Midnight's Knight: A Fae War Chronicles Novel (The Fae War Chronicles Book 0)

by Jocelyn Fox

  “As they should have been, sir,” replied Ramel.

  “Take the praise and say thank you,” said Finn.

  “Thank you,” said Ramel obediently.

  Finn felt a rush of brotherly affection for his squire. He was proud of Ramel’s coolheaded performance during the skirmish, the accurate shots only underlining his squire’s composure. “I’m going to keep you as rearguard, and we’re doubling the night watch.”

  Ramel nodded silently.

  Finn hesitated. “I believe the creatures were targeting the Princess. We haven’t seen them work together before, and I fear that indicates some darker power controlling them.”

  “Are we pressing on to the White City?”

  “There should be less danger once we clear the forest,” Finn said. “Yes, we’re continuing on.”

  Ramel nodded. “Good. Can’t show them we’re afraid.”

  Finn smiled slightly. “Orin is going to Walk to Darkhill tonight to inform them of the attack.”

  “Good,” Ramel repeated. He glanced at Finn. “Do you think they’ll attack again?”

  Finn couldn’t lie to his squire. “Yes.”

  “And in greater numbers.” Ramel drew back his shoulders. “I know I’m not a Knight, but I need to say, sir, that I will die to protect the Princess.”

  “I never doubted it,” said Finn, clasping Ramel’s shoulder, “but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Finn turned back to the main party. “Let’s mount up, please.”

  They traveled until darkness made it almost impossible to see. Princess Andraste wove taebramh lights with a flick of her wrist, sending them to illuminate the path before them.

  “The creatures will find us either way,” the Princess said in response to his skeptical look. “We might as well not trip over ourselves and do their job for them.”

  Setting up camp that night was a somber affair. Lady Rose hadn’t said a word all afternoon, and she stood dumbly watching Guinna and Rye erect the tent. Rye took Guinna’s arm and said into her ear, “Take Rose inside, put a blanket about her and give her a drink. When she stops shaking, see if you can get her to talk.”

  To Finn’s surprise, Guinna nodded and gently ushered Rose into the enchanted tent.

  “I want to put some runes around the camp,” said Rye to Finn.

  He nodded and motioned to Ramel. “Travel in pairs.”

  “Let me help,” said Andraste. Rye looked at Finn, who shook his head. “I’m the sister of the Queen. I have power in my own right.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t want you to take unnecessary risks,” said Finn.

  “Walking around the camp to put a few runes out is an unnecessary risk?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “Join your ladies in the tent.”

  She glared at him for a moment but then obeyed. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as the tent flap closed.

  “We’re all on edge. The ladies haven’t ever experienced danger like this before,” said Halin in a tone of solidarity.

  “I would have preferred they still lacked that experience,” Finn replied, feeling suddenly weary.

  “Orin is going to report to the guild,” said Halin, motioning to where his brother sat down on his cloak and prepared to Walk.

  “Good. He knows that he should tell the on-watch Walker that one of the Three needs to be informed?”

  “Yes.” Halin nodded. Elias had already started a small fire in the center of camp. Finn had thought about going without a fire, but flame could be used as a weapon against garrelnost, and if the creatures were truly being controlled by a dark power, then they would find them regardless of the fire. He saw Ramel and Rye moving about the perimeter of the little clearing, Rye cupping a silver substance in one palm and painting runes on the trees. Ramel carried his short sword and peered watchfully into the growing darkness.

  Finn turned his thoughts to the watch schedule for the night. They’d be tired in the morning, and one person would have to stand two watches, but it was a burden they’d all accepted with their oaths. They’d survived the harrowing day and it was their duty to ensure the Princess slept safely through the darkness of the night. The more he thought about the attack, the more he became sure that an enemy more malicious than the dumb brutality of the garrelnost was behind it. But no matter the enemy, he vowed that he would see the Princess safely to the White City. His honor as a Knight depended upon it.

  He glanced up at the stars just starting to appear in the sliver of open sky above them, and began to prepare for a long, lonely night.

