“My lady, you—” the knight began in a collected voice, only to be interrupted.
“My dear friends,” the countess said to them, smiling wondrously, “will you give us a moment? Please, Dawyn, take them to the stables and see that they get their horses. Sir Conrad will soon join them.”
Dawyn was the guardsman who had taken Nathelion’s sword. When the man led them out into the courtyard again, he almost looked abashed about having held it. Of course, the guard had heard Nathelion being introduced as a damn blademaster. Nathelion was slightly amused at that, and he received the sword with a cold silence that he retained until they reached the stables. Sometimes, it didn’t hurt to play pretend.
The stables held several fine steeds that Nathelion would never have dreamed of owning. The stable master was notified of the countess’s command. “Horses, eh. Were there any particular that ye fancied?”
All were exceptional next to Nathelion’s stolen stot, but there was one in a lonely stall that caught his attention: a massive destrier, black as the abyss, seventeen hands tall and neighing like a caged beast. Its muscles rippled under its shining coat.
“That’s Skull,” the stable master said when he noticed Nathelion’s stare.
“Skull?”
“Seems to be his favorite thing. He loves to kick men’s skulls in. Aye, that’s why we named him Skull.” A brief, thoughtful pause, and then: “You want him?”
The party gathered in front of the gates with their new horses, Nathelion sitting tall and mighty upon a war steed that could have sprung from the nether. Molgrimin had kept his yilval, of course, saying no to even the most outstanding horses on offer. But Alwarul had taken a bay courser that seemed able to win many a race, which it also had, to hear the stable master talk. They couldn’t ride away at once, of course, since their escort had to get ready. Alwarul muttered something about being delayed by idiocies, but soon enough, Sir Conrad appeared on a destrier of his own. He now wore a knight’s tunic over ringmail and looked even more intimidating than before. A second horse followed behind with the rest of the man’s knightly equipment. A skinny, bronze-haired squire led that one from atop a smaller horse that still appeared a bit too big for him.
“Open the gates,” Sir Conrad said to the guardsmen. They obeyed immediately. For some reason, the knight looked angry. He glanced at Alwarul. “I heard you lot had a wish for speed.”
Jail and Thorn
The temple rose high before him in the darkness, with statues of holy figures gazing down sorrowfully from the walls and the great gate. The shadow-filled faces regarded him with somber melancholy, as if they recognized him and knew where his road had turned. Cold winds blew across the empty graveyard and pulled at his heavy sable cloak, whispering past his face as if asking why he had left.
His gloved hand hugged the grip of his sheathed sword, and he let the winds pass unanswered. The shadows were given life by them, though, and in the graveyard, specters now seemed to be dancing. Why am I here? The thought came to him, not for the first time. He should not be here. This was a place of the past, and only in long-distant memory did it hold any warmth for him. It was death now, death and bitterness. But there was the note.
One hand crumbled that already torn piece of paper in his pocket. He knew the words from memory now. It was a message left where none could have known to find him, and yet it had reached him, bearing words that had made him both furious and disbelieving. It could have been a trick, only no one knew what the sender of that note knew. None save himself.
That was why he had come here, to the Temple of Tears, below the vast Darkfang Mountains, in the night, alone and at the time and day mentioned. What did he expect to find? He could not say. For all he knew, a devil could well be waiting inside that shadowy temple, finally come to claim his wretched soul. The message had made him consider many possibilities that would normally seem strange — or insane. He could have asked Vanjin about the note, but the man’s answer would no doubt have been more cryptic than that mystery.
He stood there because he knew that he had nothing to lose. Nothing but the promise on that note. That, at least, the sender must have known.
His heavy, dark leather boots fell over the chipped stair that led to the temple’s imposing doors. The winds wailed, and the gargoyles followed him with their stony gazes. He wondered if it was salvation they saw him walking towards or perhaps his final damnation. Either would have him grateful.
Large, lazy hinges complained loudly. The holy hall that stretched out before him was full of candles. They burned along the walls and in the candelabras down the aisle, spreading a warm light where he would feel no warmth. They illuminated the high paintings and cast the otherwise peaceful faces of the statues into angry moods, their infernal countenances staring at him from their stone prisons. The altar was also lit: hundreds of candles burned over its cloth-covered surface, as if this were the coronation of a king. Only, everyone was missing, and instead of a princely heir, it was he who strode down the aisle. All the benches were not empty, though. A cowled figure sat in the front, utterly still and peaceful in the halcyon air of that holy place.
The figure must have heard his echoing footsteps, just as he must have heard the loud crash of the door, but still, no move was made to look at the newcomer. The heavy sable cloak rustled silently over the floor, and then the man in black sat down in the bench behind his inviter. The stranger did not bother to turn.
“Man of dusk,” said a crystalline voice, and the man realized that it was a woman who hid within those robes. “Wolf of the night. Your heart is hollow. And so, you come.”
The man held a hand on his dagger, ready for any trick that this strange witch might try. “You left me a message,” he said, but somehow, his voice did not carry the way hers did.
“I called you here, man of dusk.”
“Why?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” He would have said that the voice was young, full of vitality, yet its unflinching authority gave it age.
