The Blood Knight

by Greg Keyes

  And he certainly had something to do. He wasn’t going to think about it anymore; there was no riddle here.

  He knew which side he was on.

  He carefully opened the case and brought forth the black arrow. Its head glittered like the heart of a lightning stroke.

  The praifec had said the arrow could be used seven times. It had been used five times already when Aspar had received it. He’d shot it once to kill an utin and save Winna’s life.

  That left one.

  He set the shaft to his string and sighted, feeling the wind, watching the curl of vapors around the combatants, willing his shaking muscles to quell so his mind could tell them what to do.

  One deep breath, two, three, and then he felt the shot and released the string. He watched the flash of light grow tiny and vanish at the base of the woorm’s skull.

  Aspar caught himself holding his breath.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The woorm shrilled an awful stone-shattering scream, and its body twisted as it arched back, vomiting venom. The Briar King grabbed it by the tail and unwound it and hurled it into the forest. Part of the king’s arm tore loose and went with the monster, and he staggered as great chunks of his body sloughed away. He gripped a tree to steady himself but continued to melt.

  “Grim,” Aspar muttered, and closed his eyes. He sank down next to the spruce he’d used for support, watching the great coils of the woorm heave up into sight and subside behind the trees. With each heartbeat the sounds of its thrashing diminished.

  He couldn’t see the Briar King anymore at all.

  Exhaustion flooded through him, and relief. That, at least, was done.

  He knew he ought to try to set the bone in his leg, but he’d have to rest first. He drew out his water flask and had a drink. His food was back with Ogre’s tack, but he didn’t have much of an appetite, anyway. Still, he probably needed to eat…

  His head snapped up, and he realized he’d dozed off.

  The Briar King was watching him.

  He was only about twice the size of a man now, and his face was almost human, albeit covered in light brown fur. His leaf-green eyes were alert, and Aspar thought he saw the faintest of smiles on the forest lord’s lips.

  “I guess I did the right thing, yah?” Aspar said.

  He had never heard the Briar King speak, and he didn’t now. But the creature stepped closer, and suddenly Aspar felt bathed in life. He smelled oak, apple blossoms, the salt of the sea, the musk of a rutting elk. He felt larger, as if the land were his skin and the trees were the hairs upon it, and it filled him with a joy he had never quite known, except perhaps when he was young, running through the forest naked, climbing oaks for the sheer love of them.

  “I never knew—” he began.

  And with the suddenness of a bone snapping, it all ended. The bliss went out of him like blood from a severed vein as the Briar King’s eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in a soundless scream.

  There, on his breast, something glittered like the heart of a lightning bolt…

  The king locked eyes with him, and Aspar felt something prickle through his body. Then the form that stood before him simply fell apart, collapsing into a pile of leaves and dead birds.

  Aspar’s chest heaved as he tried to draw a breath, but the scent of autumn choked him, and he clapped his hands to his ears, trying to shut out the deep keening that shuddered through the earth and trees as with a single voice the wild things of the world understood that their sovereign was gone.

  Like lightning flashing before him, he saw forests crumbling into dust, great grassy plains putrefying, leagues of bones bleaching beneath a demon sun.

  “No,” he gasped, finally managing to breathe.

  “Oh, I think yes,” a familiar voice countered.

  A few kingsyards behind where the Briar King had stood was Fend, with a bow in one hand and an evil grin on his lips. He was dressed in weird armor, but the helm was off. His mouth was smeared with dark blood, and he had a light in his eyes that was crazy even for him.

  Aspar fumbled for his dirk; he didn’t have his ax or any more arrows.

  “Well,” Fend said, “that’s that. You killed my woorm, but that’s not all bad. You know what happens when you drink the fresh blood of a woorm?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, you piece of sceat.”

  “Come, Aspar,” Fend said. “Don’t be so angry. I’m grateful to you. I was supposed to drink the blood, you know. The problem was how to get to it once the beast had served its purpose. And you solved that problem rather neatly. Even better, you gave me the one thing I needed to slay His Majesty Stickerweed.”

  “No,” Aspar said. “The arrow could only be used seven times.”

  Fend waved a finger.

  “Tsk. It’s not like you to believe in the phay stories, Aspar. Who told you it could only be used seven times? Our old friend the praifec? Tell me, if someone could make a weapon this strong, why would they limit its use?”

