The Sworn Knight Page 7

  “Follow!” Savanest commanded, and he and the soldiers followed the hound as it raced ahead.

  Through the stone, Savanest knew the were-hound had found what was sought. With his mind, he restrained it at times so it would not get too far ahead of the men.

  The chase was begun, and it would end swiftly now. But what to do when he found his enemies? This had puzzled Savanest for a while, but he knew now the answer.

  The rest could be killed. But Ferla, the seventh knight, would have a different fate. She would serve the king to replace Lindercroft that she had slain. If the were-stone could change a man into a beast, then the Morleth Stone could transform her from a Kingshield Knight into a Morleth Knight. Of that, he had no doubt.

  10. The Magic of the Land

  Ferla led Asana and Kubodin, but a fourth traveler came with them. Fear.

  They knew it was but a matter of time before the enemy sought them out. Likely, they would find a trail. All this would take time, and should they get enough of a start then they would not be found. Rain and weather would obscure their tracks. Eventually, they would reach lands that were better suited to hiding their passing. A creek that they could cross, or better yet ride a raft down to hide their trail completely, would give them confidence.

  But they had none of these things as yet. The plains were not good ground to hide a trail, and they did not know how far away the enemy was and what time they might have to try different tactics.

  And the words of the dragon had been disconcerting. It was clear that it was about to give some warning before they broke its magic. But a warning about what? Not that it could be believed. According to legend, most dragons had a heart of evil and joyed in malice and deception. But their wisdom was also deep, and their knowledge of the past and the future far reaching.

  So it was that Ferla used all her hunter’s skill to try to hide their trail, and even Asana and Kubodin, no strangers at all to travel in the wild, admired her talent.

  She found hard ground, where she could, that left little remnant of their passing. When she did so, she changed direction. If there was a cluster of trees, however small, she entered it. Not because it would hide their trail but because anyone who pursued would have to go in there too. That would slow them down, for every time they would have to prepare against the chance of ambush.

  The same applied when she entered any of the small gulleys that crisscrossed the plains. They were good places for an ambush, and she deliberately ensured their trail was easy to find here. That would make it appear as though she wanted the trail to be found, again triggering an instinct in anyone who pursued that a trap might have been set.

  There were animal trails to follow as well. Deer inhabited this region, though their tracks were slightly different from those she was used to. But walking along such a trail helped hide their passage, and being places that deer frequented, it was also possible that they would return afterward and obscure the trail further.

  Best of all though was the discovery of a wild herd of cattle.

  “Aurochs,” Asana had informed her. There had been no herds near Dromdruin, but she had heard tales of them. They were said to be large, far larger than farmed cattle, and looking at the tracks this herd had left behind she believed it.

  It was a great stroke of fortune though, for the herd was large, and she followed the passage of their grazing for miles and veered away to follow them where they watered. Only the best of trackers could follow a trail through that, but she broke away from the aurochs on a flat bit of hard ground, and here she even took the time to double back with a fallen branch and remove the slight signs of their passing.

  Kubodin said nothing, but he grinned at her. He was less happy at her next trick though, for it required more effort. Not that he was walking. In his case the effort would be his mule’s, but he still did not like it.

  “We need to split up,” she told them. “Only for a little way at a time. But the more we do that, even if we regroup soon after, the more anyone who follows us has to divide their forces and follow all three trails. Or decide at least which of the three trails to follow. Either way, once again it will slow them down.”

  Several days like this passed. Nuril Faranar was no longer visible, and the grasslands began to change. There were no signs of the battles that had plagued the lands closer to the mountain, and the terrain became more undulating. If they were being followed, they saw no sign of it either in the air or along their backtrail.

  They set up camp one morning in one of the largest clusters of trees they had yet found. It was a little forest, perhaps a half mile by a half mile, and in its center was a glade with a hollow full of water. It was little more than a spring, but the water was fresh and clear, and they drank deeply from it before settling down to eat.

  When they were done, they talked a little while as they often did and made plans for the next night. Not that it would be much different from the one they had just passed.

  Asana stirred and glanced at Kubodin. “I have been thinking,” he said.

  Kubodin raised an eyebrow, “I hear nobles do that a lot. At least they exercise one part of their body.”

  He looked embarrassed after saying that, for he had now been revealed as a noble himself, and his old repertoire of jokes would need to be changed.

  Asana ignored it, though there was the hint of a smile on his face.

  “You are a free man, Kubodin. You have long since paid any debt to me, not that I claimed one in the first place.”

  “If I’m a free man, then I can keep on doing as I have been doing.”

  “That’s true,” Asana replied. “But it’s a matter of choice, and you have it. Should you wish, you could return to your homeland and press a claim for leadership of your clan. There must be many now who know what your brother did, and I will aid you, if you wish, against him.”

  Kubodin was thoughtful. “Maybe it’s as you say,” he said at length. “Or maybe not. I have a claim for the chieftainship, but my brother isn’t the type to relinquish rule easily. Now that he has it, it’ll be held in an iron grip and nothing will prise it loose.”

