by Robert Ryan
“Have you changed your mind about being the seventh knight?” she asked unexpectedly.
It was something he had thought about deeply. Without doubt, Faladir needed the seventh knight.
“Nothing has changed for me. I’ll oppose Lindercroft and the king with everything I have. I’ll try to bring justice for Dromdruin. But I hate the knights for what they did to my grandfather. I could never become one myself.”
Ferla nodded at that. He hoped she understood, but the look on her face was unreadable just then.
They looked out in silence a little while longer at the world below, but clouds were drawing in again and it was time to be up and running. If it rained heavily, it would be an unpleasant run back to the top of the mountain.
Ferla led them on the way back, her long strides sure and easy, and her body lithe and graceful even beneath the hindering armor.
The wet grass hampered them, and the steepness of the slope made running a grueling task. Yet they persisted, moving slowly and surely. Rain began to fall again, and with it a wind that lashed at them.
It grew dark, and distant thunder rumbled. If there was a storm now, they might need to take their metal armor off and seek cover. It was dangerous enough to run up a steep slope, let alone if lightning began to flash.
The rain grew heavier, and rills of water leaped down the slope. Ferla nimbly jumped one, and Faran followed. But even as he landed Ferla spun and grabbed him, pulling him to the ground.
He did not know why, but he trusted her. She drew her sword, and he did likewise, seeking out enemies ahead of them. But there was no one there.
She hunkered down low, and Faran realized she was not looking ahead as was he, but upward. He followed her gaze, and dread settled over him colder than wind and rain.
It was high above, and speeding through a wrack of twisting clouds, but it was an elù-drak that he saw, and for a moment he thought all was lost. But the creature was flying swiftly, perhaps to escape the sudden storm, and it did not seem to have seen them.
In moments, the thing was gone, swallowed by the roiling clouds and curtains of rain. They waited a little while longer, but saw no further sign of it.
“Best to use the cover of this storm while it lasts,” Ferla said. He agreed, and they began to run again, swifter than before and glancing skyward often.
Faran was sure they had not been seen. But it was a close thing. The enemy still sought them out, and had it been bright and sunny they may well have been observed. The stabbing fear that still pounded with each heartbeat made him question what he had told Ferla just before. Were they ready to face their enemies?
13. The Lure of the Stone
Druilgar sat upon the throne of Faladir. He wore his armor. He always wore his armor since a faceless member of a crowd had sped an arrow toward him. The fool had got away, but where there was one fool there were others.
One of them stood before him now. He was a pompous thing, talking too much and constantly wording things to make himself sound good and his actions effective.
They had not been. Not fully, anyway. Yet the man was loyal. He had been handpicked for the job too. The previous Captain of the City Guard had retired. Too old he had said, but Druilgar had known he did not have the heart for what must be done. This man had been recommended to take his place. He had the heart, but not quite the wit.
“What of the rebellion?” Druilgar asked.
That brought the captain’s ramblings to an end.
“The rebellion?”
“Did you not hear me?”
The man cleared his throat and looked suddenly nervous.
“That is, er, totally dealt with. There never was much of a rebellion, just a few words whispered here and there. Those that did so have been, er, punished appropriately.”
The king knew what that punishment was. He had set it, but apparently his new Captain of the City Guard did not like to use the words torture and murder. That was of no account, for whether he said the words or not he certainly carried out the deeds.
“What you say is not quite true, captain. Not all those who rebel are caught. Not all those who defy me state it openly. Yet I know they whisper against me in private. Your spies have not ferreted them all out. Is that not so?”
The man hesitated. He chose wisely though, acknowledging the truth.
“There are those who speak against you, I’m sure. There are always those who are jealous and foolish. But their numbers are low.”
Druilgar was not so sure of that. “And what are you doing to find them?”
“As you know, I have spies everywhere. Soldiers not dressed as soldiers. Commoners who are known to be loyal. If a whisper is spoken we’ll hear it.”
All this, Druilgar knew. “It’s not enough. Send out more spies. Have soldiers question people in the street and their place of work. There remains resistance, and I want to stamp it out. Not even a whisper should be uttered. Nor even a thought born in bed at night with no one to hear. Do you understand?”
The captain bowed. “It will be as you command.”
“Do this also. Have soldiers march the streets in great numbers. Let them be loud and obvious. Let no one think that this city isn’t under my rule. That will send a message that I have the means to detect and punish disobedience.”
“It will be done, sire.”
“I know it will, or you will answer to me. Now go, I have other matters to deal with.”
The captain left, and he hid his fear well. But it was there, and Druilgar sensed it. If he had not, he would have had the man killed. A servant who did not live in fear did not carry out orders efficiently.
There was another man in the room. He had remained silent throughout the briefing, but he stepped closer to the throne now. His helm was tucked under one arm, and he bowed.
Druilgar considered him. As a knight, Sofanil was known to him. Yet only at a superficial level. The man was a mystery, deeper than the other knights and harder to read.
