The Deadwalk by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

Riordan scanned his face, taking in the lines of worry
at the sides of his mouth. “That's when it got really strange. The body
disappeared into the Sword. Then I heard him laughing...in my mind,” she
finished.
    His frown deepened.
    “What do you think it means?”
    “What?”
    “The vision,” she said, impatiently.
    “I place no stock in such things,” he snapped, much too quickly.
    “You believed the prophecy.”
    “Your father believed the prophecy.”
    “And you did not?”
    “I did not say that. Your father was my King. It was enough that I do as he
bid me.”
    “Would you do the same for me?”
    His expression shifted to wariness. “I am your servant, Your Majesty.” An odd
sadness weighed his tone.
    “Then hear me out, Nhaille.”
    Nhaille nodded but offered no comment, only continued to stare at her with
that pained look of concern.
    “He had a tall plume on his helmet. And a clasp of amber on his cloak.”
    He reined Stormback sharply to a halt.
    She jumped at the sudden movement. “What?” she asked looking back at him.
“Don't tell me you know such a person.”
    “I do know of such a person,” Nhaille said slowly.
    “Who is he?”
    This time it was Nhaille's turn to look uncomfortable. “Doan-Rau...of
Hael.”
    “Doan-Rau.” Riordan tried to summon another glimpse of phantom from her
vision. It was suddenly desperately important to have an image of the
warrior-prince who had annihilated her family, leveled her city. Know your
enemy, Nhaille was fond of saying.
    “Somehow I never thought he'd be young.”
    She'd pictured him middle-aged. Older than Nhaille. It made it all the worse
to think someone of her own generation could coldheartedly create such
destruction, that someone her age could have such callous disregard for
life.
    “Nhaille?”
    Within the shadows cast by his visor, his green eyes flickered upward to lock
with hers.
    “Is it written anywhere...that he who bears the Sword of Zal-Azaar feels the
loss of the souls it kills? That those souls don't migrate to Al-Gomar, but live
in the mind of the Sword's bearer?”
    He didn't want to tell her. She could tell by the way his eyes searched the
surrounding dunes, hunting for a way out of the conversation.
    “Riordan,” he said finally. “There are a good many things I have yet to tell
you.”
    #
    Doan-Rau stared into the glittering sea of diamonds.
    As if my life wasn't complicated enough. Now this new development.
    Somewhere in the basin was the phantom that haunted him. So the old man
Gamaliel was not the lunatic he'd imagined, after all. Questions tormented him.
What if his father got word of the Princess? What if word reached the already
disillusioned army? What if Kholer got word before he could head off this
disaster in the making?
    No matter, he decided. The Kanarekii Princess was merely another of the
annoyances to be tolerated and promptly dispatched. With the Princess gone,
nothing would stand in the way of his quest. His divine calling.
    The coast will be mine. My reward for the injustices I've endured.
    But in order to achieve the prize he so desired, he must first rid himself of
a legend.
    I should be on my way to Kholer. Perhaps Larz was right. He ought to have
brought a troop of Haelian soldiers with him. But that had its own dangers. He
couldn't afford to let the secret out. This is but a short detour. The fires of
Kanarek were merely a few days cold. How far could they possibly get? His mind
nagged at him that if he'd had half the brain for strategy he bragged about,
he'd have thought of hunting down the Kanarekii Princess first.
    Who besides Gamaliel would have wasted the time fighting a myth? He couldn't
have known, he assured himself. According to legend, not even her own siblings
had laid eyes upon the Princess.
    He sorely missed Larz's tracking skills. Not to mention the Captain's dry
humor and quiet acceptance. Acceptance his own father refused to bestow on his
oldest