The Sage Knight Page 14

  That was something she had told him too. It could not be otherwise, for the stone was immensely powerful. Yet it needed a person to wield it. The stone, Kareste hinted, lured people to use it by enhancing their powers. They became dependent upon it, and used it more and more. In this way it increased its influence. She spoke of it almost as if it were alive, but that could not be. Whatever the case, the king would become stronger over time. But he would also become more evil, for the shadow of the stone would lie deeper over his mind. He would become outwardly stronger but inwardly weaker, unable to exercise his own will and instead acting on the urges of the stone itself.

  “The king grows stronger,” Faran agreed with her. “And probably the knights with him. But there are limits to power. Also, they’re but a handful of men and they suppress an entire kingdom. That’s not a situation that can last. Sooner or later the people will revolt.”

  Ferla shrugged. “Is it really just the king and the knights, though? There will be others. People with high ambitions but low morals. The foolish, seduced by the words of the king rather than repelled by his actions. Not to mention the greedy, the corrupt and the lawbreakers.”

  She did not seem to be saying these things at random. It seemed to Faran that her thoughts had long been mulled over.

  “I hadn’t really thought of it like that. You’re right though. The king will have his supporters. Even some who would openly say he is right to use the power of the stone. But in the end, the silent majority will make up the far greater number. When they finally act, they’ll overwhelm both the king and his supporters.”

  “You’re right,” Ferla agreed. “But what then? It’ll end in neighbor fighting neighbor and soldier fighting soldier. Even families fighting family.”

  Faran had no answer to that. Again, he had the sense that this was something she had deeply pondered. Why she had thought of these issues more than he had, he was not sure. But it was remiss of him. He was glad though that she had. She cared more deeply than he did, and he liked that. He learned how to be a better person from watching her.

  He had always wanted to just defeat his enemies and bring justice for the destruction of Dromdruin. But he understood now it had never been that simple. It was not that his ambition to do that was bad, but the rule of an evil king would shadow the land in many ways. He had to be brought down. But what then? The land and its people would need healing.

  The fall of the king would be but a first step. Afterward, a new order of knights must be established. More than ever they would have to live up to their legend of being not just warriors but men of learning and wisdom. They would have to be, as Asana would say, sages.

  He understood for the first time why the land needed the knights. Yet more than ever, he felt that role was wrong for him. He had no wish to be the seventh knight. What, if anything, he would do in the future he did not know.

  That line of thought made him uneasy. He seldom thought of the future. It was dark and misty to him. Unknowable. Yet he felt it waiting like a crouched predator, ready to pounce unexpectedly.

  Winter drew on. After it came spring, and the mountain seemed ready to burst with life. It was still dangerous, and the weather was fickle. Yet some days were glorious, and Faran and Ferla reveled in them, walking the mountain top and the slopes, but never straying too far from home. Glorious as things were, sudden blasts of cold air and sleet were not uncommon.

  There was something different about Ferla, but Faran could not identify what it was. She was the same as she had ever been, like an older sister who looked out for him. She made him laugh, and she made him think. But deep within herself she was changing as even the mountain changed around them.

  At times there was a look of determination in her eyes that scared him. Mostly, this was when they trained sword against sword. But not always. Sometimes he caught her staring into a fire, but her gaze was hotter than any flame. When he asked her what she was thinking, she would merely smile and the old Ferla was back.

  Spring passed. The grass sprang up and grew tall and green. In the gardens on the plateau, fruit trees bloomed and bees hummed in the air. The fruit set. The leaf canopy of the trees grew out. Birds returned to the mountain, and the clouds now threatened less rain and parted often to reveal a dazzling sky, so blue and beautiful that Faran’s heart ached.

  One evening, just as the sun set in glory and the scattering of high clouds turned pink, they sat and talked on the southern edge of the plateau.

  Dusk glided over the land. The world was at peace, and Faran looked at Ferla and knew that she was more beautiful than anything in the world. She was his sun. She was his warmth. She was his peace.

  But he said nothing to her, and he cursed his lack of courage.

  Night deepened. The stars kindled in the sky, but they were not the only lights. Far, far away in the forest of the elves other lights sprang to life, and almost Faran thought he heard music rise up to the mountain top.

  But that was not possible. Unless the mountain itself celebrated the arrival of summer after cold, dark winter.

  “They celebrate,” Ferla said.

  “The elves?”

  “Of course. They feel the change in the world as do we, but they are closer, the legends say. They are one with their forest, and they love it. They feel its moods and rejoice as the forest wakes and stirs.”

  Faran understood how they felt.

  Behind them, they heard a noise and turned. But it was only Kubodin. His gaze was on the faraway forest, and there was a longing in his eyes. He, too, sensed the beauty in the world. His gruffness was an act.

  “It’s a special time of year,” Kubodin said. “Not often do the Halathrin light fires in their forest.”

  Even the man’s way of speaking was different now. Perhaps his normal way was an act too.

  “Don’t they worry that the fires could get out of control and burn through the forest?” Faran asked. Certainly in Dromdruin fires were rarely lit.

