The Sorcerer Knight

by Robert Ryan

  “Osahka,” Druilgar said softly. “Heal me, for I am hurt.”

  And the stone answered back. Its voice echoed in his mind like the combined voice of a choir, single, but made up of many.

  Heal thyself, First Knight. I shall show thee the way.

  Druilgar saw then a vision. A shining light lay over his mind, and the brightness of it hurt him. But a cooling darkness came, and it dulled the light.

  The vision faded, and Druilgar summoned his magic. Uttering a word of power, he drew it into his mind, and there he transformed into the same darkness the vision had shown him.

  His pain faded away. He was not sure, but it seemed to him that it went into the stone, and something of the stone passed into him. That might be, for no magic created anything. It took the energy of something that was there, and transformed it.

  Now we must speak, brother to brother.

  Druilgar listened, and the stone whispered things that he did not know. And it spoke of the sundering, and the forces unleashed when the Shadow Hunter had died, and the Ring of stones that Aranloth had used to Travel the void.

  And Druilgar laughed at the end, and he replied to the stone.

  “At last, Aranloth has met his match. His end will be fitting.”

  11. The Magic of their Making

  The wave rolled toward Faran. It was not quite water. Nor was it only darkness. It was made of both, and magic infused it and the leering faces of the harakgar grew larger within it.

  This was how he would die. And those with him. But even as he thought that he stiffened. He would die one day, but not like this. He was a man, and he had the strength of will of one. He was descended from a Kingshield Knight, and courage flared within him.

  He flung up his hand, palm out. “Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see!” he cried, and the full force of his will went into the words.

  The rolling wave crashed and boomed as though it had hit a cliff face, and that cliff face was Faran’s will. Water foamed and seethed, repelled backward in a shifting maelstrom of confusion and disarray. The darkness within it splintered and disappeared.

  So too the harakgar, and when their faces were gone, so was the illusion of the wave.

  But the harakgar rose from the floor again, seeming to drip with water. Yet they stood there only, and made no move to attack.

  Faran pointed at them. He was tired of their presence and their constant threat.

  “Go!” he said. “There is something that follows us. Seek it and kill it. Go!”

  And the harakgar went. They grew wings and sped through the air, flying well above Faran and his companions and hurtling away into the darkness beyond.

  Faran looked at his companions to see that all was well, and Kareste gazed back at him, her eyes intense as she studied him.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and he led them forward.

  They marched ahead through the dreary passages. But as commanded, he ever found a way that led upward. He must have been lucky to keep picking the right pathways, for Kareste never said anything. But after some while his legs began to ache and he looked back at the two carrying the stretcher. They were doing it tougher than he was.

  “Time for a rest, I think.”

  No one disagreed with him. Gently, they lowered Aranloth down and sat in a corridor. They were, as always, among the dead. But they had to eat and Faran dug into their supplies and shared out a quick meal.

  Kareste did not speak, but she ate thoughtfully, dividing her time between studying Aranloth and studying him.

  Ferla spoke little. He could see that she was tired, but he had a feeling that they must be near the surface of this dreaded place. It could not go on forever, and when they reached the outside world once more then things would be better. The fresh air would do Aranloth good, and without the fear of the harakgar hanging over them, they would all be better.

  Faran was tired, and he was tempted to sleep. But there could be no sleep in these tombs. Not with the harakgar. So he stretched and rose once more.

  With a sigh, Ferla also stood. Kareste had one last look at Aranloth, and checked his pulse in several places again.

  “He’s a little stronger,” she said. Then she fixed him with those eyes again. “Just so you know, the charm only works to stop the harakgar from attacking. It gives you no power of command over them. The magic of their making ensures they cannot be controlled, only stopped from killing. Nothing else.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “No. You did not. Yet they obeyed you. Or at least seemed to. Your will is strong, and that is one of the foundations of magic.”

  She said no more, and shifted all of her attention back to Aranloth.

  Faran led them forward again, but he was thoughtful. Had Kareste been trying to tell him something?

  The harakgar returned soon after that. They kept their distance though, and watched. Had they really gone in pursuit of the shadow as he had commanded? Perhaps. Or maybe they had just disappeared anyway. But if they did, could they have killed it? Anything was possible, but they had not killed it the first time so maybe they could not the second.

  They kept their distance, but every once in a while they moved close. He uttered the charm though, and they were quick to retreat, if with a grudging expression on their beautiful but terrible faces.

  The tunnels they followed began to rise steeply, and Faran dared hope they were close now to an exit from this place. He felt better, and even Aranloth began to improve. From time to time he even offered directions as they came to a crossroads.

  “We’re close now,” Kareste muttered. But she still kept most of her attention on the old man, though her mood seemed to have lightened as well.

  It all changed swiftly, however. Even as Faran thought he saw light ahead, which surely must mean an end to walking the tombs, the harakgar began to move again.

  They did not attack, though they did draw closer. Each held one of those serrated knives in their hands, but they did not threaten Faran with them. Instead, beyond his comprehension, they turned those cruel blades on themselves.

