First Rider's Call

by Kristen Britain

  The sentience slumped to a rest, settling into a muddy pool to stew over its situation. It found itself recalling memories of Hadriax. Hadriax hunting wild boar in the imperial forest. Handsome Hadriax whom all the ladies admired. They had shared many good times together, running and darting about the court square as boys, and wading in the fountains . . .

  I miss him. Oh, Hadriax, I wish you were here. I loved you well.

  ARMOR

  After Karigan’s ride, Bluebird looked better than she had seen him in a long time. He even took to his feed with exuberance afterwards. The ride had done all three of them good.

  As she untacked Condor and brushed him down, she expected soldiers to arrive at any moment to take her before General Harborough for judgment on her act of insubordination. When none came, she returned to her quarters in the east wing of the castle to wait.

  She swung her legs over the edge of her high canopied bed. The suite was huge, with an attached private bathing room. She had spent many blissful hours soaking in the deep tub.

  Hangings draped the walls, and the furnishings were of the highest quality. The merchant in her prompted her to inspect the makers’ marks on several of the pieces, and she was impressed to find them made by some of the best mastercraftsmen the kingdom had to offer. She was afraid the Riders, herself included, would be so spoiled by the luxury that they’d refuse to move to the new Rider wing, with its comparatively spartan chambers.

  She waited for hours, and still no one came to arrest her. Even Cummings hadn’t sent his usual schedule of meetings for her to attend. She laid back on the cushy feather mattress with her hands clasped behind her head, and stared at the flowery pattern of the canopy above.

  Her mind wandered back to Bluebird and how he had declined after the captain’s collapse. She knew animals got depressed when missing their masters. Her very own cat, Dragon, had always sensed when she was sick or unhappy, and would curl up beside her, purring his heart out to comfort her.

  Yet, the messenger horses went beyond that, or so it seemed to her. If he were an ordinary horse, Bluebird would have eventually gotten over the captain’s absence, but he hadn’t. This thought led her to Crane, who had guarded Ereal’s body. Even Condor had found her after her traveling at Watch Hill. No ordinary horse would have done that.

  And now, Night Hawk would not leave the breach in the D’Yer Wall, as if on a vigil, hopelessly waiting for Alton’s return.

  She closed her eyes against the pain the thoughts brought back to her, but she only saw images of Night Hawk at the wall, pining away as he waited for something that would never happen. She remembered how Alton had looked in the Mirror of the Moon. He had been sick, yes, but not dead. He had been near the wall.

  She drifted into sleep thinking maybe Night Hawk had the right of it, that maybe there was a reason to wait.

  In a dream, she played about the fountains of a court square with a boy, much to the vexation of the adults around them, but they were indulgent enough not to reprimand them. Even the soldiers on guard tolerated the children running about their legs. Of course, the soldiers had no choice, for they must stand at attention no matter what, until their commander ordered otherwise.

  And, most certainly, no one would interfere with the emperor’s favored one.

  She—Alessandros—and Hadriax played with toy sailing boats in the fountains, getting sopping wet in the process. Their nurse scolded them, but she had little success in diminishing their boyish exuberance.

  Alessandros pushed his sailboat into the fountain. It was a marvel of detail down to the rigging and the mermaid figurehead, the winter’s work of the finest ship-wright in all the empire.

  “I’m going to sail around the whole world,” he declared.

  “Me, too,” said Hadriax.

  “ ’Course you are. We shall rule the whole world.”

  Hadriax beamed at him, his best friend. In fact, the only friend he was allowed to play with. A foundling he was, but tolerated because Alessandros had taken a fancy to him. The emperor humored his heir, but regarded Hadriax as little more than a “pet,” a playmate for a lonely little boy surrounded by adults. Hadriax had been taken into the household, and was fed, clothed, and tutored, all for the service he provided in keeping Alessandros company.

