The Sage Knight Page 3

  He felt uncomfortable, and changed the subject. “This man that we go to is a great swordsman, but what will he teach us? Was he once a knight? Will our training be the same as it was?”

  Kareste shook her head. “He’s not a knight, nor even from this region of Alithoras. What he will teach you, and how, will be far different from the Way of the Sword that the knights know.”

  Ferla came closer. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To learn how to fight differently from the knights, so that we have an advantage over them?”

  Kareste gave her an appraising glance. “That was Aranloth’s thinking. He has long trained the knights, and trained them a certain way. And when he was not training them, others who had been trained by him taught in his stead. What you will learn now, hopefully, will be something different. Something the knights aren’t used to. It will be a small advantage only, for they are highly skilled. But it will still be an advantage.”

  Faran knew they would need every advantage they could get. Lindercroft and the king must pay for the crimes they had committed, and now the blood of Aranloth himself demanded it.

  4. A Strange Rider

  The great mountain drew closer still, and the land about the travelers changed as they walked onward.

  Beneath their boots, there were now fewer signs of the battles that had ravished this place in antiquity. There were still artefacts sticking up from the soil where erosion had done its work, and bones too. But fewer of each.

  By the time they began to climb upward, traversing the lower rise of the mountain itself, all signs of battle disappeared. The soil changed from silty river deposits into a rich red color, and the grass grew less tall, being of a different variety.

  There was a path too, and Kareste led them to it and they followed its steep climb as it zigzagged up the mountain. It was level and smooth, and covered in short grass.

  “The elves made this,” Kareste said. “The top of the mountain was a lookout for them, and even at times the Halathrin generals directed battles from its plateau.”

  Faran wondered about that. The battles seemed to have been fought too far away from the mountain top for a general to communicate with an army, but who knew what magic the ancients employed, especially the elves. Legend said they could speak mind to mind. That, or something like it, might account for the problems of distance.

  The path, even though it was made so long ago, remained perfectly smooth. There was a camber in the middle that gently sloped to each side. This would shed water in times of heavy rain and help accessibility up or down the mountain even in bad weather. The higher side was lined by stones, and this would divert or slow water that ran off the mountain, while the lower side had no such barrier and allowed easy drainage of rain that fell on the path itself.

  It was a steep climb, but already the view was opening up. Sometimes they faced the top of the mountain, but the route wound and turned as it found the best way, and often they faced back toward the lower lands that they had come from.

  They kept a close watch as evening fell. It fell quickly too, for they were on the east side of the mountain. Yet there was no sign of any pursuit. If they had been lucky, then their trail away from the valley was undetected. No matter how well they hid it some trail would remain to follow, if the pursuer had sufficient skill. But for that, they would have to know where to start looking, and the boat had helped enormously there.

  Luck had played a role too. Rain had fallen on the night of their escape, and that may have obliterated their trail completely. Lindercroft would be searching, but without knowing even the direction his quarry had taken then the area to be searched was massive.

  It seemed that all had gone well for them, but Kareste still allowed no fires for fear of giving away their position. Especially, there would be no fire tonight on the side of the mountain. That would stand out for many miles.

  They set up camp, eating yet another cold meal. Faran was tired of them, but better cold food than cold steel in his belly. Or the dark sorcery of Lindercroft.

  Kareste seemed to read his thoughts. “One more night,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll strike for the top of the mountain, and hopefully reach it by dusk. Then, with luck, we’ll enjoy a warm fire and a place of shelter to rest unseen.”

  It was too early to sleep when they were done eating, and by the pale light of stars Faran and Ferla drew their swords and sharpened the blades. It had become a habit lately. It was a grim task, and they took it as a reminder that one day their blades would be used. Each slow stroke of the whetstones was like a step forward in their journey. Today, they fled; but one day they would attack and bring down vengeance upon murderers. And the king was one of them.

  Faran grimaced as he ran the stone down the blade. Who was he to bring justice to a Kingshield Knight, still less a king? Yet he knew that he would. Or would die trying.

  He saw the same determination in the dark gaze of Ferla. They had not really spoken about it, but they had not needed to. They understood each other, and they both felt the same way and knew it. The deed would be done, or at least attempted. If they did not try, then who would?

  The blades did not really seem to need sharpening. There was something in the magic of their making that kept the edges keen, no matter what sparring was done with them. They never chipped or even seemed to blunt.

  “Hsst!” Kareste suddenly exclaimed, and she stood up and looked out into the great ocean of dark beneath the mountain.

  “What is it?” Ferla asked.

  “Something. Nothing. A thing of the past, maybe,” Kareste answered mysteriously.

  It made no sense to Faran, but following her gaze he saw strange lights at play far below. At first he thought they had been found, and a column of soldiers marched toward them. But then more and more lights showed, dim and shadowy, and some came toward the mountain while others went away from it.

  “What is it?” Ferla asked.

  Faran’s skin went cold, and he felt a chill creep up the back of his neck. He remembered an old folktale about dead soldiers from both sides of a conflict fighting their last battle for eternity, their shades contending with one another by light of star and moon to be banished by sunlight at dawn. Yet each night they rose again from their unmarked graves…

  Kareste looked at him, and she grinned. “They mean us no harm. Especially you two who are their descendants.”