  Chapter 29

  Ramel watched as Rye painted the complex rune onto the fifth tree. He focused most of his attention on the surrounding forest. Every shadow and sound seemed to him like the signal of another attack, but he firmly held his overactive alarm in check, taking deep breaths every now and again.

  “You’ll exhaust yourself if you keep yourself on high alert,” said Rye quietly, tilting her head to look at her newest rune from another angle. She delicately extended one line and added another dot, and then nodded in satisfaction.

  “I don’t know if it’s as simple as switching it off,” Ramel replied with a sigh. She was right. He already felt bone-tired from the hours of straining his eyes and ears, his sword held at the ready.

  “It is,” she said calmly, moving toward the next tree.

  “These are an alert system against the beasts?” Ramel asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Of a sort. I’ve never written a rune specifically for a garrelnost, but it should work.”

  “The rune-circle has to be closed though, right?” he asked slowly, a prickle of warning walking down his neck.

  “Yes. It’ll take a few more moments, but I think it will be worth it.”

  It’s going to be fine, Ramel told himself firmly. Just guard Rye’s back while she works her runes, and then her spell will be the backup to the watch tonight.

  “Once I close the circle and activate the runes, they’ll all flare when the boundary is crossed. The runes closest to where the creatures pass will flare red. Or they should,” she amended.

  “Sounds like a good precaution,” said Ramel.

  Rye paused in the middle of painting a rune, her eyes unfocused.

  “Rye?” Ramel said quietly, his body tensing as he tightened his grip on his sword.

  “White Wolf save us,” she whispered. “They’ve been watching.”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Get back to camp!” she said, painting around her rune furiously. As Ramel pivoted toward the clearing, he heard the first scream. He took two steps but then realized Rye wasn’t beside him, and he turned back.

  “Go!” she shouted at him.

  “I’m not leaving you out here alone!” he said, raising his sword.

  She was painting with both hands now, the silver fluid dripping down over her wrists. He didn’t know if she heard him. The sounds of shouts and screams and howls filled the camp. Just as Ramel was about to grab Rye’s shoulder and haul her back with him, her runes be damned, she shouted a word and slapped both of her palms onto the tree. Fire erupted from the rune with a loud boom. The force of the blast lifted Rye from her feet but she recovered magnificently, gripping Ramel’s arm and urging him to run faster as they sprinted back toward camp. The fire roared up the trunk of the tall tree, waves of its heat washing over them as they ran.

  The light from the burning tree illuminated a scene of chaos: Ramel counted no less than five garrelnost, one already dead and one dying, the others harrying Finnead and the Guards. The enchanted tent lay trampled and torn. Rye yelled a Northern battle cry as she dove into the fray, attacking a garrelnost that was slinking up behind Elias. Ramel stumbled over a still form. When he looked down, he discovered that it was the corpse of Orin. Ramel tore his eyes away from the dark shining maw that had been Orin’s throat before a garrelnost had ripped it open. He
searched the chaos for the Princess and saw her mounted on her faehal, leading two of the other mounts toward where Knight Finnead and Guard Halin battled two garrelnost. As before, the creatures didn’t seem to want to kill the Princess – they were being directed to incapacitate her protectors. Ramel realized with a sickening lurch that whatever was controlling the garrelnost wanted to capture the Princess.

  He ran toward Knight Finnead, attacking the creature snapping at Finnead from the side. Even as Finnead stumbled, Ramel slammed into the garrelnost’s side, sinking his blade into its neck. The creature flailed and its claws raked across Ramel’s chest, but he jerked back and his leather vest took most of the damage. He felt a few strange, ticklish lines across his chest, but he turned his attention to Knight Finnead, hauling his master to his feet.

  “Orin is dead,” Ramel said as they quickly surveyed the battle.

  Finnead swore. “That means the report didn’t make it to Darkhill.”

  Three more garrelnost bounded out of the forest. Rye felled one, throwing her axe into its eye.

  “I think Rose is dead as well,” said Finnead grimly as they prepared to attack one of the other creatures. “She panicked and ran, and then she stopped screaming.”

