Carlo rushed forward, swinging his sword down and reversing his grip. He leapt the last few feet, casting aside the second blade to use both hands to ram the broadsword dead center, straight into the thing’s mouth. He scrambled clear before it could react, flailing at the offending weapon with sickled forearms.
One of the beast’s swipes caught the crosspiece of Carlo’s sword, prying the weapon loose and flinging it aside. Its legs scrabbled against the stones for purchase, and it pushed down with its right arm to roll toward an upright position. Its angry shrieks faded to a weak mewling, and it slumped back down onto its back.
Carlo recovered his sword as the demon twitched its last. “Open up!” he called up to the figures poking their heads over the wall. “Form a burial detail! Go get my shield!” He found his crossbow near the body of the soldier he’d thrown it to, and picked it up after closing the man’s eyes.
“A handful of Magi, striking from behind buildings. Just fire though. We haven’t heard anything in the last few minutes,” one of the soldiers from inside the wall reported.
The Blademaster stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. His horse peeked around the corner of a building down the street to the east, and trotted over. “Still more sense than most men,” he scratched the stallion’s forehead, and picked the reins up to hand to one of the milling guardsmen. “Take him to the stables. Get the hands to come move these bodies out of the street. Tell them to be ready for a wagon team and two more saddle horses.” He patted the stallion’s nose once more before turning toward the opened gates. “Send the others directly to the prince.”
* * *
A dozen mounted guards met the wagon before it was even halfway from the market square to the palace gate.
“Look alive, there’s been an attack!” the detail split and flanked the wagon. Martin let the team speed up to match the escort’s pace, his teeth rattling as the sturdy transport jounced along the darkened cobble street. The gates spread wide open to receive them. Martin almost did not see the single-horse cart off to the side of the street, and the crowd of men gathered around something that glinted darkly in the torchlight next to it. He shifted his attention back to the slowing troop complement before him.
Four guardsmen peeled off as they entered the compound and the gates began to close. The remaining newcomers guided the wagon to the front steps of the palace.
“Welcome to Navlia,” the guard leading the half dozen servants offered Alma a hand down from the wagon while the dwarves piled out of the back end. Their belongings and supplies were offloaded in seconds, and hustled into the palace alongside them. “It’s not safe here,” the guard cautioned, leading the way toward the residences. “But it’s safer than out there. Come. The others are waiting.”
“Sister of the Hero,” Alacrit clasped Alma’s hands as she entered the room. “Yes, I can see it clearly. Please, be at ease here. Anything you require is yours.”
“Thank you,” Alma frowned, extricating her fingers from the unexpected grasp. “And how do you know Kevon?”
“He and his friends saved my kingdom, and continue to work toward that end.”
“Oh!” Alma noticed the jeweled circlet that was mostly concealed by the prince’s hair, and backed into a curtsey.
Alacrit waved the gesture off. “Nonsense. Civility is sufficient. Certainly from citizens of the outer provinces. To you, I am little more than an occasional tax, and someone to curse at.”
“Well, you can’t be expected to travel just everywhere…”
“Correct. Few understand, and fewer still appreciate that fact. I wish more would…” The prince chuckled. “But I forget myself. This is Martin, I assume, and the Dwarven delegation?”
“Sire,” Martin shook the monarch’s outstretched hand and nodded. “Commander Carlo has delivered our message, then?”
Alacrit shook his head. “It has been only minutes since he arrived, and the assault on the walls has been foremost in our conversation.”
“Walls?” Alma peered at the prince. “Who is attacking the walls?”
“We think it is some of the same forces that infiltrated the palace a season ago,” Alacrit explained. “Increased security has prevented them from gaining entrance, but the attacks all seem to be connected, similar. They’re mostly magical, almost exclusively using fire and darkness.”
“Why have they not used magic to get in?” Martin asked. “A few Magi sent Bertus across the realm to us, getting across a wall should be easier than that.”