  Alessandros’ sailboat, caught in a gust, surged toward the powerful spray of the fountain. Fearing it would be swamped and ruined, he stepped into the fountain after it. The bottom of the fountain was slippery, and he lost his footing. Down he went, cracking his head on the fountain’s edge, surging beneath the water, unable to see or breathe, thrashing; the dark, the dark . . .

  Then sunshine, and Hadriax’s face above his, helping to get the water out of his stomach.

  For saving him, the emperor presented Hadriax with a medal, and the county of Fextaigne. Before the imperial court, garbed more richly than ever before, Hadriax swore himself forever loyal to the future emperor of Arcosia, to forever be his friend and protector. From a foundling, he had arisen to an aristocrat just like that. Throughout the years, his loyalty and friendship remained undiminished.

  Oh, Hadriax, I wish you were here. I loved you well.

  She awoke from her nap with a start, the words lingering in her mind. Dream, or memory? She was confused. Sharp pain rippled through her left arm, and she rubbed it till it subsided.

  She arose, drowsy, but feeling she must go to the wall. Why? She shook her head. For Alton, of course. That was it. If there was a chance he was still alive . . .

  She threw on her shortcoat and put a comb through her hair. She would ask the king to give her leave to go to the wall. Surely he wouldn’t deny her.

  She stepped out of her fine room into an empty corridor, empty save for the ever-present suits of armor that lined the walls and brooded over all who passed. Where were all the flesh and blood guards that usually patrolled these halls? In between shifts, maybe . . .

  The suits of armor made her feel edgy, watched. Empty and hollow of life they might be, there was yet something menacing about them. Maybe it was their simulated human shape and the shadowed regard of eye slits.

  Karigan never failed to think of them as a strange form of decoration, but she knew they served to remind all who saw them of the kingdom’s martial strength. Some suits had been the battle armor of great knights, and others gifts to Sacoridia’s rulers from other nations. Those standing in the diplomatic wing tended to be more ornate, of blued steel, gilded with scrolling patterns and mythical creatures. They were parade armor, once donned to impress other courtiers, not to serve as a defense on the field of battle.

  The suit standing guard beside Karigan’s door was enameled with a shiny black veneer, with minimal gold trim ornamenting it. A halberd etched with armorial devices had been posed in its gauntlets.

  Karigan had grown accustomed to its presence, and spared it nary a glance, instead thinking ahead on precisely how she would phrase her request to King Zachary to convince him he must send her to the wall.

  Declaring, I think Night Hawk knows Alton is alive! would at best sink her credibility in the king’s eyes, the last thing she wanted.

  As she lingered there outside her door, she heard metal grind against metal. She glanced up and down the corridor. Nothing moved, nothing was out of place. Silence reigned.

  She was hearing things, she decided, but as she prepared to step away, she heard it again. She darted her gaze to the black armor beside her. Was its helm tilted at a slightly different angle?

  Impossible.

  She shook her head to dismiss it, but on the trailing edge of her vision, she saw a gauntlet rotate in its armored cuff.

  Karigan wheeled to gaze full upon the suit of armor. To her astonishment, it straightened with a clatter from its somewhat slumped posture.

  If Tegan was having one on her—

  Before she could lift the visor of its helm to find out, the suit jerked its arms above its helm, raising its halberd high, and then cleaved downward.


  Only quick reflexes saved Karigan. She hopped away as the halberd skimmed the air where she had stood. The ax blade sliced into the thick carpet.

  As she backed away, her heart threatening to hammer right through her rib cage, an ominous clamor arose behind her. To her horror, helms on other suits of armor swiveled as though to look upon her. Hinges creaked as elbows bent. Swords shifted in gauntlets, maces and war hammers were raised, and polearms hoisted. Knee plates pivoted as the armor took its first shuddering steps. Mail skirts jingled like rain against leg armor.

  The magic in the air was almost palpable. It tingled about her brooch, and the wild magic writhed restlessly in her arm, twining down to her wrist like a serpent.