  Faran glanced at Ferla, and he saw understanding in her eyes as well. A long time they watched the phantom battles, too far away to see much and glad of the fact. But at length tiredness took them, and they lay down and slept. But Kareste did not. She kept watch for enemies, and long into the night she stood watching. And guarding.

  Even as Faran fell asleep, he was reminded of how alike she was to Aranloth. Steadfast and resolute. Tireless in her defense of them. Would she die for her nobility as well, just as Aranloth had? Would she sacrifice herself as the old man had done?

  He wished no one to die for him. But he and Ferla could not survive by themselves. Not yet. So they must train harder and learn faster. The sooner they could put themselves in a position where they were a threat to their enemies, the sooner they could transform from hunted into hunter. Then they could return to Faladir and attempt what must be done, and Kareste would be free to leave them to their destiny and follow hers instead.

  It rained again overnight, though it was a light shower only, and Faran slept through it. When he woke just before dawn, the lights on the fields below were gone, and he found the others awake before him.

  They broke camp quickly, barely taking the time to eat yet one more cold meal of their dwindling reserves, then moved off and climbed the great mountain again.

  The mountain was deceptive. It seemed so smooth and rounded from the distant vantage of the plains, but once upon it there were hidden folds and slopes, turning and twisting their way to the top. The path followed them, often taking them through areas of concealment and small valleys. In some of these there were trees, agai
n mostly not visible from a distance.

  Kareste led the way, and she hastened even though it was uphill. She had no desire to spend another night in the open, but even she slowed at times to look about her.

  At one point she came to a stop and looked around. They were in one of those small valleys, and this one was thickly grown with trees. They were pines, and the needle-like leaves of last year lay thick and brown on the valley floor. But where they had reached now, the trees had grown greater than any Faran had seen before. He saw the wonder in Ferla’s eyes, and for the first time in a long while a grin on Kareste’s face.

  “I have heard tell of this,” Kareste said. “These trees grow in a few places in Alithoras, a remnant Aranloth claimed of a once great forest that covered all the land, but I had not known there were any here.”

  Faran felt the awe of the place. These trees were massive. The bases of some were as big as a house, and the trunks rose, and rose higher, towering into the sky far above until it seemed their very tops were lost in the clouds.

  But the trees were not just massive. They were old. He felt that, and he felt magic deep in the soil. It was the natural magic of the earth, primal and powerful. It was no wonder that lòhrens were said to favor places such as this. The magic was strong beneath the earth, and the trees brought it forth into the air. It was a place of peace and tranquility, and legend said that when lòhrens grew weary of life they came to places such as this to live out their last years before dying. He believed it.

  “These trees stood during the elù-haraken,” Kareste said. “They bore witness to terrible battles and awesome magics. And perhaps they will again.”

  It was not clear exactly what she meant by her last words, but she began again up the trail and Faran and Ferla followed.

  The day wore on. They passed through several such valleys as the previous, where the mighty pines grew, but more often they traversed a steady slope, green grass to either side. As they came closer to the summit though, there were no more trees and the grass was shorter, receiving less warmth from the sun to grow.

  But these fields were often full of flowers, some tall and bright yellow, while others were small and white-blossomed, creeping through the grass on twining stems.

  Most of the plants Faran saw here were foreign to him, and he had no names for them. But he was beginning to like it. The mountain had a feel to it that was different to anywhere else he had ever been.

  “What is the name of the man who lives here?” Ferla asked.

  “Asana,” Kareste replied.

  Faran frowned at that. The name, like the mountain, was different from anything he was used to.

  “That’s not a Camar name,” he said.

  “Indeed not. Asana was born among the Cheng, and their lands are far, far to the north and west of us.”

  The Cheng, or at least the name, was familiar to Faran. They were popular in stories, and their fighting skill was legendary. But he had no more chance to talk to Kareste, for they had neared the summit of the mountain.

  It was late in the afternoon, and shadows lay over everything, for the setting sun was blocked by the mountain itself. Yet the trail went ahead, and it crested on the plateau just above.

  But they paused, for they saw a strange man there. Fierce he looked, and wild. Not least because he sat mounted upon a strange looking horse. No, Faran realized. Not a horse, but a mule, and that was something he had never seen before.

  “Welcome to Nuril Faranar,” the man said, adjusting the position of a wicked-looking axe that hung from a belt loop.

  5. Asana

  The travelers paused and took in this new figure. There was a sense of menace to him. He was wild as the mountain itself, and seemed unpredictable and dangerous. But he made no move against them.

  “Is that Asana?” whispered Faran.

  “Perhaps,” Kareste answered. “But I think not.”

  The lòhren walked ahead, but Faran noticed that she held her staff loosely in her hand, yet still ready for action.

  “May we come to the top?” Kareste called.

  The strange figure on the mule gave no answer. Instead, he nudged it backward from the crest and disappeared.