“Though far removed from the War of the Magi, my ancestors built the palace grounds carefully, fearfully.” Alacrit smiled. “Every brick, every cobble, are ensorcelled to resist manipulation by the forces of Earth and Movement. We now have other measures in place to assure that no portals can be made in or out of the palace grounds.”
“I shall rest easy tonight, knowing my Alma is safe,” Martin said, nodding to Alacrit. “Such peace is a luxury since our departure from home.”
“Extra guards will patrol for the duration of your stay,” Alacrit announced. “Barring a second War of the Magi, or unfathomable treason, you are safe within these halls. Now, to business.”
We are safe here? The guard’s warning replayed through Alma’s mind, in blatant opposition to the prince’s reassurances. Her mind raced as the Dwarven translator introduced himself and the others in his group. Perhaps I should speak more with that guard, learn more about…
“What brings such a formidable group of your people to my home?” Alacrit asked after the introductions were completed.
“A prophecy of their people, involving my brother-in-law,” Martin began. “They seem-”
“A truth we were not prepared to reveal before,” Carlo interrupted, “Must now come to light.”
“Your secret?” Alacrit asked, grinning. “The one I was not ready to hear a season ago? Let us think. A secret kept from me by a handful of heroes. Whisperings of heresy from Eastport. A Dwarven prophecy, the focus of which… one of those very same heroes?”
“Sire…”
“Commander,” Alacrit interrupted Carlo. “I’ve had my suspicions for weeks, tonight has done nothing but point toward the verification of those suspicions. Should they be proven correct, I may have to stand against the Guilds, or against my Heroes. But please, by all means, continue.”
“I thought it was bad when I found out,” Carlo muttered. “All I had to do was try and kill him.”
“You?!” Alma’s hand moved to the skinning knife at her belt. Martin wrapped his arm around her, staying her hand on the weapon’s hilt.
“Do not blame Carlo,” Alacrit reassured Alma. “Things are changing, power is shifting as never before in recorded history.”
Minutes passed in silence.
“Kevon is…” Carlo continued, “A Mage.”
Prince Alacrit exhaled, nodding. “As I suspected. First, he shows up here with Bertus, and now this. Portents abound…”
“Bertus?” Carlo’s face scrunched in disbelief as he questioned the monarch. “What does the boy have to do with any of this? Portents? What are you…”
“You believe you are the only ones allowed secrets?” Alacrit countered. “What you know of the world is but a shadow, Hero. Perhaps, in time, you will glimpse a portion of the knowledge my family has collected throughout the ages.” The prince glowered a few moments longer at the Blademaster before speaking again. “For now, I must consult with my advisors, decide the best stand to take on this matter. Personally, I will not forsake any of my Heroes. Publically…” Alacrit sighed. “I shall try my best. Lady Alma?”
“Hmm?” Alma startled at the mention of her name amid the tense revelations.
“Would you humor me by speaking with the Court Historian tomorrow?” Alacrit asked. “I would ask Kevon…”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. Thank you all.” Alacrit turned to the dwarves, who waited in silence in a corner of the room. “I shall speak with you at length, in the following d
ays. For now, eat, drink, refresh yourselves, and relax.”
Chapter 21
Light spilled into the room and pooled on the blanket covering Kevon. He arched his back against the new warmth, neck popping as he stretched.
“Promising,” Alanna remarked from a shadowed corner of the room. “The first morning in a week you haven’t whimpered yourself awake.”
“The ache is still there, but it’s not the only thing I feel, or even the first thing,” Kevon answered. “I haven’t hurt this good since Elburg.”
Alanna said nothing, leaning further back into her darkened corner.
“I’m sorry.” Kevon sat up, pushing aside the blankets and retrieving his clothes from the bedside table. “I’m still not quite myself.”
“Who of us is?” Alanna asked. “The dwarves are all out of their element, even more so since more of their countrymen have gathered. Yusa and his pet Mage have been acting more strangely since we arrived. Mirsa’s ‘situation’, your sickness. Bertus is the only one who seems all right, but he’s only been here half a day.”
