The Sage Knight Read online

  THE SAGE KNIGHT

  BOOK THREE OF THE KINGSHIELD SERIES

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2020 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by www.damonza.com

  Trotting Fox Press

  Contents

  1. The Blade Master

  2. For the Seventh Knight

  3. The Lone Mountain

  4. A Strange Rider

  5. Asana

  6. You are Observant

  7. A Wise Man is Prepared

  8. First Training

  9. The Hundred

  10. Words of Power

  11. You are Beyond Good

  12. Live or Die

  13. The Lure of the Stone

  14. Loyal to the King

  15. Accept Death

  16. Down the Mountain

  17. The Shadow of Winter

  18. The King’s Favor

  19. The Training of a Sage

  20. Captured

  21. Death and Magic

  22. Shadows

  23. Flight!

  24. Ancestors

  25. The Seventh Knight

  Epilogue

  Appendix: Encyclopedic Glossary

  1. The Blade Master

  Asana drew his sword, and he felt alive.

  The ring of steel against leather as he unsheathed it was his heartbeat, and its song as it sliced the air his spirit. In a sense, the blade was him and he was it. So it had been through the ages, for his forefathers had possessed this same sword, and the souls of his ancestors lingered in the cold metal. He sensed their presence now, as he always did when he drew it.

  He felt the weight of the blade in his hand. It was nearly three feet of balanced steel, strong yet flexible enough to bend, sharper than the sting of heartbreak, double-edged and deadlier than a poisonous viper.

  Breathing softly, he calmed his mind and relaxed his body for what was to come.

  The sword was no ordinary sword. It was a weapon of the nobility, of which he was descended. It was a gentleman’s weapon. It was not intended for use on the battlefield, but for personal protection. Yet it had seen battle, heard the clamor of war and slaked its thirst with blood.

  Asana stepped forward. His body moved with fluid practice. He no longer needed to think of where to step and how to balance his weight. The grace of the warrior had become his by instinct. If a skill were trained day after day, year after year, it became as natural as the rising sun at dawn.

  The blade and the man were one. Steel and flesh twin thoughts born in the same moment and charged by matching destinies.

  Yet something was wrong.

  He stepped into Otter Swims the Lake, the opening technique of the pattern he had chosen to practice, and he felt a disharmony between mind and body.

  As he moved, his mind should have slipped into the detachment of the masters, what was called Calm in the Storm, where no emotion or even thought played across his consciousness. But he did not find it, and that troubled him.

  The detachment he sought was a state of mind at his command. It was a sense of existence that acknowledged human emotion, but floated above it, neither fearing anything nor wanting anything. In this manner, the swordsman freed his body to act on trained instinct. He became faster, stronger and more deadly.

  But for the first time in years, he could not find that state, and he could not fathom why.

  He ceased trying to. Detachment could not be found when the mind puzzled over a problem. Instead, he continued on with the pattern, performing each technique with grace, yet still marking where improvement could be made.

  The blade sliced the air. He moved with ease, following the pattern but performing it faster as he went. The sword was a blur, slicing, cutting, stabbing and deflecting. There were few blocks, for this type of blade was not designed to stop an opponent’s attack by brute force. That would dull the razor-like edges, even chip the metal. But mostly, it was just not a skillful way to fight.

  He recoiled in a defensive move, the sword folding back with him but at an angle to shed an attack in the same manner that rain ran off a pitched roof. Then he sprang forward in a stabbing motion.

  The patten had a rhythm to it, for each move gathered energy for the one to follow. Rocking backward in defense gathered his rear leg under him so he could pounce forward with power in attack. A slice to the left was initiated by turning the waist to the left, but having done so, like a corkscrew, the body could pivot to the right with greater strength.

  The sword whirred through the air, and Asana’s white shoes, light and gentlemanly, moved over the green lawn on which he practiced in a blur.

  Faster and faster he went, spinning and twisting, his sword near-invisible as it leaped from one technique to another, and his long tunic of white silk swirled about him.

  He danced the game of death, imagining enemies all about him, for that sharpened practice and made it more of a similitude for a real fight, yet still he failed to reach a state of detachment. Despite all his skill, his practice was flawed. Not that many would notice, but he knew and it burned away at him. He sought perfection, and this morning that was denied him.

  So he went faster still. Where the pattern should have ended, he commenced again, moving once more into Otter Swims the Lake, but this time in a blur of speed that even the other sword masters he had met would struggle to match. Yet each move remained precise, each angle of the blade exactly positioned. This was the mark of a great master; to achieve correct form at the limits of the body’s ability, but there was no pride in him. He was still not as good as he could be. Perfection skittered away like a leaf blown in the wind.

  He moved across the green sward, and saw as he did so expanses of land far below. He was atop a mountain, and clouds wreathed it as they often did, but there were many gaps and he saw afar the plain where the river known as the Careth Nien ran. He saw also the green smudge of the massive forest nearby that was known as Halathar, in which the elves dwelt in guarded seclusion.