  “Ha! The Halathrin seldom have accidents. They’re like Asana – all careful and full of plans. They don’t blink unless they’ve thought about it first and then double-checked that their first thought was right.”

  Ferla laughed at that, and she was suddenly the old Ferla that he used to know, free of strain and the determination that so often shaped her expression. And for all that Kubodin seemed dismissive of the Halathrin, Faran was sure he had not come this way by accident. He had come specifically to see the lights.

  “Do the Halathrin celebrate every year at the same time?” Faran asked.

  “Every year, just the same each time,” Kubodin answered. “It lasts for a week.”

  They watched together for a little while longer. The celebrations would go all night, apparently, but the elves did not need a good night’s rest so that they could train hard the next day.

  “Time to go,” Kubodin said at length. “Dinner is waiting and the air grows chill.”

  Faran felt it too. It had been so pleasant and warm before, but the nights still grew cold and he began to shiver.

  They stood and followed Kubodin. The little man walked with his hand on his axe, and he moved slowly. It was almost like he sensed some sort of danger ahead, and even as Faran thought that a sensation of dread overcame him.

  They all slowed, and Kubodin drew out the axe now and looked around carefully.

  “What is it?” the little man asked. “Do you sense it?”

  Faran knew something was wrong, but he was not sure what. The last time he had felt this way…

  “It’s an elù-drak!” hissed Ferla.

  He knew she was right. That feeling of dread came back to him now. Like a knife slipping into his body, the memory of his first sighting of one of them as he fled Dromdruin burst into his mind. He remembered the fear. He remembered also Aranloth’s words that the creatures provoked this in order to make their quarry run and reveal themselves.

  But none of them moved. They crouched lower, but resisted the urge to run. From so
mewhere far above, too high to see, came a dreadful cry. It was answered. And answered again.

  They were surrounded. The mountain top was not safe, yet still they saw nothing. This meant, Faran believed, that their exact location was not known.

  Kubodin grinned fiercely in the dark, and Faran admired him then. If he were scared, he gave a good show of being excited instead.

  “Come,” the little man whispered. “To move may reveal ourselves, but there is safety inside the mountain.”

  He moved into the dark then, holding the axe lightly in one hand and walking with his head to the sky. He would not be taken by surprise.

  “Watch the front,” Faran asked Ferla, “and I’ll watch behind us.”

  The cries grew closer. Dread prickled Faran’s skin, and the palm of his hand that gripped his sword was wet with cold sweat.

  Step by step, hugging to the shadows and using trees for cover as best they could, they came to the entrance of the underground halls. Here, the elù-draks seemed concentrated. For the first time, they were visible, yet they circled and wheeled high above. This was no attack. Not yet. It was a warning. They had been found. The enemy knew where they were, and were coming for them. It was intended to strike fear into them.

  And it did.

  23. Flight!

  Menendil kicked the horse into a gallop, and the iron-shod hooves clattered down the street with a growing roar.

  He bent down low in the saddle. This would make him a smaller target for archers, if there were any among the soldiers pouring out of the barracks, and a smaller target for sorcery also. This was what he feared most.

  Caludreth slumped behind him, but his arms still had enough strength in them to wrap around Menendil and hold himself in the saddle.

  It was mayhem everywhere. People were running and screaming and shouting. The Hundred were dispersing, but there were soldiers streaming out onto the street as well. A group made for Menendil.

  With a pull on the reins Menendil tried to veer out of the way, but the soldier got there first, drawing swords and shouting to try to stop the horse. Perhaps they knew who rode behind him, or perhaps it was coincidence.

  To be captured was to die. Menendil urged the horse forward and thundered toward them. Suddenly, the noise of those hooves was intensified. Magic, Menendil knew at once. Caludreth, nearly falling out of the saddle was trying to help.

  And it partly worked. Between the rushing of the horse which was enough to scare most men, and the rolling thunder of its approach, most of the soldiers scattered. But a few held their ground and they tried to bring him off the horse.

  Menendil’s sword was out, and he slashed and hacked. A blade cut him across the stomach, but it was a glancing strike and ill timed. Hands reached up for the reins.

  The soldiers were trying to capture both riders. They knew who the man behind him was, and they were desperate.

  But not as desperate as Menendil. He hacked at the hands trying to bring him and Caludreth down, and then suddenly they were through and onto the clear street again.

  To the right, an alley opened up and he turned the horse down it. This was part of his plan.

  The horse sped ahead, frightened by the tumult and bolting. Menendil feared it would fall in the dark, slipping on cobbles or shouldering a wall in the narrow passage and throwing both riders to their deaths.

  But somehow they came through to the next street. It was quiet here, though many of the Hundred were sprinting away in one direction or the other. Their job was done, and they had done it well. Yet Menendil’s was not over.

  He turned the horse to the left, and Caludreth nearly slipped off. But then he righted himself and they were away. The soldiers were nowhere in sight, but Menendil could not be sure. He dared not turn and look behind him for more than a passing glance.

  The streets were quiet now. The Hundred had slipped away. The soldiers were in pursuit no doubt, but they would be too slow to find any but stragglers. But there seemed to be none of those. The men had fought bravely, but when the time to run had come they had embraced it and reacted more quickly than their enemies. Likely, the fear of more archers and a trap slowed the soldiers.