“I am one less restricted than you,” she said. “Or rather, I was, and I shall be again. Now I am one in a struggle. This wearies me. Thus, it happens that I am in need of your aid, robber of lives.”
He was already certain that she was a sorceress, some creature prying dark knowledge from fiends. And yet he knew that he would not say no to her request. “You gave me a promise.”
“A promise that shall be kept,” the woman assured him, her voice resounding in the temple. “You will be together again.”
Somehow, her simple utterance of what the note had promised filled him with hope. “How?”
“You know of...spells?” the sorceress asked.
“There is a man in my party,” he said slowly. “A man who has shown me witchcraft.” But Vanjin had never brought life. He always brings death. He only knows death.
“Then you are wiser to the world than most,” the woman said. “And you will be able to believe in my abilities.”
“You will show me,” he said coldly. “You will prove that you speak truly.”
“I told you that I am...preoccupied.” A vexed undertone had come into that perilous voice, and electricity seemed to enter the air, making his hairs rise. But he was not to be intimidated.
“All the more reason that you do not disappoint.” With a hand on his dagger, he was ready to kill her in the blink of an eye.
He had expected to be answered with threats, but instead, the woman laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, but also full of the conceit of superiority. Then the woman spoke again. “Oh, you are worthy. Such strength. Such ruthless strength, even in one so puny. You make a beautiful contribution to this world, man of dusk. Was this why she let you go? Why turn the wolf into a dog?”
Let me go? the man wondered, feeling new doubt as to the power of this seeress. She didn’t let me go, he thought. I failed her.
“Very well,” the sorceress continued, once more collected. “Let us listen for a while.”
T
he whole temple grew silent, as if even the winds outside were paying their respect. And then he heard it. The soft voice was so faint and distant that at first, he needed to still his breathing to perceive it. He heard her calling to him on breezes that should not have been allowed to blow there, making the many candles flicker. It lasted only for a short moment, and when the winds died away again, he tried to call out — but his voice had gone thick and hoarse, and it failed him, letting him only whisper a name. “Helaine...”
“Yes, she remembers you,” the sorceress said. She sounded pleased with the impression she had made upon him. “Every time I listen to her, it is your name she calls. So enduring, she is, with a love that stretches throughout the planes.”
The man released the grip on his dagger, his hand having grown weak as a babe’s now, and the weariness in his heart made his words simple. “What must I do?”
Every candle flared at his question, like the victorious gesture of a force he could not understand. He cared not.
The sorceress said, “You know to stalk men as prey and take their gold or what wealth their lives are worth. Now I ask you to hunt a prey greater than any before. There is a knight, a knight with a Sword of Roses, young yet full of prowess and expertise like most mortal men have never seen. His life, I would have. His life, not his death. Bring him here, alive and unharmed, to this temple.”
“I shall kidnap a knight for you?” the man asked. “Why do you seek a knight?”
“Do I question your intentions, wolf?” snapped the sorceress. “Bring him here but be wary that he does not surprise you with his skill. He will slay you if you underestimate him.”
“But that is all? A knight?”
The sorceress considered his question for a moment. “There is an old man with him, an old man who has come to work for someone I very much loathe. He commands the Art. He commands it in a way that you have not yet encountered. You will have to be resourceful. His power is great.”
A wizard, the man thought grimly. “And what shall be done with this old man?”
“Bring him here also, if you are able, along with any other followers who may accompany them. But it is the knight’s life that is important.”
“Other followers? Just how many are you sending me up against?”
“I do not know how many odd figures will join them,” the sorceress intoned patiently. “But your own following is full of talent, is it not?”
“As you say,” the man acknowledged, knowing it well to be true. He had gathered to himself the most dangerous men in the known world, and a few from elsewhere as well. They would not fail. “And when I have brought this young knight before you?”
“Then...” the sorceress said. “Then the salvation you seek shall be yours.”
His horse was waiting by the steel gates, and he climbed into the saddle with renewed purpose. The cold winds howled when he rode down the temple’s hill and into the night. In his head, he still heard a voice that made him invincible. Helaine.
When he pulled up outside the dark copse of trees on the gray barrens, he would not even dismount. His men emerged from the trees, a hundred shadows armed and armored, with neighing steeds already saddled.
The giant man, Torvald, greeted him in a dark and thunderous voice. “Did you find what you sought, Jalen?”
“No,” said Jalen Thorne. “The hunt has just begun.”
The Spine Makes the Calls
It was clear from the beginning that Sir Conrad shared their desire for speed, for whatever reason, and they crossed the great bridge of Silverstream in haste before the day had come. He had asked them for their names, nodded, and introduced himself personally as Sir Conrad Hardae and his squire as Timothy Welsic. A smart-mouthed squire, it turned out. Timothy had at first laughed obnoxiously at Nathelion’s name and clothes, asking if his house had, perchance, been impoverished. It was a difficult remark to counter, seeing as he was, in fact, not of noble blood at all. But the squire soon swallowed his smirk when Sir Conrad remarked on Nathelion being a blademaster.
