Blayde crossed the green and entered the church. The great doors were unlocked and she pushed them open with little effort. She crossed the nave, walking down the center of the church, between rows of empty benches, her footsteps echoing. She entered the chancel, moving past a font of clear water and approached the altar that stood at the back of the church, eyeing it warily. The walls of the chancel were decorated with scenes of Aedon’s life, the battles he fought, and the victories he won. The last painting depicted Aedon’s ascension to Mirid to sit at Enu’s right hand on the Council of the Enuran for all eternity.
Atop the altar stood a tall, slender cup made of gold. The cup was shaped like a calla lily, with a short stem and a wide circular base. To one side of it a white candle had been placed, the faint light reflecting off the polished gold.
“Come to me,” the voice said. “The time is near.”
Blayde stood in front of the altar, gazing down at the intricately carved stone. The elves worshipped the elder gods of light, the gods of the Dreamland, who existed long before men, long before the world of Ninavar was discovered. Aedon was nothing to her, certainly not a god to be worshipped. Just a man like any other. Blayde had never found occasion to enter any of the churches built in his name. It seemed strange to be here now, but the voice inside her head was insistent, urging her on.
She picked up the candle, holding it aloft as she ran her hand beneath the lip of the altar. After a moment she located a loose protrusion of stone. She pushed on it, the ancient stone momentarily resisting her effort before sliding home. There was a grinding of stone on stone as the altar moved sideways, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into a hidden vault beneath the chancel. Stale air that smelled of dust and decay wafted up out of the vault, causing the candle flame to tremble. Blade looked around, ensuring that she was alone, and then descended the stairs.
The chamber beneath the chancel was far larger than she might have imagined with a series of arches and thick pillars to support the ceiling above, much like the dungeon chamber she had visited earlier in the day. Rows of armored figures stood silent vigil along either side of the chamber, their gauntleted fists covering the pommels of ancient swords, their visors open and hollow.
Blayde moved slowly past them, her eyes watchful lest one of the figures should move. The nape hairs along her neck prickled at the thought of those grim sentinels coming to life and moving to block her path, but they remained where they were, still and watchful. At the back of the chamber a single suit of armor stood watch over a tomb of pale green marble. Unlike the other suits of armor she had passed, this one appeared newly made. The polished metal gleamed, with veins of emerald etched into the breastplate. It glowed with an inner light.
“Welcome,” the voice said, loud in her ears. Blayde turned to the tomb, examining the lid. It was carved with a detailed image of a heron in flight, rising up over a lake with the sun behind it. Blayde paused to wonder if what she was seeing was, in fact, real or if she was wandering through a dream, a vision so close to reality that the two were indistinguishable. It hardly mattered. Her course was set and she had no intention of veering from it now, no matter what trials lay before her.
Blayde set the candle on the tomb, and then stepped around to the head, gripping the edges of the lid. The marble weighed as much as a ceratu, but she did not have to lift it, so much as turn it. She heaved, putting her back and legs into the maneuver. She was strong, stronger than most would guess. Few men could match her, and she was far stronger than any human woman in Nachtwald. Even among her own people she was considered athletic, and following Rayzer over endless leagues of woodland trails had given her stamina far beyond her slight form. With a raw grinding of stone, the lid moved, turning slowly until it came to rest at an angle to the interior.
Blayde leaned against the marble, breathing hard. Her arms trembled slightly and a bead of sweat ran down her temple. Inside the tomb was a figure draped in rotting leather harness and garments that might once have been rich and fine. Upon the figure’s shoulder was a jade broach in the shape of a heron. White bone gleamed through rents in the tattered cloth, and the hollow-eyed skull stared up at the ceiling, its wide mouth fixed forever in a leering grin. The figure’s arms had been folded upon its chest and between the clasped, stick-like fingers was a magnificent sword.
