Robert Vardeman - Cenotaph Road

Silence fell over the crowd in the Dancing Serpent as the six grey- clad soldiers marched into the room. Their boot heels hit the wooden planking with an ominous rhythm, a rhythm that spoke of doom and destruction and misery. The six arrogantly studied those in the smoky barroom, saying nothing. The tension rose until a man taller than the six strode into the room, his broad shoulders brushing the doorjambs as he entered.

" Drinks for all!" the man called out in a loud, booming voice. The bartender sighed and began putting the heavy glass bottles of potent liquor onto the bar. The others in the room relaxed, and soon nervous laughter echoed through the once- noisy establishment. The grey soldiers were not here to kill. Not this time.

In the corner of the room at a small table, a low conversation went on, neither participant taking much notice of the intrusion by the soldiers. Dar- elLan- Martak gestured in despair, his palms open and imploring.

" Please, Zarella, let' s leave this place and talk," the man begged. " With the likes of them around, none can relax."

Zarella laughed carelessly. " Oh, Lan, you' re such a fool. Do you have my price? I come expensive, you know!"

" Zarella, why do you do this to me? You know I love you. Let me prove it to you." He spoke in such deadly earnest that the woman hesitated to make fun of him. Few crossed Lan Martak, and fewer lived to brag of it. His expertise with the gleaming carbon- steel sword dangling at his side was legendary. And unlike most legends, this had a strong basis in fact. The grips of both sword and short dagger showed wear from long, hard, deadly use by the man' s strong hands and thick wrists.

She said gently, " Lan, please, it isn' t to be. We both know that. Your world simply isn' t mine. I belong here!" The woman gestured extravagantly, encompassing the tapestry- hung walls, the gaming tables, the long, stained bar propping up a dozen drunken men. " The Dancing Serpent is my life. Even for you, I won' t give it up."

" But there' s more to the world than this stinking pleasure palace. I can show you the jeweled towers of Lellvan. Have you ever seen the Sulfur Mountains? No, you haven' t. Or the Sinking Lands to the west. To look out over them at sunset and see the very earth shiver at your command outstrips anything this place could offer a fine woman like you." He sneezed once, not used to the cloying dope smoke in the air. The sawdust gritted uneasily under foot. It wasn' t clean dirt; it didn' t feel right to him. The very atmosphere in the Dancing Serpent was slimy, a thing unclean. The need to be free of the place added urgency to his words.

He glanced at the crowd and heaved a deep sigh. Zarella, lovely Zarella, deserved the freshness of the country and not the prison of this overpriced brothel. To have to put up with men such as those grey soldiers would sicken anyone- psychically as well as physically. Lan' s hand drifted unconsciously to his dagger when he saw the selfimportant Kyn- alLyk- Surepta leaning heavily on the bar. Thoughts of traitor flashed through Lan' s mind. Lyk Surepta had sold out to the grey soldiers in exchange for a commission, a high one by all accounts. Such was the clientele of the Dancing Serpent.

Zarella deserved much better than this.

The woman pushed the purple- feather- studded comb into the luxurious depths of her auburn mane. The nervous gesture gave her a moment to think. She let her eyes rove over Lan, then sighed deeply. The rising and falling of her breasts brought forth the wrong response from the man. He did not take it as a sign of hopelessness, of total disagreement with his plans. He saw it as indecision and thought she required only more cajoling. " Zarella, I love you! Doesn' t that matter?"

" Many men love me. That' s why I stay."

" That' s not the kind of love I mean. We can:"

He was interrupted by a gruff voice.

" Is this bumpkin bothering you, Zarella?"

Lan turned. Kyn- alLyk- Surepta towered over him, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Lan realized the officer wanted nothing more than to spill some blood this evening. It mattered little to him whose it was. The grey soldiers boasted of maintaining the peace, of driving the brigands from the nearby forests. They had done much the old sheriff had been unable to do, but their methods were little better than those of the brigands they displaced. Torture was a game for them, suffering a pastime.

Lyk Surepta was the worst of the lot. He was the only local man in the band and, like all recent converts to a new cause, felt the need to prove himself by being more brutal, more daring, more competent than any of the others in his company. " Leave us, turncoat," snapped Lan. " We are talking." The menace in that quiet voice would have frightened off a less determined man.

" Turncoat, is it, bumpkin? I am Kyn- alLyk- Surepta. Kyn, did you hear?"

Lan let his eyes roll upward as if importuning the gods for patience with a small child. But his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his dagger. His emotions seethed inside, turning from Zarella' s dismissal of his love to the arrogance of the grey- clad soldier. Still, Lan did not become careless. The man hadn' t won his kynranking being a dullard. And a jerky quickness to his movements warned of feral reactions. Lan had seen the type before. A quick kill or a stab in the back- they were one and the same to this man.

" And I am Dar- elLan- Martak, turncoat. Dar. When you joined the ranks of those grey- clad butchers, you forfeited kyn- rank. You cannot have it both ways."

Lan felt wrenching surprise when Kyn- alLyk- Surepta laughed at him.

" So you' re the buffoon all snigger at behind your back!" He guffawed loudly, throwing his head back and laughing openly toward the ceiling. Lan stood, his movement tightly controlled. He hadn' t missed the slight tensing of the wrist, the subtle change in the other' s stance. If he' d gone for Kyn- alLyk- Surepta' s throat, he would have found a knife in his own gut.

" Only hyenas laugh so loudly."

Sudden silence fell again in the Dancing Serpent. A few timid customers edged for the doors. The six soldiers with Kyn- alLykSurepta drew their blades as if a single brain controlled their actions.

" You would have carrion- eaters kill me?" Lan asked. He felt half a hundred eyes watching him, waiting. The tension in the air was electric. And he reveled in it. This was the vent needed for his emotions. Little matter if he had to dispatch this Kyn- alLyk- Surepta to Hell. It had been months since he had killed a man in a fight. And if the other six attacked, he felt insanely confident of besting them, too.

For Zarella, he could perform miracles.

" You call me a hyena?" bellowed Kyn- alLyk- Surepta.

" You name yourself."

A slight snick and flashing arc of silver were all the warning Lan had. His own blade easily parried the death- dealing slash. A quick half- step back gave him fighting room.

" All at once?" he asked. " Or one at a time? Whichever you prefer, turncoat!"

Kyn- alLyk- Surepta motioned violently to his men to stand back.

" This scum is mine. I will bury my blade in his quivering guts!"

" I' d have thought you' d wait for them to kill me. Hyenas are carrion- eaters. Seldom do they kill their own prey."

The thrust came straight for his heart. Lan turned slightly to the left, felt the blade hotly graze his skin. But the sword blade was past his body, beyond the spot where it could do real harm. His own knife point rested lightly against Kyn- alLyk- Surepta' s kidney.

" Catching you is too easy. I' ll throw you back and go fishing for bigger- finned creatures. What do you think, Zarella?" Lan held the other man' s sword arm in a deceptively mild grip. He watched as Kyn- alLyk- Surepta turned red in the face trying to break free and avoid the knife point digging into his back.