  “Get on!” shouted Andraste, tossing the reins of Finnead’s great charger to him.

  Finnead looked at Ramel. “Go. Take my mount.”

  “What?” Ramel stared at his master. The battle flowed around them, but an odd pocket of calm enveloped them.

  “You’re a Walker,” said Finnead, thrusting the reins into Ramel’s hand. “And you can ride hard. If we’re captured, or all of us are killed and the Princess is taken, someone must tell the Queen. Walk, and then get back to Darkhill.”

  “Sir, you can’t ask me to abandon you,” Ramel said desperately.

  “I’m not asking you,” said the Knight, his eyes hardening. “I’m ordering you.”

  Guard Elias had managed to reach his own mount, and he pulled Lady Guinna up behind him. A garrelnost leapt on Guard Halin and he fell with a fractured scream. Ramel swallowed and pulled himself onto the charger’s back. He looked across the field of carnage for Rye and found her beside the Princess, their bows out, sending arrows toward the garrelnost. Two more emerged from the shadows, larger than the rest. The air in the little clearing shivered strangely, dancing in the heat of the blazing tree, twisting like a living thing.

  “Go!” commanded Finnead. “Whatever evil is controlling these beasts is coming!”

  “I won’t fail you, sir,” Ramel said, his voice coming out strangled.

  They clasped hands for an instant. Finnead nodded.

  “I know, lad. Now go!” He slapped the flank of his charger and the faehal surged forward. Ramel grabbed its mane with one hand, leaning forward over the great steed’s withers as they plunged across the small clearing. The faehal veered away from the roaring fire of Rye’s rune-painted tree, but they still felt its heat wash over them. Ramel wanted to look back – he heard another shout, a yell from Rye that arrowed into his chest painfully, and a roar from Knight Finnead that brought his heart into his throat. But Knight Finnead’s steed charged into the dark, tangled thicket of the forest headlong, and Ramel crouched even lower over the faehal’s neck as branches whipped past. Twisting to look back would certainly mean being swept off the charger’s back, and thus disobeying his master’s last order to him. He clenched his jaw as the sounds of the battle receded behind him, the flickering shadows from the flaming tree swaying, darkening and then fading until all was blackness, all was silence save for the crashing of his mount and the massive bellows of its lungs beneath him, his own gasping breath and his heartbeat pounding through his body.

  No creatures pursued them, but he clutched his sword in a numb hand. His mind raced and his blood ran cold at the images of the possibilities that flashed through his mind: Rye lying with her throat torn out like Orin, Finnead broken beneath a garrelnost like Halin, Lady Rose ripped limb from limb in the shadows. He turned his head to the side and retched into the dark wind of the faehal’s speed. When he was finished being sick, he sheathed his blade, heedless of the gore, and emptied his mind of all thought other than staying astride his galloping steed.

  Long after they’d plunged into the black thicket of the night forest – it felt like hours, but Ramel couldn’t be sure – Knight Finnead’s charger slowed from its headlong, swerving crash through the trees to a trot. In the darkness, Ramel still couldn’t see the branches of the trees until they were about to hit him in the face or sweep him off his mount’s back, so he stayed crouched low on the faehal’s neck. But the slower pace didn’t require all his attention to stay astride, and his mind turned to the best plan for his task. He firmly forbade himself from thinking about the battle, thinking about Rye and Finnead and Andraste surrounded by those terrible creatures, reliving the sinking, terrible moment when he realized that his master, his Knight, was ordering him to abandon them. If he thought about it, he would exhaust himself with worry and weeping in rage. Time enough for that after he’d accomplished the mission set before him by Knight Finnead. Time enough for that after he’d honored his Knight and his beloved friends by alerting the Queen.

  The sounds of the night forest gradually returned to normal, the hooting of owls and rustling of branches as nocturnal animals moved about, the occasional chattering of small creatures as they met in the underbrush, the rushing of the wind through the leaves and the creaking of the branches as the trees swayed above him. As the rush of the battle faded, Ramel slowly became aware of a dull throbbing across his chest, which sharpened incrementally as the other aches in his body made themselves known. He remembered the flash of the creature’s claws as they ripped through his vest. When he prodded one of the painful lines, he winced, fingers coming away sticky with blood. A ginger exploration of the rest of his skin beneath the ripped cloth revealed that he had several gashes across his chest. He pulled the tattered remnants of his shirt and vest together as best he could and resolved to look at his wounds in the light of day.