  He walked over to the pile of rot that was all that remained of the Briar King and lifted the arrow out.

  “No,” he said. “This will be useful for some time to come, I think. You still have the case, I imagine. Ah, there it is.”

  “Yah. Come and get it.”

  “Killed Ashern, did you? These Mamres monks are always a little too confident in their speed and strength. Makes them forget that skill—and in your case simple hardheadedness—can go quite a long way.”

  He fitted the arrow to his string.

  “I shouldn’t think this will hurt much, considering,” Fend said. “That’s fine with me. You took my eye, but I consider the debt paid now. I’m sorry you can’t die fighting, but it would take too long for you to heal, and you’d continue to be a nuisance. But I can let you stand, if you’d like, so you can die on your feet at least.”

  Aspar stared at him for a moment, then propped his makeshift crutch under his arm and pushed himself painfully up.

  “Just tell me one thing,” he said, “before you kill me. Why Qerla?”

  Fend grinned. “Really? Not ‘Why kill the Briar King’ or even ‘What’s this all about’? You’re still on the Qerla thing? But that was so long ago.”

  “That’s it. That’s all I want to know.”

  “I didn’t want to kill her, you know,” Fend said. “She was a friend of mine once. But I thought—we thought—she was going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “The big Sefry secret, you dolt.”

  “What the sceat are you talking about?”

  Fend laughed. “Living with us all those years, and you never guessed? I suppose that’s fair. Even some of the Sefry don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “What we are,” Fend said. “We’re Skasloi, Aspar. We’re what remains of the Skasloi.”

  “But—”

  “Ah, no, sorry. I’ve answered your question. That’s all you get.”

  He raised the bow, and Aspar tensed himself for one last try. The dirk wasn’t balanced for throwing, but—

  Did he hear hoofbeats? He had a sudden image of Ogre come back from the dead and nearly laughed.

  Fend’s eyes narrowed, then widened in shock as an arrow struck his breastplate, followed quickly by another in the knee joint. Aspar turned to find there was indeed a horse thundering up behind him, but it wasn’t Ogre; it was a dappled gray he’d never seen before.

  The rider he recognized by her pale skin, black bangs, and almond violet eyes. She had a bow and shot it again, this time at Fend’s head. But he twisted aside, and the arrow missed. The horse thuttered to a stop, and she leapt off, slinging her bow on her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she commanded. “Mount.”

  “Fend—”

  “No, look,” she said. “There’s more. Get on!”

  She had to swing the broken leg over for him; the pain was so acute, he nearly fainted. But he saw what she meant: Several armored figures were coming to Fend’s aid. Fend
himself was rising, fitting the deadly arrow to his string.

  Leshya whirled her mount, and they were running. Aspar meant to take her bow and have a parting shot at Fend, but a hard bounce struck pain through him like a sledgehammer, and he sank away from the world.

  Anne blinked in astonishment as the Sefry went down on their knees before her.

  “I thought Mother Uun said that Sefry wouldn’t fight,” Austra said.

  Anne nodded and squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “Which one of you leads?” she asked.

  A black-eyed fellow with pale yellow hair and silvery mail dipped his head.

  “I am captain of this troop, Your Majesty.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Cauth Versial, Highness,” he replied.

  “Rise, Cauth Versial,” Anne said.

  He did so.

  “Did Mother Uun send you?” she asked at last.

  “She told us what the Kept promised you.”

  “But that was only moments ago,” Anne protested. “How could she know? How could you arrive so quickly?”

  “We were waiting, Majesty. Mother Uun foresaw this possibility.”

  “I don’t understand,” Anne said. “Mother Uun said she was one of his guardians; she helped keep him imprisoned. Why should he go to her?”

  “These are very ancient matters, Your Majesty,” Cauth said, “and I do not understand them completely. Only that it was part of our geos that if he were ever freed, he could command us in one thing.”

  “And he commanded you to save my life.”

  “To protect you and serve you, Majesty.”

  “Then your service isn’t over?”

  “No, Majesty. It is not. Not until you release us or we die.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “One hundred fifty, Majesty.”

  “A hundred and—Do you know a way into the castle from here?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” he said, pointing. She turned and saw that she had practically backed against a massive metal portal.

