This is a fight with no odds; the right move is to run now. That man said he would hunt you. He declared he would take your life. Reason shrieked it at him.
Run. The man in front of you is dangerous. The odds are vanishingly thin. He's hiding something.
It was a conclusion built on solid ground.
But Najin's instinct reached a different one.
An honorable duel. Show him your best.
That is what he wants.
Instinct shouted it.
Of course there was no evidence. It was not rational. It was impulsive.
But Najin had always trusted instinct over reason. If he had followed reason alone, his journey would never have begun. Had it not started from the instinct that told him to draw Excalibur?
As he always had, Najin trusted his instinct.
It was not an irresponsible trust. He would pay the price of that trust.
With what? Merlin asked. Najin answered.
With what I hold in my hand.
Sword-light rose along Najin's blade.