  Knight Finnead’s charger was a faehal bred for speed and endurance in battle, but even such a hearty steed tired. After a few more hours at a trot, Ramel’s mount slowed to a walk. He could feel the heat rising from its smooth coat, and every so often one of its muscles would shudder. He patted its neck encouragingly, which earned him a soft snort and an ear flicked back in his direction. Ramel thought more about his plan as the blackness of the night gradually lightened to the gray twilight before dawn. He didn’t have the maps that he’d been carrying, so he’d have to navigate back to Darkhill using the fundamentals of forest travel that they’d been taught as pages and squires. Perhaps he’d be able to find the path again, but he didn’t know whether that would be a good decision given the fact that creatures might hunt him after the battle had concluded.

  That thought tightened his muscles with a primordial fear. He thought he knew now what a deer felt when being hunted by wolves. Except a deer did not know how to wield a blade and bow, he reminded himself firmly. After dawn, he would take stock of his location and find a location to Walk back to Darkhill and make the report of the attack. He pondered over the best setup. He’d never tried to Walk such a distance, but Darkhill was so familiar to him that he thought he would be able to manage it. The other new factor was security. He would be essentially unconscious as his Walker-form traveled through the ether, leaving his physical body defenseless. Should he take the risk that no creatures would find him in that interval? The image of Orin, his throat a gaping wet pulp, flashed into his mind’s eye unbidden. He shivered. According to Murtagh, Walkers were pulled back to their physical body sometimes for various reasons, such as Walking a distance greater than their talent allowed, or if they lost their focus on the place to which they’d Walked. Walkers could also be repelled by certain wards and called back to their bodies by others. So even if Orin had been speaking to another Walker when he’d been killed, his disappearance wouldn’t be treated
as anything particularly extraordinary.

  Ramel thought for a moment about tying himself to the saddle and Walking, but then he thought about being hit by a branch and dragged along hanging out of the saddle, and shook his head with a wince. He’d have to halt to Walk. For a few minutes, he tried to recall the runes that Rye had been drawing on the trunks of the trees around their camp, thinking that perhaps the alarm would jolt him back into his body if a creature attacked. But he couldn’t remember the rune clearly enough to be confident in its use, and he wasn’t sure that something like that would be enough to pull him back to his body anyway. He sighed. It seemed like he’d just have to take the risk of being hunted in his vulnerable state.

  A small branch smacked him in the shoulder and he brushed it aside in irritation. Then he looked at the trees surrounding him, shaking his head as he realized a possible solution to his problem, so simple that he’d literally looked right past it. He quickly formulated his plan as the light of dawn slowly filtered through the boughs of the trees. With every moment, the forest seemed less threatening. The light of a new day made the spectral beasts and the smell of death from the battle fade into the terror of a dark night. Though he reminded himself firmly that the creatures could attack during the day as well as in darkness, Ramel couldn’t help but feel a small bud of hope in the sunlight.

  The light also revealed the foam lacing the flanks of his charger. After the sun had risen over the horizon and the forest gleamed golden, Ramel gently pulled his steed to a halt. The faehal shivered and shifted restlessly as Ramel slowly coaxed his stiff legs into motion. He grabbed the saddle as his treacherous limbs refused to support him, leaning on the charger until his legs decided that it was time to stand. He bit back a groan as the aches he’d been ignoring rushed back, his body one throbbing mass. The gashes across his chest felt like lines of fire, every movement igniting a painful flash through his torso. He gritted his teeth and turned to the pack behind the saddle, grateful that Knight Finnead hadn’t yet unloaded his mount for the night. He chuckled at the strange, dark humor: the creatures’ decision to attack early, just after they’d made camp, meant that now he had food and water, a bow and quiver, and hopefully some healing supplies.