The Sworn Knight Read online

  The first soldier glared at him. “Where’s this new statue, then?”

  “It’s coming. Won’t be long now,” Menendil said with an easy confidence that he did not feel.

  The three soldiers shuffled about uneasily. It was clear they were not sure what was happening, and that was a tremendous advantage to Menendil. Uncertainty stifled action, and so it was that the three men ended up turning and walking back toward the palace without saying another word.

  “Quickly,” Menendil urged his men, “let’s do this now. They’ll be back shortly with a senior officer and a lot more soldiers, unless I’m mistaken.”

  He did not think he was, nor did those around him. It had been a close call, and had they been forced to kill the soldiers an alarm would have been raised swiftly. They may not have had the time they needed to do what they intended.

  The ropes pulled taught, and the men strained. Nothing happened for a moment, and then there was a groan as the bronze statue shifted on the stone plinth.

  It happened slowly, but as they pulled the statue leaned precariously, and then it rapidly toppled and fell. The men drew back out of harm’s way, and the thing smashed onto the cobbles of the square with a massive tumult that shattered the silence of the night.

  “Pull it away!” Menendil shouted. There was no point in whispering now.

  The men did so, creating quite a gap between the fallen statue and the plinth. But the man with the chisel had already leapt to work.

  This would be no work of art. Nor was that needed. All that was required was that the words were legible. Swiftly the man worked, and it was hard to see in the dark. But there was light enough from the sparse starlight.

  Several moments passed. There was noise from the palace, and the gate opened. Soldiers rushed through. Menendil was not sure how many, for they still seemed to be coming, but there was a dozen at least. He was about to give the order to flee, no matter that the words had not yet been fully carved, when a terrible cry tore the air. It came from above.

  Menendil had only begun to look up when he heard the warnings of Night Flier and elù-drak shouted by some of the men.

  He crouched down to one knee, but shifted his gaze from the sky to the palace gate instead of continuing to look up. What was happening there was what mattered most, at least for a few moments.

  The soldiers, alarmed by the cry, had also crouched low in an attempt to avoid any danger. Others had retreated to the gate. None, as of yet, crossed the square.

  “Keep going!” Menendil hissed at the man with the chisel. After a brief hesitation, he went back to work, and the sound of his hammer and the flying of stone chips scattering across the cobbles as they landed was loud.

  There were more shouts, and Menendil, drawing his sword, looked up. Out of the dim sky a strange figure dived at them. He had never seen an elù-drak this closely before, and he wished he had not.

  Like a bat it was, at least the wings. But its body was that of a naked woman’s, and it screamed as it plummeted toward them.

  “Do not look into its eyes!” Caludreth warned. “She can bewitch you!”

  The elù-drak dived toward them, but a streak of fire leaped up to meet it. Caludreth had unleashed the magic of the knights, and the creature of the dark had not expected it. The defense was needed, but it also signaled to the soldiers near the palace that the escaped prisoner they had been seeking was here.

  The Night Flier tumbled in the air, the side of her body red and blistered. But she landed on her feet, and even as she did so one hand struck out and clawed at a man’s throat. A moment he stood, and then reeled away. She had crushed his windpipe, and the sound of his rasping breath and the blood that bubbled from his ruined neck showed that she had killed him, even if he was not dead quite yet.

  Menendil charged at her with his sword. But Caludreth was quicker. He thrust the tip of the blade in her belly, and Menendil hacked at her head but struck her shoulder instead.

  The creature of the dark screamed, but it would take more than this to kill her. She reeled back, blood running from her gut wound, but she did not retreat.

  Even as she stepped back, she moved to the side and with a beat of her wings launched herself full at Caludreth from a different angle.

  Some of the other men had joined the fray now, and swords struck and stabbed at her. More blood flowed, but it was hard to strike her and not Caludreth at the same time, for she had crashed into him, her hands straining to reach his neck.

  On the ground the two combatants fell, rolling and vying for life and death. Her hands reached for his throat, and he had dropped his sword, useless as it was to him in this position, and fended her deadly grip away.

  By some exertion of tremendous strength, the once-knight got one leg under himself and managed to drive himself up and fling her away. She careered backward, twisted as she reeled, and tried to take flight. But the men were onto her, swords flashing and stabbing.

  Blood spurted, and she screamed. It was not a scream of pain, but of shear hatred, and she launched into the men knocking several over. The ones that were still upright began to scatter, but just then Caludreth returned to the fray and fire spurted again from his fingers. Like strands of rope the flames were, and they wrapped around her legs and climbed upward engulfing her in an inferno.

  She was not done though, and Menendil feared she could never be killed. She came at Caludreth, fire twining up her body and sparking in her hair. Her hands reached for him, but one of the men struck her from behind and she stumbled.

  Caludreth had used up all his strength in magic, or else he trusted more to steel and skill at arms. His sword flashed through the air in a mighty blow and hewed her head off her neck.

  Still the body came tumbling at him, and he kicked it away. The head rolled over the cobbles, and Menendil thought even now he saw her eyes fixed on the once-knight in hatred as her hair fully caught alight.