  The first one raised it with trembling hands, and slowly she drew it across her own neck. It bit deep, and a trickle of blood soon turned to a flood as it spurted from a severed artery. And she kept sawing away until her head was half severed from her body. Yet still, she slowly edged toward him, her head lolling.

  The second took her knife, and one by one plucked out her eyes. She screamed as she did so, and all the pain the world had ever felt was voiced in the tombs deep beneath the earth.

  The third was the worst. She traced the blade slowly across the pale skin of her belly, and then even more slowly slit herself open. The blade sawed into her abdomen, and blood began to run down her body and legs. Yet she did not stop. With the curved knife, she dug deep and then slowly pulled her own entrails out until they began to spill onto the ground. And over them she walked, edging closer.

  Faran would have vomited had he not been in shock. What were they doing? Why would they hurt themselves?

  “Faran! The charm!” Ferla screamed.

  And then Faran understood. The harakgar were not hurting themselves. They could be anything and take any appearance. This was illusion, and its purpose was to shock him so deeply that he forgot to utter the charm.

  “Har nere ferork. Skigg gar see!” he cried.

  The harakgar hissed in fury. Their wounds closed over and healed. They flew up into the air, and screaming they drove into the stone roof and disappeared through it.

  “Quickly!” Kareste urged. “Make for the entrance before they return.”

  Faran strode ahead. The light at the end of the tunnel grew rapidly, and behind him he heard Kareste and Ferla begin to run even though they carried the stretcher.

  He ran too, but it was hard going. They trod now a set of ancient stone stairs, worn by time and slippery and steep.

  Their breathing became ragged with effort, and then suddenly they were out. They passed through some kind of chamb
er, and then out through a triangular door. Early morning sunlight bathed his face, and he breathed deep of the fresh air. He felt alive again.

  They did not go far out into the open. Kareste and Ferla lowered the stretcher, and then lay down beneath the open sky to get their breath. Faran remained standing, and he looked back at the exit through which they had passed. He saw now that they had emerged from a building, maybe a temple of some sort.

  The building was of strange design, being triangular, and the windows within it were triangular also. He would not go back inside, he hoped never to go back inside, but curiosity drove him to look in through the exit they had rushed out of. During those last few moments he had seen some strange things.

  He walked back. The building itself was made of massive granite blocks. How people had even moved such heavy objects, he could not guess. Peering inside, he saw the walls were covered with carvings.

  There was a procession of men, women and children. With them were warriors and lòhrens, or maybe priests of some sort. At the head was a wagon drawn by white oxen.

  It seemed that this represented some sort of funeral ceremony. That probably meant that his guess was right – the building was a temple of some kind.

  In the center of the floor, near the farther entrance back into the tombs, was another one of those steles that the ancients seemed to favor. This one was as tall as a man, but thicker than it was tall. He could not make out what was carved into its sides, but he thought something was there. He was curious, but not so curious that he would venture inside again.

  He turned his back on the entrance to ensure he was not tempted. It was then he realized that he could hear the roar of the great falls again, and he walked around the temple to look what was beyond it.

  The temple was situated close to the escarpment, and far below was a green angle of land. He could not see the lake below the falls, but he saw the two rivers that sprang from it. They glittered silver, and he looked beyond them to the great hill where the city of the ancient Letharn had been built. It was far away, yet it still seemed vast. Once, when the city was alive, this must have been an incredible view.

  He moved back then to the others. They had rested a little, and Aranloth had moved off the stretcher and was sitting cross legged on the ground.

  “You’re looking a lot better,” Faran said.

  “I feel a lot better. But if not for Kareste…”

  “Leave over, old man. You’re tougher than old leather. I just gave you a bit of help, that’s all.”

  Aranloth grinned at her. “You saved my life, and if that makes you uncomfortable, you’ll just have to live with it.”

  Kareste looked away, but Aranloth merely looked amused.

  “The rest of you did well, too. Especially you, Faran. Speaking the charm is harder than it looks, yes?”

  “Yes it was. The harakgar are strange and … terrible.”

  Aranloth nodded slowly. “That they are. And they, and the tombs, tend to suck the life out of you. The air down there is not good to breathe, and that is part of the reason I feel better now.”

  “But what of the shadow that you fought? Do you think it’s still down there, somewhere?”

  A flicker of pain passed over the old man’s face. “It surely must be dead now, either by fall into the abyss or by the harakgar. Even if not, how could it find us again? The path we took is lost to it, and how could it pick up our trail again in there? It could wander around for months before it stumbled across it.”

  That made sense to Faran, but doubt still nagged at him. He saw that same doubt on Aranloth’s own face, too.

  12. Battle Will be Rejoined

  Lindercroft felt fury rise in him like a storm. Aranloth had escaped, and made him look like a fool. He uttered words of power, and loosed his temper upon the world.