  They came to another corner. Here several riders were gathered, and a lone man on foot. This also was part of Menendil’s plan.

  Quickly he dismounted in the deep shadows of a tall building, helping Caludreth to do so as well.

  “The way is clear!” the lone man said. Then he took the reins of Menendil’s horse and vaulted into the saddle.

  The riders shouted and scattered. They were a decoy, and Menendil led Caludreth through a door, locked it with the key he possessed and barred it behind them.

  It was pitch black in the room, but Menendil fumbled for the lantern and flint that were on a shelf near him.

  “Who are you?” whispered Caludreth.

  The man’s voice was hoarse, but for all that he had been through there was no fear in it.

  “A friend,” Menendil answered. “One of many. But there’ll be time for talk later. We yet have work to do, if you can manage it?”

  “I can manage,” came the answer, “but I hope we don’t have far to go.”

  Menendil got the lantern alight, then put his arm around Caludreth to support him.

  “It’s not far, my lord. Then you can rest and recover.”

  They moved through the empty building. It was a potter’s warehouse, used to store his goods for distribution through this part of the city, and he was a friend of Menendil’s. As had their fathers been friends before them, and back into antiquity some sort of association had always existed.

  Menendil found the secret trapdoor built into the floor, and helped Caludreth down. This was difficult, for the man struggled to find his balance on the ladder. It was no surprise, for he could barely see through his swollen eyes and his legs were weak. Every movement also caused him pain.

  When they were safely at the bottom, Menendil climbed back up and closed the door, pulling it tightly shut. It was near impossible to find, but that was no guarantee of safety. Outside, he heard a commotion of rushing soldiers.

  He waited briefly until they had passed before rejoining Caludreth at the bottom of the ladder. The safety of this plan lay mostly in not being seen entering the building in the first place. Had there been soldiers within view, they would have ridden on toward another place of safety.

  They were in a cellar. Even here, there were old tables covered by pots, and it was a dingy place, cluttered by old cobwebs and with dust in the air.

  Menendil helped the once-knight forward, and they walked carefully, avoiding the odd pot that had fallen and broken on the floor. It was a cellar, but it was also more than that.

  The room narrowed, and now they were pressed tight together. Really, there was only room for one to walk at a time, but Menendil was not sure his companion could manage it. They were now in a passage, and the cellar was behind them.

  “We must be under the road?” Caludreth asked.

  For all that he had been bashed and beaten, the man had lost none of his wits.

  “Indeed. We’re at least ten feet below it, as far as I’ve ever been able to estimate. The tunnel was built in antiquity. It joins the Bouncing Stone Inn, the establishment I own, with the building we just left. It was used in ages past when some king, I forget which, decided it was a good idea to tax the sale of barrels of beer. So the inn, ah, shall we say, had necessity to transport the kegs more privately than by the front entrance which was often watched.”

  Caludreth chuckled, and then he coughed. “That was King Boraleas. He was a great grandson of the first king, and history remembers him poorly. But I bless his name tonight. Because of him, this tunnel was made.”

  They came to a door. Three times Menendil knocked on it, and then there was a long pause. Eventually it opened, and Norla stood before them, a knife in her hand.

  Her face was flushed with relief. “Welcome home, Mender.” It sounded like a simple greeting, but h
e heard the strain in her voice and knew how much she had worried for him.

  Menendil wanted to hug her, but Caludreth needed help, and quickly.

  “He’s been badly beaten,” he said.

  Her eyes shifted to their guest. In one glance, she took him in.

  “He’ll live, but a bit of attention won’t go astray.”

  Caludreth somehow managed a graceful bow, though he grimaced in pain as he did so.

  “Madam, you make a bit of attention sound like the greatest pleasure in Faladir at just this moment.”

  She winked at him. “If you can bow and compliment, you’ll certainly live. But let’s see if we can make you more comfortable.”

  There was a bed set up in the cellar. Menendil liked to nap there sometimes while he prepared ingredients for a brew, but tonight it would see a nobler purpose.

  They led Caludreth to lie down on it, and Norla busied herself assessing the man’s health. She had worked for a healer long ago, and she knew some of the trade. It was the best Caludreth could get because they dared not send for the local healer.

  “Three of my ribs are broken,” Caludreth said. “But I’ll recover.”

  “You had better,” Norla answered. “After what my husband risked for you.”

  Caludreth laughed. “I will. And I’ll be forever in his debt. And yours. And the men who fought out on the streets.”

  They cleaned him up then, as best as they could. They used wet cloths to remove the dried blood from his face, and they bandaged several of his wounds. It seemed the soldiers had been free with knives on him also, though no cut was deep. They had been careful to keep him alive for the king.

  Last of all they wrapped a wide bandage about his ribs, and gave him a mug of their strongest ale and half a loaf of bread. He ate and drank as though he had done neither for days, which was probably the truth.

  “Rest well for the remainder of the night,” Menendil said. “But tomorrow, before my workers return, we’ll get you into a room upstairs. You’ll be more comfortable there.”