  That world was visible, but it was a different world to his own, and he had not been troubled by it for a long time.

  Yet even as he flitted through the pattern, he sensed that was to change.

  The mountain retreat had served him well. He was born of a Duthenor father and a Cheng mother, yet he had found no home in either lands where he was fully accepted. Here, though, in self-exile at the top of a mountain, he had found a home. Many years he had enjoyed its peace, but now it was about to be shattered.

  He misstepped, and his sword wavered, but he found the rhythm of the pattern again and continued.

  His peaceful and near solitary life was over. He had always had the gift of foretelling, and it descended on him now.

  The future ran before his inner eye, fleeting images that made little sense, but they would in the days ahead. Some things he saw in detail, and other things were shrouded by mists of uncertainty.

  He did not cease to perform the pattern. His body knew what it had to do, and his mind was free to watch the inner vision. Detachment still eluded him though, but now he knew why.

  The vision faded, but before it was gone he saw one last scene. A warrior faced him, armored, a mighty sword in his hand and yet not his chosen weapon of death. In the other hand, fire burned. Dark sorcery. And this the knight flung, for Asana recognized him now as one of the fabled Kingshield Knights, and death tore the air and streaked toward him. Too fast it came, and there was no escaping that roaring, leaping fireball that would consume him and end his life.


  Mercifully, the vision faded and was gone. Asana came to the end of the pattern. His body felt like ice, and already the dull cold of death seemed to grip him, but in defiance he leaped into Otter Swims the Lake for the third time.

  Now, he moved even faster than he had before. Perhaps, he moved with greater speed than he had ever done. Yet still he retained the correct angles and movements, the subtleties within the pattern born of the experience of generation after generation of masters. A slight difference in angle here severed an artery, a slight difference there avoided bone and the tip of the blade penetrated the heart.

  He could not capture detachment. The state of Calm in the Storm that he sought was unreachable today, and he knew that it was because he was trying too hard to find it. Yet faced with a vision of his own death, what man, even a master, would not seek to dull the emotions that washed over him?

  But he was better than that. He was a master above other masters. He had never been defeated, and even those the Cheng admired and proclaimed as Cheng-mah, warriors of perfection, came to him for tuition, even if they did so in secret.

  He danced the great game of death, one with the sword, one with the ground beneath his feet and the mountain on which he stood. Calm in the Storm at last settled over him, and he accepted death. It was a tiny, insignificant thing compared to the vastness of the cosmos. Suns died. Galaxies died. The universe itself hurtled toward oblivion. Yet all had been born and died before. There was nothing new. There was nothing old. Death was but a birth, if only humanity had the perspective to see the pattern of eternity.

  His sword stilled, and his body held motionless in perfect balance upon one leg while the other kicked out. For the art of the swordsman was incomplete if it did not also include strikes of foot and hand. To rely on the blade alone was to shun opportunities to surprise an opponent, and no warrior did that. Not one who sought perfection.

  Slowly, he sheathed the blade, breathing deep as he did so.

  A sense of peace settled deep within him. He would die, but he would die with purpose. There was no shame in having been momentarily scared. There was no shame in wondering if his fate could be avoided.

  But it could not. His foretellings were never wrong, and there was no shame either in defeat. For while he would be killed, it would not be by the sword. It would be by dark sorcery, and that was more potent than the greatest warrior.

  His glance fell to Kubodin, his faithful retainer. The man squatted on the ground, studying him. A gentleman would have stood quietly to watch, arms clasped behind his back, or sat cross-legged and still on the grass. But Kubodin was no gentleman. He was the opposite of everything that Asana himself was. He was a wild man from the hills. He bathed irregularly, got drunk, swore and wore rags for clothes. He lied and gambled and flirted outrageously with women. Yet Asana loved him, for there was loyalty there stronger than iron, and that was worth more than all the gold in the world. It was more precious to him than the empty, if pretty, words of the nobility who said one thing but thought another.

  “Hey,” Kubodin said, rising with a grunt and shrugging the brown rags that he called clothes into a semblance of neatness. “What was that? Did ants crawl up your leg? I’ve seen pigs hold a sword better. You stumbled three times, and twice a man with a bad back and arthritic fingers could have gutted you like a fish. Hey, but what do I know? Maybe that was perfection. Nobles think differently from the common folk.”

  Kubodin scratched himself vigorously, and then tugged intently at his brass earring as though he did not care what reply might be given.

  Asana allowed himself the slightest of smiles. “If you burned those clothes, you would kill the lice that make you itch.”

  The other man frowned. “The lice aren’t enemies. They have a right to live as much as me.”

  Asana nodded. There was a certain truth to that.

  “Hey, so why so bad today, master?” Kubodin persisted.

  The image Asana had seen in the foretelling came to his mind once more. The sorcerous fire streaked toward him, and he felt helpless. But he would not burden his friend with foreknowledge of the grief to come. For whatever reason, the hillman had attached himself to him. Supposedly, it was because he had saved the little man from bandits who had surprised and captured him. A life-debt, Kubodin called that. If so, he would soon be released.