  Kareste did not hesitate, and strode upward. Faran and Ferla followed. In just a few moments they reached the plateau. It was not quite level atop the mountain, but it was close to it. And it was bigger than Faran would have believed if he had not seen it.

  There was room for a farm here, if only a small one. There were acres of grassland, and some trees. But these were fruit trees rather than anything wild. There were gardens also, both vegetable and ornamental, and everything was neat as could be. Even the vegetable rows were laid out with a precision that he had never seen before, arrow straight and weed free.

  He took in the view too. It was vast, stretching out in all directions, though the light was fading and he could not see some things clearly. But to the south, he saw the winding gleam of the Careth Nien, and to the south and west was the smudge on the horizon of a mighty forest that marched out of view toward the westering sun. That, he knew, was Halathar, the forest home of the immortal elves.

  He took all that in at a glance, but his gaze was swiftly drawn to the stranger. The wild man had dismounted from the mule, and he walked toward them.

  “Hey!” he said. “Did you see the ghosts fight last night? It was a good show! I nearly went down among them.”

  “We did,” Kareste said, and she leant upon her staff as she spoke just like Aranloth used to. Faran felt tears swell in his eyes and fought them back.

  “Does that happen every night?” Kareste continued.

  “Hardly,” the wild man said. “It’s hard to predict. Sometimes it’s every night in the week. Other times a month might pass. The dead have no sense of time, I guess. I envy them though.”

  “How so?”

  The strange man looked at Kareste as though she were a simpleton.

  “What’s better than a good fight? A man knows he’s alive when the blades flash in the air. Even the dead must feel that.”

  Kareste grinned at him, but Faran was not so sure she agreed. Maybe she just liked him for all his oddness. Or maybe she was just being careful.

  “My name is—”

  “I know who you are,” the wild man interrupted, scratching his armpit. “You’re Kareste, a lòhren. And you bring with you Ferla and Faran. Two who seek training in the arts of the Cheng.”

  Kareste showed no surprise, and Faran admired her for that. It was not possible that this man knew who they were or what they wanted. Yet he did.

  “And would you be Asana, the swordsman?”

  The strange man laughed at that, and he slapped his thighs and shook his axe in the air by turns, dancing a little jig.

  Faran watched him, and wondered if he were sane.

  “That’s a fine jest!” the man exclaimed at length. “At least I think so. Asana might not, though. I fear he wouldn’t see the funny side of it. He rarely does.”

  The man slipped the axe back in its loop and went back for his mule. However strange he seemed, he was an athlete. He mounted the mule in one smooth motion and Faran got the feeling that he could wield that axe of his to deadly effect.

  “I’m Kubodin,” he said, looking down at them with a grin. “I’ll take you to the master. He sent me to greet you, but I think you could have found the way by yourselves. But he’s like that. He’s one for politeness, he is.”

  He nudged the mule forward, and they fell in beside him. The day was dying around them, but there was still light enough to see.

  Faran saw no sign of a house or cottage. None at all. Yet there were gardens everywhere of all sorts, and paths through them. Nor were the gardens just for beauty or food. As night settled around them, scents filled the air from various flowers, or arose from the leaves of bushes on the edges of the path that they brushed as they passed. Or even of small plants that they trod underfoot.

  They reached the heart of the platea
u, and the stars kindled to life in the dark sky above as the glow of the setting sun faded in the west. Here, there was a circle of trees.

  They were pines, but not the massive variety that grew in the valleys on the mountain slopes. These were just like them, and old they seemed, yet they grew upward only the span of three men.

  Kubodin dismounted, and he led them forward on foot from here.

  The path was well trodden, though like everything else it was extraordinarily neat. Shrouded by some bushes was a small corral where Kubodin led the mule and released him. The bushes were positioned so as to allow the sun into the enclosure during winter but to offer shade in summer. There was also a small area, roofed and walled on three sides, for shelter during bad weather.

  Kubodin lifted some wooden rails in place to close the corral.

  “I’ll take you to the master now.”

  Faran looked around, and he felt uneasy. There was nothing else here. But Kubodin merely grinned at him, and beckoned everyone to follow.

  He did not go far. There was a small outcrop of rock close by, thrust up from the mountain. Here Kubodin looked back at them, and he offered something that might have been a bow, but it looked ill-practiced.

  “Welcome to our humble house.” Then he fiddled with something shoulder high on the stone outcrop. It sat on some sort of rugged shelf, and then light sprang up from a lantern.

  Even so, the opening was still hard to see. But there was one there, wide and tall enough for a man to pass through. This Kubodin proved, taking the lantern with him and disappearing inside.

  Kareste merely shrugged and followed after. Faran and Ferla looked at each other, and he could see that she was not overly pleased. No doubt she hoped for better shelter than a cave, but beggars could not be choosers as the saying went.

  He followed her inside, and was immediately surprised. This was no cave, but a tunnel. The walls were perfectly smooth, and it was now wide enough for a small group of people to walk through side by side. The floor was not of natural stone. It was laid with oven-baked tiles, and there were mosaics of different colors and designs. Some were geometric patterns, but often there were images of trees, flowers, birds and beasts. Some were of types that Faran had never seen before.