  A terrible stench filled the air, and Menendil fought off the urge to vomit. He glanced over at the palace gate and saw that the soldiers were gathering there, and there were more of them. With the creature dead, it would not be long before they raced out.

  His glance also took in the work the man with the chisel had done. The seventh knight comes was carved there in large letters. It was easily visible by the light of the burning corpse, and very soon daylight would reveal it to the world.

  Their work was done, and all that remained now was to flee.

  “Get home, boys!” he cried, and at his word they turned and ran.

  One they left behind, and he was dead. But the others scattered to all corners of the square, for there were alleys and streets that ran onto it from many places.

  Menendil raced over the cobbles. He was not a fast runner, and the others that had gone this way were ahead of him. Behind him he heard a clamor of shouting and knew the soldiers had hastened into action and were in pursuit.

  It was not that though that sent a shiver of fear stabbing through him. From above, came that terrible but now familiar cry. Another elù-drak.

  Menendil looked upward, and the thing hurtled from the sky at him. He dived and rolled. At least he tried to, but he was not as young as he was. Somehow he cracked his head against the cobbles.

  His fall might have saved him, for he remained low to the ground. The creature passed over, but even as he tried to stagger to his feet a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  Desperate, sword in hand, he ran for the street that he had been hoping to escape down, but blood dripped in his eyes from a gash he had not realized he had, and somehow he came to the wall of a building. He turned to his right, wiping the blood away, but even as the street opening beckoned he saw this new elù-drak land in front of him, blocking off his route.

  She advanced, naked and terrible, her wings outstretched like shadows behind her, her chest heaving for breath and death in her wicked eyes.

  Almost, Menendil hoped the soldiers would arrive to capture and save him, but from the corner
of his eye he saw that they had halted again. They dared not approach.

  He was going to die here, alone and unaided, for all his men had scattered and were gone. Not that he blamed them, and two deaths for what they had achieved this night was a small price to pay.

  18. You are Mine

  Ferla cursed her stupidity. She had allowed herself to be taken, and she had never felt such fear in her life.

  The bonds of magic burned into her spirit form like lashes from a whip. They were like fire, if fire could burn as ice.

  Worse though was her humiliation. Bound, taunted and unable to fight back. She was at Savanest’s mercy, and she knew he had none.

  His spirit form reached out and traced a cold hand down her cheek.

  “You’re pretty, for a knight. But a knight doesn’t need good looks.”

  She was not sure if that were a threat, but it could not really be taken any other way. For the first time, she wondered if injuries received during spirit walking could appear on her real body. How little she knew of the magic she had invoked, and how foolish she had been to invoke it without proper knowledge.

  Savanest looked deep into her eyes. “I see your fear, girl. You cannot hide it. You can hide nothing from me, for I own you now. You are mine, now and forever. I will treat you as I will, and you will learn to beg for a good word from me.”

  He paused and considered her. “Would you like to learn that now? Will you beg for my favor now, or must I break you first?”

  His eyes gazed deep into hers. “It may be that I will enjoy breaking you.”

  Ferla’s fear redoubled. His words were bad enough, but in defiance she did not look away from his terrible glance. And she saw something in it that forced panic to rise up inside her.

  Savanest’s pupils were large and dark, but it seemed to her that she saw something more. She saw, in each eye, the black Morleth Stone. She felt the power of it, and the unnamed sorceries that churned within.

  And she felt the will of the artifact. It was alive, and it thought, and considered and plotted. She felt it stir, and it began to reach out to her.

  All her fears from before had been as nothing. Now, she understood what it intended. It would bend her to its will. It would make her a Morleth Knight, and she would betray her friends, and Faran, and all Alithoras. She would be turned to evil, and she would know but be unable to halt her actions.

  Savanest laughed softly, and she felt his spirit-breath upon her face.

  “Welcome to your future, sister knight. The glory of serving the Morleth Stone, of serving Osahka, will be yours. And with it, the torment. It will never cease. Each day it will grow stronger. You will yearn for death, but you will taste of life everlasting, and despair.”

  Ferla already felt despair. It bound her more strongly that Savanest’s sorcery. Her future was not her own. Her life was a plaything for the evil in the world. Desperately, she sought a means of escape. She wondered what Aranloth would do, for certainly he would never have been caught by his own stupidity in such a trap.

  She remembered their many lessons, and their times together in the pursuit of knowledge and mastery. She remembered, and even as her mind reached out toward those memories, it seemed to her that she sensed his mind somewhere far away.

  It was both dark and light where he was. There was magic, and the touch of the void that once she had walked. It was hardly less fearful than what she experienced here, and yet over the vast gulf between them his words brushed against her mind.

  Flee! he commanded. All is illusion. Flee!

  Her mind lurched back to where she was. Aranloth’s voice was urgent, if it were his voice at all and not some delirium caused by fear, but it was also reassuring.

  Yet how was it possible to flee when she was bound?

  Frustration welled up within her, but she beat it down even as she beat down the fear. She must think.