For all the time they had spent together, Druilgar knew him as well as or better than anyone living. Yet not well enough. His thoughts were his own, and he never quarreled or disputed. What he thought of the other knights, no one knew. He remained humble and enigmatic. Yet Druilgar guessed. The man was loyal to him, yet he probably held the other knights in disdain. He was not the most senior among them. Far from it. Yet his mind was quicker, and perhaps his sword too. But in one such as he, ambition ruled. All the more so because he hid it.
Yet still, the man served well, and that should be rewarded. He was not the most senior knight, but that could change.
“The captain was scared,” Druilgar said. “But he hid it. That is good, but do you think he is capable of fulfilling his duties?”
Sofanil cocked his head. “You appointed him, sire. You would not have done so if you thought someone else could perform better.”
Druilgar felt a shiver of fear. This man was smart. He was a threat. He never said anything that was unsuitable, and his answer just now, which was no answer, proved it. Those words could never be held against him, for even if the captain failed, Sofanil had ventured no opinion but merely supported his king’s decision.
Yet the man was loyal, at least so far as could be determined. So too he was proving extremely capable, which was a trait in short supply. He was a tool to be used to best advantage.
“I am troubled,” Druilgar admitted.
Sofanil knew what he meant, which was another trait most becoming in a servant.
“My lord? Do you speak of Lindercroft and Savanest?”
There it was again. He did not seem to infer that his brother knights were incompetent, and yet by asking if they were the cause of the trouble, he sheeted home the problems to them directly. Moreover, he was right to do so.
“That is what I speak of, and Lindercroft especially. He has had more time to carry out his task.”
Sofanil spoke slowly, as he always did. “The seventh knight, if such exists, is a threat. There i
s reason to be troubled, and Lindercroft and Savanest have not yet killed the young man and his companions. That is a task that must be accomplished.”
Druilgar stifled the grin that came to his face. He liked Sofanil. He had cast aspersions at the other knights, and yet nothing that he said could be construed as false or aggressive. It was merely a summary of indisputable facts, that strung together, happened, if you looked at them in a certain way, to cast extreme doubt over the abilities of his brother knights. But he had not actually said it.
However subtle the attack, it was still an attack. Sofanil was ambitious, and he had just revealed it now.
“What would you do if you were charged with the task?”
Sofanil did not answer straight away. He considered the question carefully, seeking out any trap it might contain.
He was a cautious and thoughtful man, and Druilgar liked that. Yet he did not lack courage, and his was deeper than the brasher kind. When he set his mind to a task, he fulfilled it. If there was danger, he bypassed it but did not let it concern him. If it could not be bypassed, he faced it coolly.
All in all, he was a strange man, and his physical appearance was the least of it. Yet he did look strange.
The man had milk-white skin, paler than any Druilgar had seen before. But his hair was black as jet, and the contrast was startling. It was perhaps some disease he suffered from, though if so it did not affect his mental or physical abilities.
“What I would have done was hold out the hand of friendship. I would have disowned you, in my words to them, and gained their trust. All the more easily could I have eliminated them at my leisure. But I fear that opportunity exists no longer.”
Again, it was a subtle put down of his rivals. It would have been the better approach, but Druilgar did not think any dissembling would have fooled Aranloth.
“And now?”
“Now a more direct approach is needed. Finding them is only the first step. These people, peasants though the young man and woman appear to be, have shown skill and courage. They should not be underestimated. I would find them, lock them into place and then bring great forces of sorcery and swords to bear upon them.”
Again, he had criticized his brother knights, or at least Lindercroft. Twice the man had found them, and twice they had escaped from him. The message was clear. The enemy had been underestimated.
Druilgar decided it was time to put the man under pressure.
“Are your brother knights incompetent, then?”
Sofanil did not move, but he seemed neither scared nor perturbed.
“They are my brothers. It’s not my place, but yours, to judge their competence. I merely state the facts. They have failed so far to remove the threat.”
“And do you believe this so called seventh knight is truly a threat?”
Sofanil gave the slightest of shrugs. “Of course. Were there no threat, you would not have spent the time and resources on them that you have. Is that not so?”
This time Druilgar actually laughed. He could not remember the last time he had done so, and it felt strange. How deftly this man avoided being pinned down. It was marvelous to watch.
“I like you, Sofanil. And I will reward you. I now charge you with seeking out these enemies and destroying them. You may take a company of soldiers, if you wish. And if you find and kill them before the others, I will reward you beyond their dreams. But if you forget that you serve me, and through me the new Osahka, your life will be in peril.”
Sofanil bowed gracefully. He showed neither pleasure at the opportunity nor chagrin at the threat.
“I will meditate on this, sire. Mayhap I can devise a ruse that will deceive our enemies. If so, I may not use soldiers.”
“That choice is yours. This only I ask. Go forth, and bring me their heads. I tire of their existence, and their very lives distract me from the great tasks at hand. Osahka stirs, and the destiny of this nation grows. Nay, the destiny of Alithoras, for the stone is power such as we have never known. With it, I can rule all realms. I can conquer all lands. I can bring all people under my sway, and draw them in unity along the one true way. Osahka leads, and we follow.”