“Mirsa? She’s been sick from the voyage… Keeping the pull of the sea at bay is a strain at the very least.” Kevon pulled his tunic on, and glanced at the sword that leaned against the table.
“She’s been sick since we left Eastport, and before that, if my guess is right. The herbs she’s been taking to hide it are obvious. You… really don’t know, do you?”
Realization stabbed through Kevon’s being, and he cursed himself for not spotting it sooner. “But whose? Waine?”
Alanna tightened the straps on her braces of daggers, and shrugged. “Not my business. Her pet dwarves and the returning hero seem to have matters well in hand.”
“Bertus? I don’t think…” Kevon frowned. He’d gotten no indication of a relationship between the young Warrior and the Mage in Eastport, but they’d had less than a day before being forced to part ways. “I don’t think…”
“You’ve said that already,” the assassin chided. “Finish putting your pants on, and let’s take a walk.”
* * *
“The Realm be damned. I’m not leaving your side again.”
“This is why I didn’t tell you before,” Mirsa sighed. “There are things more important than any one of us, things that need doing.”
“We’ve got the others. We’ve got the dwarves behind Kevon now, Carlo and the royal army, for all we know. Plus whatever help the elves will be.” Bertus clasped Mirsa’s hands together between his own. “The world will be fine, we need to take care of you.”
“Who do I have to speak with to get a fried trout for breakfast around here?” Kevon’s voice drifted through the sheer curtained window from a tree away.
“We do have to deal with that, and soon.” Bertus gave Mirsa’s hands another squeeze before standing and moving to the door. “Coming?”
“There he is!” Kevon shouted as he spotted Bertus coming out of the doorway. He threaded his way across the branch bridge, holding on to the railing and wheezing by the time he reached the landing.
“You’re in no shape to be out and about,” Bertus admonished Kevon. “Go back to bed.”
“No. I need. To do this,” Kevon gasped. “Too much time. Lying down. Already.”
Alanna glowered sideways at Kevon. “How is the Mage? Still sick?”
“She’s staying here, and I’m staying with her,” Bertus announced. “For as long as it takes.”
“I understand. And agree. You’ve both done so much already. It’s time I took more responsibility for this task,” Kevon admitted.
“Aelion asked us to meet him before noon, further up in the city,” Alanna announced. “With Kevon in this state, we should leave now.”
“You two go ahead, I’ll get Mirsa, and we’ll catch up with you.”
“We’ll see you up the mountain, then,” Alanna nodded to Bertus, and took Kevon’s arm to steer him past the doorway and onto the next bridge of branches.
They ascended along the branching paths, skirting around residences and avoiding obvious dead-ends. The midair city varied in height from as low as twenty feet above the steepening mountain, to rarely more than fifty feet above ground at the bottom level of bridges. More houses were layered above. Stopping regularly to rest and drink from water-collection pools, Kevon and Alanna were in sight of a woven wall of branches pierced by a single wooden door when Bertus called to them from an adjacent pathway.
“There?” The young Warrior called, pointing to the door, at least a half a dozen trees distant, and a hundred feet or more above them.
“He said we couldn’t miss it,” Alanna shouted back, dragging Kevon to his feet again.
Two bridges later, and the four met back up, continuing their upward trek in relative silence.
“What?” Bertus asked as he topped the last ascent to their target. “You guys are already here?”
“The Elder asked us…” Rhysabeth-Dane motioned to Kylgren-Wode.
“You’ve been sailing on my boat,” Captain Yusa grumbled. “I’ll follow where I want to.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Kevon said, slumping against the weave of vines and branches near the door. “Does anyone know what this is all about yet?”
“Aelion has finished helping me translate the Elven portion of the book,” Rhysabeth-Dane mentioned. “He said there might be something else he could do to help, but was very secretive about it.”
“Reko’s not so sure about-”
The door creaked open a few feet, and Relaniel stepped out. She glanced around, frowning at Yusa, before speaking. “The Elder awaits you. Come.”