  And then she had it. In one swift thought she realized all. This was the spirit world, and all was illusion. Just as when she had walked the void once before when she had been poisoned and near to death, and learned that thought was action. Thought was reality. Thought ruled perception. By accepting that the bonds placed on her by Savanest were real, she had made them so.

  With a primal shout that was not of words but relief and triumph and hope all at once, she shrugged off the fetters of fire as though they were but strings.

  Savanest recoiled, and a look of incredulity was on his face. Fast as an arrow sped from a bow she flew toward where her body rested far away. Yet the voice of the Morleth Knight shadowed after her.

  As it was in the world of spirit, so too will it be in the world of flesh. You are mine, and you will know it when next we meet.

  She heard those words, and they filled her with dread. Yet she was free now, and with a rush she filled her body. Shuddering, she came awake and leaped up, drawing her sword.

  Asana and Kubodin were startled. They had been nearby, watching her. She knew they saw the naked fear on her face, and that embarrassed her.

  “I should not have gone,” she whispered, sheathing her sword. Then she looked at her arms. They were unblemished, yet still she felt the memory of pain.

  19. A Worthy Foe

  Druilgar stood atop the Tower of the Stone, and he surveyed his realm.

  The night was old, and from his vantage he saw the slow graying of the eastern sky. Dawn was not far off. Yet still the night was dark. He had communed earlier with the Morleth Stone, and he knew that another kind of dawn was not far away. This one would herald an epoch of reason. The new age was coming, and the world would be reordered. Justice would prevail. The laws of all lands would be right and proper. The past would be erased, so that it would not blight the glorious future.

  He would be the sun of that new world, and he felt the burden of it. His would be the responsibility to ensure it came to pass, and it was humbling.

  Never had he been humbler in his life. He served a greater purpose now, and if it bestowed everlasting glory upon him, and raised him above humanity, then so be it. What he would do, and what he would achieve, was all to serve the Great Purpose, and not himself.

  Lights glimmered all over Faladir. There were lamps in streets, and within windows. But better was the dark expanse of the shadowed areas of the city, enveloped in murk and the beauty of mystery. Dark were the alleys, and even whole suburbs where the poorer citizens dwelt were draped by unrelieved night. There, his servants found nourishment. They did not like the light. Not yet. But their day was coming, too. For they served the Great Purpose, as did he. They would be raised even as he would.

  The time of reckoning was coming, and the world would be washed clean.

  At last, he saw what he had been waiting for. An elù-drak sped through the night. It was a thing of perfect beauty. Its thin body glistened palely against the dark beat of its graceful wings. It glided toward the tower, dropping height and alighting with confidence upon a merlon of the parapet.

  She stood there, and she fixed him with her eyes. He smiled at that. The creatures possessed a natural magic. With their eyes they could seduce and make a man kill himself. She was testing him now.

  He understood the lure, too. She was a thing of beauty unsurpassed, and her eyes gazed into his and he felt the fire of her magic. Those were eyes to gaze into, too. They promised so much, and yet held mystery.

  But he was immune to that magic. Osahka had granted him power over them rather than them power over him. He was in command, and they obeyed. Or they were punished.

  “Speak,” Druilgar commanded.

  “I have flown widely,” she answered, “and hunted far.”

  Her voice was soft and alluring also. Many had thought the creatures could not speak, but he had known better. They spoke to those who controlled them, but seldom to their victims.

  “From the west I have come, and Knight Sofanil I have conversed with.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He had no message. None other than w
hat you already know. He continues to search.”

  “And what of Savanest?”

  “He, I have not spoken to. But Sofanil says his brother has found a treasure of old. A hoard of were-stones, and with them he better controls his men. Sofanil believes he does not quite understand the magic and underestimates the influence of the stones.”

  That was news, and Druilgar considered it. Were-stones were not the first of the ancient talismans to be found. Likely they would not be the last. The Morleth Stone was at work there, and he sensed it trying to rebuild the old world as it had been. It was like a man trying to rebuild a house that had blown down in a storm. All the pieces were there. They just needed gathering and bringing back together again.

  He studied the creature before him. She was something of the kind, too. The Morleth Stone drew creatures from hiding and from sleep that had not walked, or flown, the world for millennia. Where they had hidden, he did not know. But the world was full of them, and he was pleased.

  “Go find nourishment,” Druilgar told her. “Report again tomorrow night, and I will have new orders for you.”

  She grinned at him, and gazed deep into his eyes. It mattered not to her where that nourishment came from.

  “Be off,” he commanded. Her magic had no power over him, but they all tested that.

  “It will be as you wish, master.”

  Despite her words, he still sensed her hunger for him. He could never trust these creatures, but they had their uses.

  After a moment, she turned her sleek body and dived off the parapet, winging away into the dark.

  It would not be long before the next appeared. They did not like to see each other, at least up close, and always reported separately.

  Druilgar waited and mused. The knights were his to command, and his was the greater power by far. Yet still he must watch them. He trusted them no more than an elù-drak, and any one of them would supplant him if they could.