The Warder

by D K Williamson

  Their position near the damaged curtain wall and middle tower allowed them some idea of what went on within. Flashes of light, angry growls, and cries told them Dech was causing the Lord of the Vile at least some grief.

  After some time they heard Dech’s raging shout followed by his bellowing voice saying something they could not make out. Soon after a thunderous noise and bright red flash came from the tower. Worried for their friend, Mayhaps and Dissy looked on until the orifice high above them groaned so loud they clapped their hands to their ears. A flash of blinding red made them look away and cringe. Unable to keep from watching the spectacle above them, they raised their eyes once more and found the orifice contracting into a narrow slit of burning red. From the south a cloud of brown streaked its way into the slit. As the last of it disappeared, the two cringed again as the start of another clap of sound began, only to be snuffed into echo as the slit flashed a final time and ceased to be.

  The two stared at the sky for several seconds and said nothing.

  “One of us needs to go see what happened,” Mayhaps said with a gesture at the tower, any illumination that once shown from the windows now gone.

  “I’ll go,” Dissy replied.

  “I would be happy to oblige, but you have better healing skills than I do. I’ll go.”

  “I’ve done all I can. I’ll go.”

  Mayhaps sighed in frustration. “We’ll both go. Otherwise we’ll be arguing until the sun rises.”

  “And who relays a message to King Harold if the Lord of the Vile still lurks up there?”

  “I will. I’ll depart with the haste of a thousand cowards. Trust me.”

  Diz smiled and shook her head. “Let’s go then.”

  “I can watch Josip,” Granum said raising his head. “I have recovered enough for that. Just try not to dally if you would.”

  Mayhaps equipped the dagger from his lute and grimaced at the loss of his instrument while Dissy drew her short sword.

  Diz led the way and saw no sign of any living creature in the bailey. The carcasses of the dead infernals were also nowhere to be seen.

  The way into the tower was not difficult and making their way up the stairs, moonlight illuminated the top floor. They soon found Dech prone on the raised stone area, breathing but unresponsive with the haft of the poll-axe still gripped in his right hand. Seeing a glint of moonlight on the plank floor below, Mayhaps found the sword Dech lost early in the fight. Recovering a few arrows for Dissy’s bow and the surviving pieces of his lute, the pair then discussed how they would move Dech.

  “Aren’t you glad we both came?” Mayhaps said. “Imagine dragging him by yourself.”

  “Point taken,” Dissy said. “Do you know an easy way to get all of this armor off? That is a lot of weight.”

  “Do you know how difficult it is to get a wounded man out of his mail? Considering we need to take him down two courses of stairs and down the incline outside the wall, he may need the armor and padding to protect him.”

  Diz shrugged and nodded. “Let’s get to it then. Say, why are you taking the remains of the lute? A proper burial or something?”

  Mayhaps glared as he tried to free the poll-axe haft from Dech’s hand. “Not quite. I’m hoping an artisan might replicate it.” Failing to loose the arm from the warder’s grip, he sighed in dejection. “It seems our knight friend wants this broken weapon as a memento.”

  “What’s a bit more weight between friends?”

  . . .

  Dech awoke and immediately felt the weariness the rage always brought in its aftermath, but tonight it was crushing. Above were a few tree branches and beyond them a starry sky with dissipating clouds that told him he was outside. To his right he could see the tower where they had fought the Lord of the Vile. The glow of firelight caught his eye and he looked to his left and saw Dissy and Mayhaps near a small fire amidst displaced stone blocks from the damaged castle wall.

  “Where are the others?” he croaked in a hoarse voice.

  “Lounging, like you,” Mayhaps said with a smile as Diz stood and walked toward Dech. “Granum and Josip seem to be out of danger. They sleep.” His expression darkened. “The abbess… based on what Granum said I thought she’d somehow survive.”

  Dech nodded. “It seems Granum was wrong.”

  . . .