  “To quote a proverb,” Asana said, “when one sword is drawn, a thousand are unsheathed.”

  Ferla had not heard that saying before, but she understood its meaning readily enough. If Kubodin acted, there would be support for him somewhere in the clan. Those disadvantaged by the corruption of his brother would stand to gain by backing Kubodin. But likewise, those who were advantaged by the corruption would stand with his brother.

  “It is something to think about, anyway,” Asana continued.

  Kubodin grinned. “I’ll think on it. I often think on it. Every time you see me sharpening my axe, you can be assured I’m thinking on it.” His grin became even fiercer, and Ferla was suddenly glad he was a friend. She would not want him as an enemy.

  “Tell us about your magic,” she asked suddenly. “You never mentioned that in your story.”

  The little man lifted up his axe and looked hard at the twin blades.

  “My magic is nothing like yours,” he said quietly. “It’s not spoken of much in my clan, but there are those of us who learned the secrets. I was one. The shaman another. He is greater in lore than I am, but he doesn’t have this axe.”

  Ferla understood. The magic he possessed was one thing, but the magic of the axe was something else.

  The little man sat thoughtful for a while. “The magic among my people is different from yours. We are part of the Cheng Empire of old, but there were many, many clans that went into that. Our people are older than the Cheng, and our lore is different. Mind you, theirs is a lot closer to ours than yours. But we are the older people, and we learned the mysteries before the Cheng even thought to move out of their caves and build cities.”

  Ferla looked at Asana while Kubodin spoke, but she saw no sign of the normal game between them. This was no idle chatter or bantering. Kubodin meant what he said, and there was no sign that Asana disagreed. I
t reminded her how little she knew of the Cheng Empire.

  “This is what we believe,” Kubodin said, and he spoke in a reverent tone. “There are spirits who dwell in the sky and land and waters. Gods, you might call them. But we don’t think of them so. They are powers, and they have great magic, but they seldom interfere in the affairs of men. Quarrelsome, they call us. A nuisance. But be that as it may, if coaxed in the right ways, through special prayers, they deign to assist us. At least, if it suits them.”

  It was a concept that Aranloth had once told her and Faran about, but Ferla wished she had been listening more intently. No doubt Faran was. He enjoyed learning this lore more than she did.

  “So those times when you have used magic,” she asked, “I had thought you were chanting a spell but you were really praying?”

  “Exactly. I cast no spells. I just open myself up to the forces of air, land and water. Through me they work their power, if they choose. For that matter, I don’t really need to even say the words. They hear me when I think them, and that’s enough. But I find saying the words helps me.”

  Ferla did recall something that Aranloth said. He had not been sure if their magic was as different from lòhrengai as they thought. It might even be the same thing, and who was to say if the gods even existed, or if the invocation of power came from the magician himself?

  Kubodin grinned. “Sometimes the gods don’t answer at all. They might be busy elsewhere.”

  That was not so reassuring. Twice now, the little man’s magic had proved vital. But it was not the only magic he had at his call.

  “And the axe?” she asked.

  “Ah, that’s a different thing. A long time it’s belonged to my people, and to my family especially. It has a bad reputation. Dark deeds have been done with it. Very dark. Then again, in our hills the ways of old still prevail. It’s a tough land, and people make hard choices. It might just be that those who carried it were hard men, shaped by their times. Not necessarily bad.”

  “Such weapons are rumored to influence the minds of men,” Asana put in. “We have them too. They are feared, and rightly so. But it is said strong men prevail against them. I have seen no sign that you are swayed by the axe.”

  “Nor have I,” Kubodin agreed. “But sometimes I swear it talks to me, and sometimes I see it in my dreams. But I use it seldom in battle, and it may be that the less I use it the more protection against its influence I have.”

  Ferla frowned. They spoke of the axe as though it were alive.

  “May I touch it, Kubodin?”

  The little man looked at her dubiously for a moment, and then handed it over. It was strange that she had never held it before, but as soon as she felt the long handle in her hand, she knew why.

  The axe was like no weapon she had seen before. It was lighter than it looked, and the metal of the blades was dark, as though stained with ancient blood. It felt good in her hands, and suddenly she felt a thirst for battle and the joy of slaying. Almost she could see the wild hills that were Kubodin’s home, and an endless struggle of clan against clan and raids and fights and the spilling of blood. She had a sense of its history, and she sensed also that there was some restless spirit in the blades. It was more than metal and wood. Discord, Kubodin called it, and that name was apt.

  She shuddered, and handed it back. Kubodin took it, and looked at her knowingly. He knew what she had sensed. What powers it had, she could not deduce. But she knew he understood them well. The axe was by his side each and every day.

  11. The Old Blood

  Menendil sat upon the bench outside the Bouncing Stone, and he soaked up the morning sun. It was close to opening time now, and regardless that he expected few customers today, nothing could dim his good mood. He had soaked up more than just the sun.

  It had been over a day since Caludreth had been freed, and much had happened. All morning, he had sat here. And all morning he had received various reports from his lieutenants. One by one they came to him, as though by accident, and they appeared to sit down next to him to pass the time of day before going on their way again.

