Karl Edward Wagner - Mirage

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Mirage

Karl Edward Wagner

Death came shimmering through the afternoon heat.

In silence broken only by cursing, the battleworn band of

mercenaries had fled along the dusty mountain road. Overhead

the sun burned dismally, scornfully; its heat lanced through the

ragged forest cover and seared the disheveled fugitives.

Stumbling over scorched stones, they had plodded along in the

weary desperation of flight, dust choking their panting breath and

smothering them in a grimy blanket compounded of sweat and

caked blood.

Half a hundred soldiers of a fallen cause. Men who had

gambled their lives for the ambitious bastard brother of

Chrosanthe's dainty king. But Jasseartion had proven no fool

despite his laces and curious affectations; his spies, his personal

army had been as meticulously efficient as his subjects foolishly

loyal. In the end, his brother Talyvion had hung moaning in a tiny

cage suspended from the great beams of the same throne room

toward which his ambitions had lured him. Now the scattered

remnants of his smashed army fled across the land, pursued by

Jasseartion's tireless soldiers and vengeful subjects, a bounty on

each man's head.

For Kane the bounty was great. Kane was the last of Talyvion's

lieutenants still unaccounted for by Jasseartion's so very efficient

servants. And although Kane had only entered into the

conspiracy shortly before its downfall, his remarkable talent both

for cloaked intrigue and open battle had impressed a particular

enmity upon Chrosanthe's ruler, and upon his subjects as well.

Even to a rebel would come full pardon and more gold than he

might earn in ten years' soldiery, so promised the royal

proclamation. True, Jasseartion's word had never been so

inviolable as to inspire confidence among the fugitives from his

well-famed justice, but it was nonetheless a most tempting

proposal.

With this in mind, Kane had wrapped his face in bloody

bandages, padded his belly to outsize proportions, and covered

his mail with a filthy, voluminous cloak. So disguised, he had

mingled with a band of fleeing refugees, hoping that neither

Jasseartion's followers nor his own companions would recognize

this dirty, obese foot soldier with bandaged face as the

aristocratic stranger who had joined with Talyvion not long

before the latter's fortunes had changed.

Then the searing summer air was filled with the sharp hiss of

glinting arrows. Ambush! A detachment of Jasseartion's army had

lain in hiding among the trees and the smoldering rocks that

enclosed the dusty mountain trail.

Furious at having been caught in ambush along with the sheep

he had hoped to masquerade among, Kane broke for cover, his

right hand fumbling in the damp folds of his cloak for his sword.

A deep wound from the last battle caused his left arm to be still

too weak to use effectively, and although Kane was almost as

dexterous with his right arm, he knew he was at a disadvantage in

the chaotic fighting that enveloped him.

The king's soldiers rushed upon the stricken mercenaries

simultaneously as the last arrows tore into them. Many of their

number already writhing upon the burning pathway, the

desperate fugitives staggered to make a hopeless stand against

their assailants. The first man to reach Kane he hurled back again

with a crushing swordblow. Another charged past his comrade's

husk and swung an axe in a glittering are that took all of Kane's

strength to turn aside. The axeman snapped backward and raised

his weapon once more. Kane cursed impotently. The man would

be gutted by now had Kane free use of his left arm. As he sought

to face the axe, another soldier fell upon him front his left, just as

the axe again swung down. Kane leapt back and caught the axe

once more with his blade, frantically dodging his other foe.

Twisting his blade, he slashed outward through the axeman's

wrist, and as the other dropped his weapon in agony, Kane's

return thrust caught him in the ribs.

A second to free the sword. Too long. The other soldier's

sword was slicing for him. Kane forced his left arm into action,

clumsily grappling with the sword arm that thrust for his trunk. A

double wave of pain shook him as his wounded arm only partially

deflected the swordblow, and the edge gashed through the heavy

cloak and padding to smash against the mail beneath. Kane

toppled, his powerful grip yet locked on the other's arm, pulling

him to the ground along with himself, and impaling the soldier on

his sword as they fell. And as he struck ground with the dying

assailant atop him, an impossible weight slammed against Kane's

skull. In a black wave of agony he lost consciousness, never

knowing whether he had been purposefully struck, or simply

kicked by some other pair of combatants.

I. The Forest by Night

His eyes opened into the cool of night. Groggily he rolled from

under the soldier's corpse and sat up. Vision blurred, ground

rocked with the roaring pain in his skull. Kane bit his lip and

forced himself to his knees. About him lay only the dead.

Gingerly he unwound the heavy bandages that swathed his

head and ran fingers over the ache in his skull. It had been a hard

blow, but the bandages and his thick red hair had effectively

cushioned it. He rose to his feet and disgustedly threw off the

enveloping cloak and the slashed padding beneath. His mail had

stopped the swordthrust, but the force of the stroke had mashed

the links painfully into his side.

A bad deal all around, mused Kane, once more cursing the

poor judgment that had led him to seek to hide among the rabble

rather than strike out on his own. Still, under the circumstances

he had been lucky enough to escape from the collapse of the

conspiracy, not to mention to survive this ambush. He looked

about him, the light of the newly risen full moon casting sufficient

illumination for his exceptional night vision to see clearly.

Silent. Still. Death. Cold moonlight cast over a strange

panorama of white shapes strewn carelessly, hopelessly across

the dark ground. Not even a hint of wind to break this frozen

tableau. Black trees casting shadows—can moonlight cast

shadows?—dark shapes clutching, covering the fallen. Contorted

young face—had death been so dear with that slash through his

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Karl Edward Wagner - Mirage

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