  The demonic forces seeking the destruction of the Font of Glaes reeled and fell away with awful shrieks and cries. Something knifed through the remaining infernal forces, a spasm that stopped their attack. A pulse of energy burst from the Font and the infernal spirits were suddenly gone. A wave of relief and triumph crossed over the defenders, but all was not right. Some of the them felt themselves pulled away from the Flint Plane involuntarily, Dealan being one of them. She found herself alone, feeling the separation from those she fought alongside, falling through endless space and then feeling the presence of others nearby. Somehow knowing her mortal body had ceased to function, she thought, So this is what it is to die. A rush of sound came, followed by the smell of blood, death, and smoke. Voices shouting orders became clear and Dealan opened her eyes.

  . . .

  “I must assume you two carried me from the tower,” Dech said. “Did you see any infernal creatures?”

  “We did not,” Dissy said.

  “When that nasty opening in the sky closed up, I am thinking it took most of Laerdavile’s monsters with it,” Mayhaps said. “You should have seen it.”

  “And heard it,” Dissy added.

  After the two told him what they had experienced, Dech sighed in relief. “We are safe from that threat at least, but there are others that will come.”

  “Nevarans?” Mayhaps said.

  “I hope it will be Aratainians, but sooner or later, Nevarans will come to scout the area. We best be ready to depart as soon as we are able.”

  Mayhaps nodded. “Agreed, but I doubt Dissy and I can carry three wounded men.”

  Dissy gently lifted Dech’s head and slid closer to him, placing his head on her lap. “That’s something we’ll deal with in the morning. We can do nothing more tonight.”

  “Sleep, old friend,” Mayhaps said. “You look worse than the Underealm creatures we encountered.”

  Dech’s weariness and pain pulled at his consciousness. “I believe you,” he managed as his eyes closed involuntarily.

  Dissy kissed his forehead as he drifted into sleep.

  . . .

  Abbess Dealan was shocked to find she was still among the living. Equally jarring and disorienting was that she was not in the tower at the Castle of the Dark Forest. She felt no pain and thought Granum must have ministered to her wounds. Above her a clearing and starry sky told her it was still night, a gentle breeze felt cool on her face.

  She sat up and saw a battlefield strewn with dead and wounded beings and horses. The smell of blood filled her nose as she saw where she was. To her left and right were bodies of fallen fighters and mages lying in repose.

  “Muriel! We thought you had passed,” a woman’s voice exclaimed.

  “It seemed you perished at the Font of Glaes,” said another. “That’s why we placed your body there.”

  Dealan turned to see a trio of mages wearing the blue cassocks of healers rushing toward her. Looking down, she saw she also wore the same garment. Lifting her hands, she saw they were not hers.

  Hearing similar exclamations to each side, she saw scenes replicating her own awakening.

  “Muriel you say?” she asked in an uneasy voice that was also not her own. “This is most vexing.”

  “You are not Muriel Durham?”

  Dealan shook her head, too stunned to speak.

  “Someone bring Theobald the Friar. Perhaps his knowledge might aid us in discovering what has happened.

  “Friar Theo?” Dealan said quietly. “I know him. I am Abbess Dealan of Cashel Abbey.”

  Theo arrived within minutes and the situation was explained to him. Asking the others gathered around Dealan to step away, the fria
r spoke to her in hushed tones.

  “What is my name?” he asked.

  “Theobald. A friar of the Order of Servants of the Creator. You prefer to be called Theo.”

  “Prior to your entry into the order, what was your name?”

  “Constance Taggart,” she said in a whisper.

  “How did you come to join the order?”

  “I insisted on punishment for my evil deeds at Sintar during the Throne War. I sought execution, but King Harold had me spared for service.”

  Theo nodded. “How many times have we met before this day?”

  “Four times.”

  “If you were to guess, what resides in my satchels?”

  Dealan smiled. “Books, writing materials, and unless pickings are most slim, victuals fit for a king.”

  Theo laughed and turned to those nearby. “This is Abbess Dealan. Of this I have no doubt. Find acquaintances of the others. I firmly believe they will confirm they are who they claim.”