  But his informants had brought him valuable news. It was not all good. Nine men had died to free Caludreth. He had known some of them, but nine was a small number given the task they had attempted. Each death weighed on him, but they had all known going in that some would die. Most had anticipated about thirty deaths, so the result was better than expected. Good planning was the cause of that.

  The better news was that no one had been taken prisoner. That had always been a great risk, but the way he had divided the men up into small sections that did not know the whole Hundred would have ensured that not everyone was given up under torture, and tortured they certainly would have been. Better to have died, and he hoped the same for himself if it came to that. He would not fare well in the king’s dungeons. Not with his wife being tortured first so that he would reveal what he knew.

  But their risk had been worth it. The Hundred had freed Caludreth, and the king had no clue where he was.

  It was said the king was furious. He had thrown a tantrum in the throne room, yelling and screaming until foam flew from his mouth. The man had gone mad, which was small wonder. It was said that use of the Morleth Stone did that, but there must also have been a weakness there originally. Otherwise he would not have used the stone in the first place.

  But there were ramifications. All night, the Night Fliers, the name many in the city had given to elù-draks, had circled the skies and screamed. No one had gone abroad, and fear ran wild in the city. They made no appearance during the day though.

  But terror roamed the streets in daylight too, if not as badly. Soldiers had marched incessantly, striding ahead and thumping their way through the city sending fear before them. That was their purpose. So too the elù-draks. Both were displays intended to cower the populace and show them who was in control.

  It worked, at least on the surface. But all the displays of power could not stop word from spreading. Caludreth, one of the old Kingshield Knights, a man admired and respected, a man that was a threat to the king himself, had been rescued from the custody of the king’s soldiers. News of that had spread to all quarters of the city, and hope, if hidden, bloomed in every heart.

  The king could not stamp that out. Not easily. It would take time. But it was not enough by itself, however good a start it was. What was needed now was to build on that, but Menendil was not sure how. The more he thought about it, the more he drew a blank. But whatever happened next, it laid the foundation for the coming of the seventh knight.

  Everything was for the seventh knight. Everything hinged on him. That was the prophesy of old, and Menendil believed it.

  He had always believed it. But it had been good to hear Caludreth say it was so, and even better to learn that he had met him.

  It had happened in Nurthil Wood, apparently. The lòhren Aranloth, and a second lòhren, had brought a young man and a young woman to the forest in search of refuge. Knight Lindercroft had been hunting them. Caludreth had been clear that no precise reason had been given. But he had pieced it together, given news of the fall of the knights at the same time.

  Lindercroft had been tracking down the young man specifically, but there was something about the girl as well that drew Caludreth’s attention. What it was, he could not say. But he did have the instinct of a knight. At any rate, he was sure that one of them was the seventh knight. Why else would Lindercroft be after them? Why else would no less than two lòhrens be protecting them?

  Caludreth had said the young man and woman had come from Dromdruin Village. That was a type of confirmation as well. It was not widely known now, and Caludreth had not mentioned it, but Menendil’s own father had been a knight. He had told him once that Dromdruin was the birthplace of many a Kingshield Knight, and that the old blood ran strongly there. The first king’s own brother was said to have established a summer manor there and to have lived out his life establishing the province, and many were the heroes out
of the Shadowed Wars who served him there. It would not be a surprise at all if that land gave rise to not just a knight, but the seventh knight.

  Menendil sighed. It was all guesswork, yet still there had been another type of confirmation. This one had been circulated in the city for quite some time.

  Word had spread widely that raiders had infiltrated into the realm and robbed and burned Dromdruin Village, killing everyone there in the process. The king himself had said that to his ministers, and from them that story had gone out among the people. Yet the raiders were never identified, nor a reason given they would attack a simple village with little to no wealth. Now, Menendil knew better. It was an attempt to hide the truth. The king himself had ordered the destruction and murder, and he had done so to try to eliminate the seventh knight. It was typical politics, but that made it no better.

  What should be done now though? That was the question Menendil asked of himself, but he found no answer. Caludreth had been rescued. Hope swept through the city, but the Hundred had no plans to utilize that sentiment to advantage. That must change, and soon.

  He stood up slowly. He liked it out here in the sun, but it was time to go inside. The inn would open shortly, but before that he would talk to Caludreth. The man was a knight after all, and well versed in politics and strategy. What would his solution to the problem be?

  Menendil found him in his room. He seldom left during the day, lest someone recognize him. He had shaved his moustache and cut his hair short so as to lessen the chances of that. And he wore poor quality clothing as well. But the best way to avoid being recognized was not to be seen. Certainly, he never entered the common room downstairs where the patrons drank.

  “Have a chair, my friend,” the once-knight offered.

  Menendil took the one offered, and Caludreth pulled up his own. He sat in the manner of a soldier, the back of the chair before him and his hands resting on its top. Menendil sat the same way. Old habits died hard, and this was a simple means of placing a protective barrier between yourself and the person you spoke to. Even if it was unnecessary, it was just the way soldiers were. A few years of training became a lifetime’s instinct.