At a glance it was plain to her that this was no ordinary sword. Here was a blade fashioned in an age of magical weapons, when heroes were as common as mayflies and monsters as fierce as summer storms. The polished steel shone like moonlight, but with a greenish cast, like sunlight filtered through the leaves of a morning forest. Despite the passage of years, the sword maintained its razor sharpness, without notch or groove to mar the long tapered edge. A single rune was etched into the metal at the cross guard. It pulsed with a faint green light. The pommel was adorned by a large jade gemstone, cut round and set in silver.
“Take it,” the voice said. “Take the sword and become the knight you were meant to be.”
Blayde reached into the tomb, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped the sword just below the cross guard. A sudden chill entered her fingers and traveled along her arm like quicksilver, but she did not let go. As she pulled, the long dead fingers held on to the hilt, as if possessed still of some deadly strength. But then they fell away, allowing the sword to slip at last from their grasp.
“It’s magnificent,” she told the darkness.
Blayde transferred the sword to her other hand, her sword hand, raising it before her. The cold spread through her entire body until she felt as if she were sheathed in ice. The cold burned her hand and her skin tingled as if touched by frost. Images swirled around in her thoughts like ghostly shadows seen through an early morning fog. She looked around, the vault fading before her eyes, a dim shadow of another world she was no longer part of.
Pain blossomed behind her eyes. Blayde’s mind was suddenly engulfed by the same deadly cold that had consumed her body. The vault was gone, as was the tomb and its decaying occupant. She could no longer see the suits of armor or the chamber in which they stood. She was alone in the midst of a dark wood, surrounded by forest so thick that she could not see through it, save in one direction only. There, ahead of her, rising out of the darkness, was the shadow of a great city and she knew, without question, that she must go there.
Consciousness failed her. Blayde dropped to the floor, the sword still gripped in her hand, and lay still as death.
* * *
Rayzer woke just before dawn, roused by the first cock’s crow. He stretched and yawned, thinking that he might just have to find the wretched bird and throttle it with his bare hands. While he was considering this, it suddenly struck him that Blayde was not beside him. He sprang to his feet, looking around. Her blanket still lay on the hay, twisted and in disarray, but there was no other sign that she had been there.
Rayzer snatched up his twin swords, vaulting over the edge of the loft and landing lightly on the floor below. His sudden appearance startled several of the horses, which shied away from him, banging on their stalls and tossing their heads. Rayzer ignored them. He went out into the morning. The sky was pink, the night’s stars fading from view. There was no one in the street just yet, but there would be soon, and he needed to find out where Blayde had gone. It was unlike her to leave without telling him. Worse still, he could not feel her presence.
Rayzer stood perfectly motionless, calming himself, focusing his thoughts on his sister. Since they had been brought from the womb, Rayzer and Blayde had shared a connection that went beyond blood and beyond lineage. It was as if they were one person, one soul, as if they were but two sides of the same coin, indelibly linked. Even when he had gone with the Yattiar to the north of the Rowanin, even then he could feel Blayde’s presence. He knew when she was happy, knew when she was in pain, and he had always known she was there.
Minutes passed as Rayzer reached out with his senses, searching, and then...
Rayzer darte
d between two houses, racing over the open green and through the doors of the church. The altar at the back of the chancel had been slid back to reveal a hidden stair. Rayzer leapt down the stairs into the vault and there, at the rear of the chamber, beside an open tomb, was his sister. A candle stood atop the tomb lid, but it had burned low, reducing the base of the candle to a puddle of wax. The air was stale and smelled of dust and age. Suits of empty armor lined the walls. Rayzer paid them no heed. He darted to the back of the chamber and dropped to his knees beside his sister, stroking the strands of her golden hair.
“Blayde!” He shook her gently, but she did not stir. She appeared to be asleep, but her dreams were restless. She twitched and her lips moved, as if trying to speak, but her eyes remained steadfastly closed. In one hand she held a magnificent sword with a green-hued blade. Rayzer attempted to take it from her, but she would not yield it. Even in sleep she held on to the grip with desperate strength. Rayzer laid the sword across her chest, then gently lifted her from the floor, cradling her in his arms. The priest. He had to find the priest. It was his city, after all, his church, his damned secret vault. The priest was a healer and would know what to do if anyone did.