  Before long, Theobald was proven correct. The other two had been wounded on the battlefield and their bodies succumbed while they defended the Font. As with Dealan, their selves assumed intact bodies of people close to them.

  “It is not without precedent,” Theo said. “I believe all three speak true. It is called a spiritual transference or migration. This will be quite the conundrum trying to explain this to the families of the deceased and the newly placed.”

  “Not without precedent?” one of the other healers said as mages who battled at the Font gathered. “Perhaps, but three?”

  Theo nodded. “Consider the number of those that projected from our plane and think of how many passed on both there and here. In time, I would think we will hear of many such occurences.”

  Other mages who defended the Font recognized Dealan’s presence.

  “You were the fire at the center of our defense,” one said. “I’d know it anywhere now that I was so close to it. Abbess Dealan of Cashel they say? Such an able caster I’ve never met.”

  Dealan felt uncomfortable at hearing such praise and it occurred to her Constance Taggart would have reveled in it. Realizing how far she had moved from her old life, she was happy to have a measurable moment to contrast the now with the past. Tempering this happiness was the sorrow at the loss of her friend Muriel. Assuming her friend’s body made it worse and her demeanor was something Friar Theobald recognized.

  “You were friends with the woman that inhabited the body you now do, yes?” he asked.

  “We were. Is my dismay so obvious?”

  “It is, and understandable. That friendship is why you inhabit the body you now do. The connection between you is what led your self to her body. A worthy vessel to house the soul of someone dear. There were many who died fighting on the Flint Plane. Those adept at projection are the most likely to have a thing such as transference occur. The other two here that have transferred are facing what you face, of that I am sure. It takes time. Remember two things: you did not take her life, infernal forces did; and the bond between you was strong enough that your life continues. I cannot tell you why because no one knows. Did the Creator will it? Did Muriel guide you so you could continue? Were you simply fortunate? Accept it and live, Abbess. You still have much to provide.”

  A clerk working for King Harold arrived and once directed to Dealan, informed her the king wished to speak with her.

  At her request, Theo accompanied her.

  A tent had been erected for the king near the baggage train. Despite the conclusion of the battle, the field was crawling with activity.

  Led into the tent by the clerk, the two found Harold and Lord Arundel were fully aware of what happened to the abbess.

  “A transference of some form they say. Oh that we could send dispatches in such a manner,” Harold said, still elated at the victory on the battlefield. His humor was something Dealan was not ready to hear. Seeing her reaction, he nodded. “I will not keep you any longer than needed. What transpired at the castle in Nevar?”

  “I was not there to see all of it, but I will tell of what I know.”

  Directed to a chair, she sat and recalled all that she had seen prior to departing for the Flint Plane.

  “Are you able to scry and see if Sir Dech and the others live?” Harold asked.

  “Scry? I do not scry, Sire. I may be able to sense them though.” Closing her eyes, she sat calmly for more than a minute before opening them again.

  “Adelbert Granum lives, but is injured and exhausted. Through him I can tell you the rest survive. Battered, but alive, Sire.”

  “Then a party will be sent to retrieve them. What of the Cataclysm? Is it over?”

  “I believe it is,” she said. “The Lord of the Vile descended upon the Castle of the Dark Forest.”

  “What we saw was the Great Rift? Wounding the avatar was enough as the old wisdom said.”

  “No, Sire. The opening in the sky was an pathway into our world from the Underealm, but not the Great Rift. That was certainly over Byrmont. Laerdavile itself appeared in the castle to punish Olk Mirkness, but it was unaware we were there. Mirk—”

  “The actual creature? Not the avatar?”

  “Correct, Sire. Mirkness died just before Laerdavile was wounded, and realizing it faced a premature end to the Cataclysm if it was sent back to the Underealm, it sought and found an avatar in the body of Mirkness. I must assume my companions found a way to wound the avatar as well.”

  “They defeated the Lord of the Vile twice?”

  “I would think that is the case, but I have no means to confirm it.”