  The black armor rattled as it advanced on her with halberd poised to strike. She skittered away, but now she had to avoid all the other suits that had come to life. They seemed bent on closing in on her and she knew she must escape or be slain.

  She dashed for a gap between two suits before it could be closed, praying that speed would serve her. With only a few steps to spare she slipped between the two suits of armor, and was past them.

  A glance over her shoulder revealed one of the suits responding to her passage with agonizing slowness. It turned, battering its companion with its mace, knocking it over with a resounding crash.

  Karigan hesitated no longer, and hurtled down the stairs to the main floor where she might get help to deal with the armor come to life, but when she reached the landing, she was greeted by utter pandemonium.

  Servants and nobles alike fled in every direction, screaming and shouting, some weeping. Soldiers jogged by, bearing away a bleeding comrade.

  A suit of armor, helm missing, creaked, clanked, and rattled down the corridor after them, swinging its poleax indiscriminately. It smashed a side table to pieces, and nearly beheaded a terrified servant.

  “Five hells,” Karigan whispered, thinking she should have prolonged her nap.

  Jointed steel plates screeched as other suits of armor awakened and staggered from their places along the walls. One knocked down a soldier with a mace. Guards rushed over to assist their companion.

  Not knowing what else to do, Karigan struck out for the throne room. If nothing else, the king would be organizing defenses against this bizarre attack, and she could lend her help where needed.

  She charged down the corridor, dodging others fleeing from armor. Soldiers did what they could to stop the errant armor, using their swords as cudgels. The din was deafening. The suits of armor mindlessly lurched forward, impervious to the battering.

  She came dangerously close to one suit of armor, which thrust its long sword at her. She scuttled out of its reach, so close to being disemboweled that the sword slashed her shortcoat.

  She pressed herself flat into an alcove to avoid another swinging polearm and to catch her breath. The armor targeted anything and everything, even the very walls. One suit clunked into a wall, stepped back, clunked into the wall again, and stepped back, never averting its path. Another found her in the alcove. She ducked under its arm as its war hammer shattered a statue on a pedestal beside her.

  She continued her race toward the throne room, leaping a suit of armor the soldiers had successfully dismantled. It was a nightmarish journey, running through a gauntlet of rushing steel, and a mindless but powerful enemy.

  The throne room doors were wide open and several melees were in progress when she entered, both soldiers and Weapons engaged in combat. The king stood upon the dais, defending himself and his advisors with Sperren’s staff of office from a mace-wielding suit of armor. Sperren quailed behind the throne, and Colin lay sprawled motionless across the dais steps.

  The mace cracked on the staff. The king, relieved of his heavy mantle, moved with the grace and skill he had displayed during their swordplay. He beat the armor with powerful strokes that would have felled any living, breathing opponent.

  With a jab of the staff’s haft, the armor’s helm went flying, but the rest of it kept coming, undeterred. The mace flashed at the king, and he blocked it with the staff, which splintered to pieces in his hands. The king staggered back, now weaponless.

  Without a single clear thought in her head, Karigan sprinted the length of the throne room, gathering speed and momentum, and leaped on the armor, grappling her arms around it and sending it off balance. It crashed to the floor, fell apart in her arms, and the life went out of it, except for one steel gauntlet that scraped toward her like an inch-worm. The king kicked it away.

  “Karigan!” he cried, lifting plates of armor off her and tossing them aside. “Are you all right?”

  She groaned. Her whole body throbbed, and she knew the worst of the aches and pains were yet to come. She definitely should have prolonged her nap.

  The king knelt beside her. “Karigan?” His voice was urgent with concern.

  She stared back at him, stupefied. “I—” she began.

  “Yes?”

  She swallowed. “I’m going to have,” she said, her voice wry, “some interesting bruises.”

  He laughed suddenly, clearly relieved. Then just as suddenly, he sobered. “That was a very brave thing you did. Thank you.”