Chapter 15
Portia sat at her father’s bedside, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. She had managed to get a few hours of sleep, but her thoughts would not give her rest and she had finally given up in the dark hours before morning. Since then she had sat, reading from the collected works of Arch Mage Kaxigan, preparing as best she could for what was to come. The healer and his attendants were ever present, washing Baron Cedric’s forehead with cool water, checking his bandages, whispering to each other. They hovered on the periphery of her vision like spirits of the dead, or of the dying. Servants came and went. Several of the baron’s captains and advisors, including Sir Eris, had come to see him, but none of them had stayed for long. The smell of sickness and impending death drove them from the room. And for that she was thankful.
The lord of Nachtwald remained feverish and in pain, beyond anyone’s help. Portia was confident she could heal him. His wound was great, but magic could restore him if only he would let her try. And she remembered the look of horror on his face when she approached him on the street. That alone prevented her from touching him.
Father Moram entered the room, looking nearly as tired as she was. With him came the boy, Ren, bearing a tray with some bread and cheese, and a tankard of beer.
“I thought you might be hungry,” the priest said.
“I’m not.”
“Leave it anyway,” Father Moram told the boy. Ren set the tray down on the table, then moved to stand beside Portia. He offered her a look of encouragement as he took her hand, clasping her fingers in his. Portia was momentarily startled by the gesture, but the boy’s fingers were warm against her skin. As she looked into his golden eyes, she suddenly felt lighter, her burden less heavy.
“How is he?” Father Moram asked.
Anger welled up inside her and Portia withdrew her hand from Ren’s. “That is a foolish question. He’s dying. That’s how he is, and neither of us can do anything about it.”
The priest sighed. “I meant no offense, Portia. It was a polite question; one I have asked many times this night. Your father was not the only man injured in yesterday’s attack, and he is not the only one dying.”
“I’ve heard it said that the Priests of Aedon have great ability as healers, that they can wield Aedon’s power in much the same way as a wizard wields magic. Can you do nothing for him?”
Father Moram bowed his head. “You know I cannot. Your father will not allow it.”
“Very soon my father will not be able to allow, or disallow, anything.” Her voice sounded bitter, even to her own ears.
“Your father is still Lord of Nachtwald. I respect him and I respect his wishes. I serve at his pleasure as much as the church’s. I will not break his law.”
“It’s a stupid law. It makes no sense.”
“If you knew the details of your mother’s death, you might be more understanding of your father’s reluctance to allow magic in his kingdom.”
“Then tell me.” Portia’s voice took on a note of urgency. “Surely I am old enough and wise enough to hear.”
“It’s not my place,” Father Moram said. “You should ask him.”
“I have. Don’t you think I’ve asked him a thousand times? He will tell me nothing of her. Nothing at all.”
“It is painful for him. He must come to it in his own time.”
“There may not be any more time.”
The priest sighed. “Every man and woman born into Aedon’s grace is gifted with free will, Portia. It is not a gift you should take lightly. All of us have the freedom, and the right, to choose our own path.”
“Tell that to the pig farmers,” Portia said.
“Even the lowest peasant can change his destiny if he honestly wants to. Your father has chosen a hard road for himself. We must respect that.”
“Even if it means others suffer, that others die, because of his choice.”
“Baron Cedric is the ruler of this kingdom and the protector of his people. It is his choice and his burden. We can help him with it. We can advise him. But we can never carry it for him. Someday, you may understand.”
“I will never understand.” Portia rose stiffly from her chair. She slid her book back into the satchel and picked up her staff.
“So,” Father Moram said, “it appears you have made a choice as well. You carry the tools of your chosen profession openly. He would not be pleased.”