Nathelion couldn’t very well go on at length to explain some exceedingly awkward misunderstanding, so he had kept to his assigned role. The man would just follow them for a few days, anyway. What did it matter if he believed him to be some master swordsman?
Alwarul had informed the knight of what course they intended, at least as far as to Cawarath. Hopefully, he would part with them there so there would be no need to tell him that their true destination was Lourne and not Kast-Harnax. That would just give rise to unnecessary confusion and, undoubtedly, a whole lot of questions. Perhaps even hostility. They had received great gifts from the countess, and if it seemed as if they had tricked her for them, her vassal might very well find his duty changed.
Nathelion did not doubt that the stern knight could overpower them all if he had the inclination to do so. An old man, a dwarf, and an imposter playing at being an accomplished warrior would make for poor and rather humorous adversaries. If nothing else, we could stage a performance, Nathelion thought idly.
They were still following the river when Sir Conrad stopped by a dreary thicket among far-stretching hills, pulling in his horse and raising his arm to have the others do the same. Nathelion did not know how Sir Conrad had come to be their leader, but he ordered a stop now. “We’ll continue in an hour,” he said, and he left them to care for their steeds and their stomachs as best they could.
“Well, I guess yer mount needs a bit of rest,” Molgrimin mumbled glumly at the knight’s back while patting his yilval.
Nathelion walked Skull a bit to cool him off and tied the destrier to a branch that he deemed thick enough. He fed the horse some of the barley that the stables in Castle Scarlet had yielded, and then he ate a bit of bread from his own supplies. He sat down against a tree stump and saw Sir Conrad call Tim for a bit of training with the sword. The youth had a plain and sharp longsword that he appeared to be well acquainted with. Of course, Sir Conrad didn’t seem to be a forgiving tutor either.
Under the knight’s supervision, the squire executed slashes, parries, and thrusts with the sword, working up a sweat. The knight then unsheathed his own sword and showed him how the blows were to be dealt or dealt with. Sir Conrad moved fluidly in his swordplay, his blade whirling swiftly and forcefully through the air as his squire observed intently. So did Nathelion.
He marveled at the knight’s perfected techniques and felt a boyish wish to draw his own blade and follow suit, to train like the young squire who would one day be a knight. Of course, he could not, for more reasons than one. Instead, he’d settle for watching and making sarcastic remarks in his head.
Molgrimin came to join him, seating himself heavily against the rock next to his tree stump. “The boy knows nothing of fighting. The knight...a bit, a bit, aye. I could beat them both, though, unless taken by surprise. Or some other foul play.”
“Without a weapon?” Nathelion asked pointedly.
“Aye, it would be more difficult, I’ll admit. But I am known as quite the fistfighter in Kast-Harnax.”
“And even though they are two to one?”
“It would complicate matters, that’s true.” Molgrimin nodded. “But the secret to winning when outnumbered is to not acknowledge their advantage, eh?” The dwarf nudged Nathelion in the side. “Act without hesitation and show no fear, and they’ll soon be thinking about why you aren’t afraid. There must be a reason. And then, suddenly, the hesitation is theirs. Aye, suddenly, the more inferior ye appear, the more threatening ye seem. Clever, eh?”
Nathelion looked at Molgrimin’s wide grin. “Indeed, Molgrimin. I think that you, more than anyone, have mastered that tactic.”
“Aye, aye. Ye may be right. Thank ye, Nathan.”
Nathelion couldn’t suppress his smile, but it didn’t matter since the moinguir interpreted it after his own mind anyway.
“Now, do ye want to hear about the time I was hunting a witch?”
“You hunted a witch?” Nathelion asked abs
ently.
“Aye. Well, I was hunting for a witch, though what I found was a bit different. It was rather...awkward, ye might say.”
“Oh?” Nathelion raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Well, it all happened a few years back, while I was searching for some great, perilous foe...”
“To win honor?” Nathelion put in.
“Aye, aye, to win me some honor,” the moinguir confirmed. “See, I was already hungry for a challenge by this time and sure that I would find myself some appropriate quest rather quickly. So, I came to this dark and kinda obscure village. One full of humans who’d seldom leave their general home area.”
“Quite home-dear people, yes. I take it they had never seen one of your kind before.”
“Nay, they hadn’t. They weren’t hostile, though, I shall be fair. In fact, I found myself drinking quite merrily with some of the men in their own pub, aye. A small place but with plenty of ale to go ’round.”
“So, you were making friends, drinking,” Nathelion said. “Where does the witch come into the picture?”
“When I said that I was looking for some deadly foe, they told me of this witch living in her cabin in the forest...”
“So, you listened to a story of a witch told by a drunken company in an obscure village that seldom saw any strangers...”
“Aye, well, they seemed very friendly and very reasonable,” the moinguir made clear.
Nathelion nodded. “Okay, so they gave you a pointer as to where you could find a witch.”
“Aye, a witch that had made their well dry up. And I think there might’ve been mention of some cattle being born with two heads, too.”
“A reasonably evil witch, in other words.”
“Reasonably evil, reasonably evil, aye. Anyway, I had heard plenty of accounts of how to battle spellcasters in the past...”
“Accounts from experienced witch hunters, of course.”
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 10