  “Maybe I’m just getting old and feeble,” Asana answered his question. He was only in his fifties, and had never felt stronger, but it would do for a reply.

  Kubodin nodded sagely. “Aye, that’s likely it. First the body falls apart, and then the mind rots. Never mind, master. After a while you won’t notice it happening anymore.”

  Asana suppressed his smile. This was a game between them. Kubodin always sought to rile him, and he pretended to ignore the other’s comments.

  The air had been still, but now a breeze began to blow. The weather atop the mountain always changed rapidly, and glancing away he saw that the clouds below were unfurling to tatters. Soon, the sun would burn the remnants away.

  “Prepare the halls for guests, Kubodin. There will be three of them.”

  That seemed to startle the little man, and Asana enjoyed it.

  Kubodin adjusted the round leather cap he wore. It was supposed to be armor of a kind, but they both knew it was useless.

  “Guests, master? We never have guests.”

  “We do now, and for a long time.” Asana studied the growing gaps in the clouds below. “The world is coming to us, old friend. Things change. Great events begin, and fate has found our little mountaintop.”

  2. For the Seventh Knight

  Menendil swiped a cloth over the surface of the bar. The Bouncing Stone was his inn, and had been in his family for generations. It was a prosperous place, full of regular patrons and passersby. Usually. But times had changed.

  The bar was a single slab of polished oak, long and wide. A dark-stained pine cabinet supported it. Legend held that while the cabinet had been replaced many times, the oak bar itself was the original.

  He studied it intently, looking for any patch he might have missed. He liked to keep it clean and free of ale spills. Customers liked cleanliness, and he knew how to keep customers happy.

  The bar was dented and marked all over. But it was always kept oiled and clean. The age of it, and the age of the inn itself, dating back to the same time as the raising of the Tower of the Stone that was on the street nearby, was his chief selling point. The people of Faladir loved their history, and so while they would hate an ale spill left too long on the bar they loved that it was old and battered.

  Old and battered. That was how Faladir itself felt these days. There was a depth of history to this place, and to the city itself. Legend also held that the workmen constructing the tower came here for lunch. That was probably true, for workmen needed hardy food to keep them going, and they enjoyed a pint, or two, of ale as well. But that was not the only legend.

  Faladir was founded out of war and strife at the end of the Shadowed Wars. It had been a time of chaos, and some creatures of the Shadow still swarmed the earth. They had attacked the city. But they were beaten back, their sorcerer king cast down and the Morleth Stone taken and kept safe. But the legend of those times lived on. Elù-draks. Were-beasts. Elugs, and many other creatures of evil that flew, slithered, crawled or walked on two legs like men … but had the hearts of serpents.

  Menendil idly folded the bar cloth as he thought. It was true that the folk of Faladir liked their history and legends. But they did not like those legends coming to life. Not the dark creatures anyway. But rumor hung over the city like a pall of smoke. Too many people had seen too many strange things for it all to be dismissed. And that was bad for business.

  He tucked the cloth into his apron. Had he not seen a dark shadow flying the midnight air and circling the Tower of the Stone himself, maybe he could have dismissed the rumors. Maybe.

  But he had seen what he had seen. And others had seen what they had seen. Busines
s had been bad for months, and it was getting worse. Before, the rumors only kept people away at night. Who walked the streets when there was a cry of murder in every alley? But now, even the day-time trade was low.

  He looked at his patrons now. It was lunchtime, and he should have been busy. Instead, there was one stranger drinking at the bar, quiet and subdued. In the corner, around a large table near the hearth, sat three people. They worked nearby at the farrier’s. He knew them, and he knew they usually laughed loudly and swapped jokes. Today, they leaned close and whispered to each other.

  On the far side of the room was another lone man. He too was a stranger, and he had the look of a soldier about him even if he did not wear a uniform. Normally, soldiers were welcome. But not lately. The king had started using them as spies to ferret out those who spoke against what was happening in the city. Not all deaths were blamed on creatures of evil. The king, and those who followed him, were said to be responsible for some of the murders. And those who had been heard voicing opinions had been the first to show up dead, or had disappeared never to be seen again.

  The door to the inn swung open, and a tall man entered. A sword hung at his side, and he was cloaked and hooded. But Menendil knew him without having to see his face.

  The newcomer looked around, assessing who was in the room and who they were likely to be. His gaze lingered over the stranger on the far side, and Menendil smiled to himself. His friend missed little, and what he did miss was not worth worrying about.

  The cloaked man came to the bar and pulled back his hood. Norgril had always had white hair, even when he was young. Blond he called it back then when they were both in the army together, but it had changed little. The only real difference was that his face had now aged to catch up with it.

  “An ale, please,” Norgril said in a normal voice.

  Menendil nodded and began to draw it from the tap. While he did so, his friend leaned in close and spoke softly.