The group filed in through the opening, and Relaniel pulled the door shut behind them.
“Everything today reminds me of Elburg,” Kevon whispered, surveying the garden that lay below them and past the vine curtain ahead.
“This way,” their Elven guide led them down a spiral ramp that hugged a nearby tree, and stretched all the way to the manicured meadow below. She gestured to the flower-lined stone path that snaked up the hill before them. “He awaits you at the top.”
“It’s much stronger here,” Mirsa commented, as they began their way up the slope. “The Light. I can feel it… radiant, yet constrained.”
“I feel it too,” Kevon labored for his next breath. “The power is like a wet fish, slipping from your grasp as you reach for it.”
“I don’t feel well,” Bertus clutched at his stomach. “I haven’t eaten today though.” He waved the others ahead, doubling over, bracing his hands on his knees. His vision swam, and for a moment the shadows flickered. Shaking his head, he straightened up and followed the others.
The crown of the hill rose above the trees that surrounded it, giving a breathtaking view of the ocean behind and around them. Kevon shaded his eyes and looked upward, noticing two imperfections in the light above them near the peak.
“The ocean is my life,” Yusa growled, “But this is not how man was meant to see it. I feel like I’m going to fall straight up into the sky.”
“I doubt men have seen this before,” Rhysabeth-Dane snapped. “And you’re not the only one who is uncomfortable right now.”
“I meant no disrespect, little sister,” Yusa laughed. “It’s the land-sickness getting the better of me.”
Rhysabeth-Dane huffed, and continued up the hill, Kylgren-Wode scrambling to keep up with her.
“Thank you for agreeing to this,” Aelion called from up the path, strolling down to meet them.
“I didn’t agree to anything,” Bertus muttered, resting his hand on the hilt of the ancient sword he’d reclaimed his first day on the island.
“Nor I,” Kevon reaffirmed, scowling as the Elder met them on the path. “We’re merely here at your request.”
“Not prepared? Relaniel…” Aelion smiled. “I forget my Apprentice is not always as comfortable around others as I am. No matter. I believe you are ready enough.”
“Ready for what?” Alanna asked after the
elf, who was already headed back toward the summit.
Kevon shrugged, took two deep breaths, and resumed his upward climb.
The focus of the power on the hilltop was evident well before Kevon reached the summit. A high-backed throne, double the size of Alacrit’s in Navlia, sat dead center on the hilltop. The nearly flattened area around the throne stretched barely a dozen feet from it in all directions.
“Close your eyes,” Kevon whispered to Mirsa.
“I know…” she answered. “I can still see it, too.”
Kevon advanced toward the source of the power, stretching his hand out toward the arm of the throne, marveling at the way different roots had entwined to form the near perfectly smooth artifact.
“No being has touched the throne since M’lani’s exodus,” Aelion announced, stepping in front of Kevon. “And none shall, until her return.”
“Well then, it’s been fun to look at,” Alanna grumbled. “Can we go now?”
“Amuse me for a moment.”
Yusa’s barking laughter echoed over the hilltop, as Alanna’s face contorted in confusion.
“Amu… Humor you?”
“Ahh. Yes. Now you have done both?” Aelion smiled.
“That was actually funny in three languages,” Rhysabeth-Dane chuckled.
“I would have you rest longer,” Aelion continued, “But time, and light, are a factor.”
“Of course,” Kevon nodded.
“You’ve been healed as much as I can manage in so short a time, but there remain some weaknesses that I’m unable to even approach. Time and rest, I’m afraid, might not be the answer.”
Perhaps the Guilds are right to forbid the mingling of sword and sorcery, Kevon winced. For more reasons than we thought before.
“Since the arrival of the second ship, and the revelation of the Dwarven prophecy, I’m convinced that you need to be made whole, so that your journey may continue.”
“You’ve already said that you can’t heal him,” Alanna protested, glaring at Aelion.
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