  Others might have told her she had been foolish for endangering herself, but he did not. Others might have trivialized her act by claiming they had the situation in hand all along, but he did not.

  When Karigan looked inward, she realized she acted out of fear for the king, not bravery. Fear, pure and simple. She couldn’t have just stood by while he was weaponless against the enemy. While fear might have paralyzed others, it made her act, confirming what the Mirror of the Moon had revealed to her about herself.

  “Will you be all right for a moment?” the king asked. “I must see to Colin—”

  His face and presence had so filled her vision and mind, the clamor of the fighting had fallen into the distant background. When he shifted, she caught the glint of steel over his shoulder.

  “No!” she cried.

  She wrapped her arms around him, and rolled him onto his back. She sheltered him with her own body, clenching her eyes shut in anticipation of the battle ax that would cleave through her spine. She waited an eternity.

  “Karigan—” the king’s voice rumbled beneath her. “Karigan, as much as I’m enjoying this, I can’t breathe.”

  She cracked her eyes open and realized she held him in a death grip. Hastily she rolled off him.

  Helping hands lifted her to her feet. Weapons surrounded them and assisted the king to rise as well. The throne room was significantly quieter. Suits of armor stood in various positions, frozen in time, weapons caught in mid-swing. The armor that had come upon her and the king stood with its ax at its apex. Thinking about the old but sharp blade hacking into her spine made her lightheaded.

  The Weapons caught her and supported her.

  “The messenger service is wasted on this one,” said Donal. “She has the mettle to join the Black Shields.”

  Other Weapons chimed in with their approval, and though light-hearted banter ensued, it held an earnest ring to it.

  “I rather like her in green,” the king said, and he winked at her.

  He took complete charge of the throne room. Colin was borne off to the mending wing by Weapons, and he ordered every suit of armor in the castle to be disarmed, dismantled, and locked up in the armory.

  It was time, he told Karigan as an aside, for a change of decor anyway.

  Runners and soldiers came in and out of the throne room updating him on conditions elsewhere. There had been some smashed furniture, but surprisingly few injuries, and thankfully no deaths.

  Karigan thought he looked splendid directing the work, with his shoulders erect, and his fine waistcoat and cravat all in place, none the worse for the day’s events. She, on the other hand, felt battered and disheveled, and somehow inadequate.

  When the soldiers carried out the last piece of armor, the king sat wearily on the top step of his dais, and patted the space n
ext to him for her to sit. When she did so, he loosed a long, heartfelt sigh.

  “It seems,” he said slowly, “that the magic that has afflicted other regions has finally found its way here. Would you agree?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how to counteract it. It is beyond me—I am a king, but not a great mage who would know what to do.”

  Karigan realized he was revealing to her what he would have admitted only to Captain Mapstone.

  “Somebody could have been killed,” he continued, “and I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.”

  Karigan licked her lips, hoping what she planned to say would come out well. “I know you take the responsibility upon your shoulders for this. But the truth of the matter is, you’re right, you haven’t the tools necessary to deal with the wild magic. The answer is . . . It’s the same as it has always been: to fix the D’Yer Wall, to stop the influx of tainted wild magic.”

  He shook his head. “We’ve little hope of it now, with the passing of Alton and his uncle.”

  Karigan swallowed hard, but did not falter. “Excel lency, I wish to have your permission to—to go to the wall. I have a feeling about this—that Alton may yet live.”

  He glanced at her, startled. “Karigan, please, I know how difficult it is to accept—”

  “No. I mean, I think it’s reasonable, that Alton may still be alive, and that we should try to find him. I suspect he is our best chance of mending the wall.”

  “I see.” The king’s demeanor hardened a little, as if he were faced with something he had no wish to hear. “What has you convinced Alton still lives?”

  “I’m not convinced he is alive.” She tried to tread safe ground, trying to sound as rational as possible to better her chances of him believing her. “But I have also made some observations about messenger horses. I think they know, that they can somehow sense, what condition their Rider is in.”