  “Messengers will be sent as soon as we have horses able to travel. If it is well and truly over, we were witness to the shortest Cataclysm recorded. I’d daresay some will claim it was not a Cataclysm at all.”

  “I’d daresay they best keep their lies to themselves,” Arundel said.

  Harold laughed and nodded. “That they should. Those who rode northwest to the Great Rift still must fight the infernal creatures set loose upon our realm. Let us not forget that.”

  . . .

  Chapter 36

  Morning brought realization as to the scale of the battle. Daylight showed the width and breadth of the battle marked by bodies and debris. Those still seeking wounded combed the field while King’s Legionnaires and light cavalry prevented any looting.

  Harold walked the rows of wounded and spoke with many. Seeing newly knighted Sir Robert Moore exiting a healers tent, he waved him over.

  “So, Sir Robert, you did live to see the morning.”

  “It seems so, Sire. It will take some getting used to being called Sir Robert.”

  Harold laughed. “You will. You must. You have begun with great expectations. Saving Lord Arundel’s life, aiding your king on the field of battle, fighting Malig to a standstill. Well begun, lad. Shades of Sir Dech Crouse. You know he saved Lord Arundel and me at Creator’s Rock.”

  Rob smiled. “A pale shadow at best, Sire. I know what he did at Creator’s Rock. Knights who were there told of his deeds and I have seen his skill myself.” The smile faded as thoughts crossed his mind. “He is no longer Sir Dech Crouse, Sire. I know of what happened and why. I know that he accepted the situation, but you placed the burden upon him.”

  Harold nodded as he drew a deep breath. “Do not think I did so easily. It was necessity. A kingdom hung in the balance and Dech was the piece that balanced the scale. A burden, yes, but one he has borne. It has been long enough. If the Cataclysm is truly over, it will soon be time to settle old accounts. Sir Dech will factor in this settling, but before then, I have something in mind for him. A change that will bring added burdens. Such is the lot of a knight. Prepare for it. You will bear yours as Sirs Dech and Allan have. As your father has.”

  . . .

  Mayhaps’ eyes shot open and his hand tightened its grip on the hilt of the sword resting on his thighs. He turned his head slowly and saw Dissy had heard the sound as well, that of shoed hooves on cobbles eman
ating from the east.

  Diz slid smoothly from under Dech’s head, trying not to wake him, but she needn’t have bothered. He was awake as well.

  Drawing one of the few arrows she had left in her quiver, she nocked it and knelt ready.

  Dech rolled onto his side and suppressed a groan, the abuses his body suffered screaming at the effort. He found his silver knife and the damaged poll-axe beside him. Sitting up with great effort, he found Granum and Erie fighting the same silent battle as they stirred as well.

  “If it’s Nevarans, do we fight?” Mayhaps whispered.

  “They may not give us a chance to do otherwise,” Dech replied. “If they’ll talk, maybe we can convince them we did Nevar a favor.”

  “You think they might?” Erie managed as he drew one of his dirks.

  “Stranger things have happened, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  Before long, the sounds became more distinct, hoof-falls and the creak of a wagon. The five then saw movement through the trees across the road below.

  “I do not sense they are Nevarans,” Granum whispered. “They are—”

  “Sir Allan,” called a nearby voice. “Up there.” A form stepped from the brush on the other side of the road, a scout from Harold’s army pointing in their direction.

  “—Aratainians,” Granum finished.

  . . .

  Despite the fact Dech could walk, albeit not well, Allan insisted he be carried down the incline to a wagon. Walking beside his old friend as the four litter bearers made their way slowly down, Allan said, “Looks like you made a mess of the old place.”

  “The Lord of the Vile saw to that.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it was? Met the fellow did you?”

  “It, Allan.”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is?” he said with a smile. “Was it as fearsome as the accounts say?”

  “I’ll need to read them again, but I suspect they didn’t do it justice. How did you find us so quickly?”

  “An early start and a wounded mercenary told us you passed through. Said frightful things were afoot this way last night. Directed us to the quickest route here.”