Sofanil did not quite smile. He never did. But his eyes lit with an inner light of desire.
“May it be so, sire. Osahka leads, like a great light in the heavens guiding the steps of travelers. By that light, we will cast a mighty shadow over the land, making it ours. And yours will be the first shadow, and this nation you rule, teeming with warriors and swordsmen, the second. And my sword will be among them, always at your service.”
Druilgar was pleased. This man saw the vision as did he, and it might be that the stone influenced them both in that.
“Kneel, Sofanil. I will bless you.”
The knight adjusted the sword at his side so that he could kneel, and he bowed his head.
Druilgar stood from the throne. He had not intended this, and it would drain his powers to the brink, but it felt right.
He placed his left hand over the other man’s head. That jet-black hair was not so black up close. Traces of silver touched it at the temples.
“All men will be our brothers,” Druilgar muttered. “All women our sisters. As one the shadow will make us, and under Osahka all will be equal.”
It was not quite true. Some, like he and the knights, would be more equal than the others. But that was fitting, for there were always those burdened with leadership.
He felt the magic come to him easily now. Lòhrengai had always been a struggle to embrace. But its brother, elùgai, was sweet as cool water under the blistering sun. It rushed through him easily, and away in the tower he felt the pulse of the stone like a twin heartbeat to his own.
Druilgar formed the will, and the magic obeyed. It leaped through his hand and into Sofanil, changing him. The knight stiffened and screamed. This, Druilgar knew, was painful. But pain was of no account.
Several long moments the magic flared through the other man’s body. A trickle of blood seeped out of one ear, and the man trembled beneath his touch.
Then the magic flared out like a gutted candle, and for a moment both men were one in the longing for it to return.
Looking down, Druilgar saw that the silver in that black hair was gone. Not a strand of it remained. Then he staggered back to sit on the throne, for he doubted just then his legs could hold him up.
Likewise, Sofanil sprawled to the ground, gasping, and the helm under his elbow clattered and rolled over the floor.
Slowly the knight brought himself to his knees, and he gathered his helm. Standing once more, he looked at Druilgar, his eyes bright and an emotion in them that might have been awe.
Sofanil drew a deep breath, and he seemed to gather strength. He was younger, stronger, better than he was before. His body was that of a twenty year old, at the peak of physical prowess, yet the mind behind those eyes was that of an experienced and confident warrior.
“You have rewarded me indeed, sire. How shall I thank you?”
Druilgar was exhausted, and he wanted this interview over now. It did no good to be seen as weak, and he could barely sit on the throne.
“Go. Find our enemies and kill them. That is all I ask.”
Sofanil bowed, turned on his heels and strode from the throne room. He had been dangerous before, but now he was more so. Just as well that he was loyal, but that was all the worse for their enemies.
Druilgar took some shuddering breaths. He was spent, and now alone. Why was he always alone? Why did people shun him? Yet he was stronger without them. To rely on others was to be weak.
The weariness he felt was overpowering, yet stronger by far was the pull of the stone. Osahka would replenish him. For a moment, he tried to resist. It could not be good to need it so much, and he would recover without it. But the lure intensified and he staggered to his feet.
“Guards!” he called to the men stationed at the entrance to the throne room. “Ready my carriage!”
14. Loyal to the King
Menendil slowed his breathing and wiped down the bar, pretending nothing unusual was going on. Fear made a man look guilty, and he knew it, yet it was hard to remain calm when so much was at stake.
The five soldiers spread out, making it their business to mind everyone else’s, knowing they instilled fear and enjoying the nervous looks they got from the patrons.
One soldier moved close to Norgril, then snorted in disgust.
“This one’s drunker than a farmer on his first trip to town.”
Norgril certainly played the part well. Even his eyes seemed blurry, but his hand was still near his sword hilt and the arrogant young man stood no chance against him if it came down to a fight.
Menendil hoped dearly it would not. He could not take the other four soldiers.
Their leader approached him. Out of the corner of his eye Menendil saw the table of youths look uncertain. Some pulled out their chairs as if to go. But one of them shook his head urgently not to do so. They wanted out of here, but to try to leave now was to invite suspicion.
The soldier looked Menendil up and down. It was an arrogant look, and anger started to surge through Menendil rather than fear. These men had no right to come in here and look down on him.
“We’ve heard this place is full of traitors,” the man said.
Menendil stopped wiping the bar. It had been a strange thing to say, especially if the man believed it to be true. If he had, it would have been smarter to bring more men and surround him first before making such an accusation. That he had not indicated he was a fool, or that he was just trying to provoke a reaction to see if anyone looked guilty.
Menendil breathed a little easier. He believed both of those things were true.
“On my honor,” Menendil replied. “There are only patriots here, loyal with everything they have to the realm.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course, good sir.”
The soldier turned to Menendil’s wife. “Is that the truth, woman?”