“I don’t care. This is my path, Father. I’m not hiding who I am anymore. If magic is a sin, then so be it. If I am breaking my father’s law, then he can throw me into a dungeon. Or at least he can try.”
She moved to the door and opened it just as one of Father Moram’s acolytes came up the stairs. The youth was red faced and sweating, having run a great distance.
“I must... find... Father Moram,” the boy gasped.
Father Moram stood in the doorway. “Quietly, lad.” He gave Portia an apologetic smile. “Baron Cedric is resting and must not be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry... Father... but you must come at once.”
“What is it? Is it the miller’s boy?”
“No, Father, it’s the wood elves. Something has happened.”
* * *
Throughout the day more orcs and goblins arrived, gathering in the woods around the city. They burned the fields and ransacked the houses and farms along the Barleyrow to the west of Nachtwald. They dug trenches and shaped heavy boughs into sharpened spears, planting them in the dirt with their points aimed at the city, in case the baron’s mounted soldiers wanted to try their luck again. In the woods on both sides of Nachtwald they could hear the orcs felling trees and knew that their enemy was building engines and devices meant to breach their walls and break down their gates. The attack would come soon. Of that everyone was certain.
The gates of the city remained closed and barred. Carpenters and masons worked throughout that long day to reinforce the gates and repair portions of the wall where the stone had aged and the mortar crumbled. Men walked the walls and looked out from the towers of the castle, waiting for the inevitable.
* * *
“There can be no doubt,” Sir Ardunn said. “They mean to lay siege to the city. In fact, it’s already begun.” The lord’s steward stood at the head of the table with a map of Nachtwald and its surroundings spread out before him. Finn could not help but wonder at the love these men had for maps.
“It’s far worse than that,” Sir Henri said. “Orcs do not occupy cities nor do they negotiate treaties. They burn and pillage with no regard for the men and women who live there. If they get inside the walls, they will kill every man, woman, and child. My knights will stand beside you and help defend the city until the bitter end, but against so many I do not see how we can prevail.”
Sir Jon and Sir Ducar both nodded in agreement, their
faces as grim as their captain.
“Let’s hope it is not such a bitter end,” Finn said.
“What about the dragon?” Loth asked. “I fear for Nachtwald as much as any of you, but Jankayla is the bigger threat and must not be allowed to complete her task. If she is able to wake Ashendraugnir, it will mean ruin, not just for Nachtwald, but for all of Arkirius.”
“Dragons!” Sir Eris scoffed. “There are no more dragons, or wyverns for that matter. I don’t believe these fanciful tales, especially from the lips of two half-mad goblins, and one of them a jester, for Aedon’s sake. They would indeed make fools of us all.”
“But if it is true,” Loth argued, “then we would be negligent not to act. We must send a force to Arrom’s Rock, to learn the truth at the very least, and to put an end—”
“No,” Sir Ardunn said. “We cannot. Despite the fact that we have orcs sitting outside our gates, and more arriving by the hour, we cannot spare the men. Nachtwald has less than 50 men-at-arms remaining, fewer than 30 archers, and we have a large number of families under our protection. There are none to spare for such a mad endeavor.”
“I could go. Ander and I could both go, and my kin as well. The four of us have shared many adventures. I’m certain we could—”
“I won’t allow it,” Sir Ardunn said. “We need every able bodied man, or elf for that matter, to help defend Nachtwald. Besides which I hear your sister has taken ill, although Father Moram is somewhat vague on the details—”
“And that your brother will not leave her side,” Sir Eris added. “That is two less defenders already.”
“A woman should not be on the ramparts, regardless,” Sir Jon said. “It is bad luck. Better she remain in her bed.”
“Whatever this sorceress intends to do, she is beyond our reach.” Sir Henri waved his hand dismissively.
“If what the goblins say is true,” Loth said, “then she is a far greater threat than the warlord’s army, and many thousands will suffer for our inaction.”
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 18