  A great wind roared to life, and it sped up the long slope of the hill tearing the fog to shreds. He should have sensed the old man’s hand in the concealment it gave, and divined his purpose.

  The wind reached the summit, and men hunkered down before it. Turning and twisting, it whined through the standing stones and made them sound like shrieking spirits, standing tall and defying all that came against them. Then the wind sped up into the heavens and faded away.

  When it grew still again, men straightened and cast furtive glances at him. He did not care. Nor had the fury that was inside him found proper release.

  He ignored everything, and studied only the standing stones, trying to regain his calm. It had been a long time since he had given in to human emotions such as anger, and it shamed him that he had now. But that shame only seemed to fuel his anger all the more.

  The stones were the key. He disregarded all the men around him, and that they had seen his failure. He must focus his thoughts and think clearly.

  Of Rings such as these, he had heard tell. Stories and legends for the most part. But he had read of them too. He did not think Aranloth had ever mentioned them though. And that was typical. You are not lòhrens, he used to say to the knights. Whenever he had given knowledge, he had held it back also. But who was he to decide what a knight needed to know?

  Lindercroft began to calm himself and to think clearly. The scent of magic was still strong in the air, and it had been very powerful. He thought back to what he had seen, and he knew this must have been Traveling. How it worked was beyond him. He could understand the principles, but the specific knowledge of how to make it work was in the details.

  Those details belonged to the lòhrens, and the lòhrens alone. He would not ever learn them, nor the other knights. Therefore, the Ring was an asset only to the enemies of the knights.

  The ring had to be destroyed. If he could not use it, he would ensure that no other could.

  He looked around, and saw the closest captain. He beckoned him over, and he saw that the man came reluctantly. That was his own fault for displaying anger. A leader of men had to be better than that.

  Lindercroft returned the man’s salute. “Be at ease, Captain. I have a task for you.”

  “What task, my lord?”

  “Gather your men. Have them cast down every stone in this Ring.”

  The captain gazed over at the standing stones. “It’ll take time. Those stones are large, and their bases are probably buried deep in the earth.”

  “Then take time! We have enough of it.”

  The captain saluted silently, and then left to give orders. Lindercroft turned away from both him and the stones. He must regain control of himself. This was not fitting, and he would have need of these men in the future. He could not apologize, but he must ensure that he treated them well from this point onward. The fault had not been theirs, but his. And a leader of men without their loyalty was vulnerable.

  The captain broke the men into groups, but only so many men could work at once on the stones. And there were no shovels available. Timber would have to be sought and cut into digging sticks, and the men were useless until that was done. Even then, the captain was correct. The base of the stones would be buried deep. But time was not the issue now. He had to think before he could decide on his next course of action.

  His anger ebbed away as a new thought came to him. Something had happened just at the end. A summoning of some sort had leapt into the circle of stones and then Traveled with Aranloth and the others. Surely that was the creature sent by the king to kill the boy and the girl?

  Were his enemies dead? It was possible. Likely even that some of them were. But there were two lòhrens present, and they were formidable. He must assume until he knew otherwise that the threat to Faladir remained.

  But what should he do now? He dared not return to the city. Not after his failure. He must assume the threat persisted and try to find the boy, or at least signs of where they had Traveled to and been killed by the summoning. He must still kill them all, or find proof of their death. Only then would he return to Faladir.

  His mind was made up. He would establish a base camp on this hill,
and he gave orders to that effect. Then, as the elù-draks came and reported to him, he would give them new instructions. They must go far abroad and scour the land looking for their enemy. In particular, they must concentrate their efforts wherever there was a circle of standing stones.

  Normal scouts could not cover anywhere near as much ground as the elù-draks, but he had men at his disposal and he would use them. They might find something the elù-draks did not, and they could talk to people, which his other searchers could not. That way, he may trace rumor of travelers. Even in the wild lands there were small villages and hunters.

  But first, he must report to Druilgar. It was not something he wished to do. He had failed. Yet he must. But that did not mean he had to do so straight away.

  The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity. The men were busy, but it would still take until the end of tomorrow at least before the stones were cast down. While some were working on that, others established the camp, and at its center was Lindercroft’s tent. He moved into it as soon as it was erected, but he waited until night fell, he had eaten, and the last reports and scouts came in before he readied himself to speak to the king.

  The ritual was familiar to him now, and sitting cross legged in the center of the tent he was as prepared as he could be when the vision of the king blossomed before his eyes.

  Druilgar seemed older, or ill. There was a troubled look in his bloodshot eyes, and a hint of pain in his expression. It was no wonder, for the rumor among the knights was that a summoning took great effort, and that the king was linked to it. But what if it were killed? Would not the broken magic whip back on the summoner like a willow branch bent away and then released? If so, it might mean that Aranloth had defeated the king’s own efforts.

  “Hail, my king!” Lindercroft said.

  The king gazed at him with brooding eyes. “You have failed, yet again,” he said.

  “It is so,” Lindercroft answered. “I have failed, and I bring shame to the knights.”