  “He’s right,” Alis said. “Prince Robert may have filled in every other passage, but he would not cut himself off from the Kept. Yet a key is needed.”

  Even as she said it, the door opened soundlessly, revealing an ancient Sefry so frail and thin that Anne was almost afraid that he was another sort of walking dead. His eyes stared blankly into nothing.

  “Majesty,” the old man said. “You have come at last. Welcome.”

  Alis made a sputtering sound. “You had your tongue cut out,” she said. “And your eardrums burst.”

  The aged Sefry smiled. “I healed.”

  “You don’t seem very upset that your charge has escaped,” Anne said.

  “It was fated,” the Keeper replied. “I felt him go and came here.”

  “Command us, Majesty,” Cauth said.

  Anne took a deep breath. “Do you think you have enough men to take the castle from within?”

  “With the element of surprise, I should think so.”

  “Very well. Cazio, you’re with me. Austra, take ten of these Sefry for a bodyguard. The Kept said he lifted the glamour on the passages. Let’s find out. Find Sir Leafton. Have him drain the lower passages and send runners out to bring reinforcements from the army. The rest of you, come with me. No, wait. My uncle Robert was with these men. Find him first and bring him to me.”

  But Robert, unremarkably, was nowhere to be found.

  WITH ALIS gone, Muriele felt blind to the outside world. She had her two windows, of course, and occasionally the guards would let something drop when they thought she was out of earshot, but she rarely trusted that, since anything she “overheard” from them might be part of one of Robert’s games.

  But something was happening outside, of that she was certain. Through her southern-facing window, she could see a good bit of the city, and for days something had been happening near the Fastness, in or near the Sefry quarter. Fires were burning, and she had glimpses of armored men and siege engines moving along the streets leading there.

  Was it a revolt of some sort? Or had Robert become even more distempered and decided for some reason to slaughter the Sefry?

  There was a third possibility, but it was one she hardly dared think about. The Crepling passage was supposed to have an outlet in Gobelin Court. Had Sir Fail returned? But no, he wouldn’t be able to remember the passage. Unless Alis—

  But Alis was dead. Wasn’t she?

  On that question hung Muriele’s most slender hope. But locked in a tower as she was, she had plenty of time to entertain even the most forlorn possibilities.

  The girl’s last words had been in Lierish, Muriele’s native tongue. I sleep. I sleep. I’ll find you.

  Alis was coven-trained and well versed in the virtues of a thousand venoms. Might she somehow have only appeared to be dead?

  No. That was an inane hope.

  She conjured other scenarios. Perhaps Praifec Hespero had come to the conclusion that the Sefry were heretics in need of hanging and the Sefry weren’t surrendering quietly. That certainly made sense.

  Perhaps something had gone wrong with Robert’s Hansan alliance and Hansa had somehow managed to gain a foothold in Eslen.

  But no, that wasn’t likely at all. Her marriage gown had been fitted, and the other preparations for her wedding seemed to be moving along smoothly.

  Her east-facing window, while providing a marvelous view of the confluence of the Dew and Warlock rivers, did not tell her much at all. She very much wished she could see west toward Thornrath or north to the King’s Poel. If there was a battle, that was where it would be.

  She entertained herself as best she could and waited for something to happen, because everything was out of her hands now.

  She found she liked that in a way. The only thing that really grieved her was that she didn’t know what had become of Anne. The shade of Erren had assured her that her youngest daughter was still alive, but that had been months ago now. Had Neil MeqVren found her?

  Even if he had, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—bring her here. So it was best to pretend that Anne was safe, protected, anonymous in some far country.

  On what she reckoned to be the fifteenth day of Etramen, Muriele awoke to the clash of arms. Sometimes the wind would carry the sounds of steel from the city and the voices of men shouting. But this seemed nearer, perhaps in the inner keep itself.

  She went to her window and craned her neck to look down, but since the Wolfcoat Tower was set in the southern wall of the keep, she had very little view of the inner courtyard. She could hear better with her head in the air, however, and she was more certain than ever that there was fighting below.

  A movement farther toward the horizon caught her attention. Beyond the walls of the city she could see a bit of Eslen-of-Shadows, the necropolis where her ancestors slept, and beyond that the muddy, shallow southern channel of the Warlock. At first she wondered if a flock of swans had settled on the rinns, but then the perspective of distance worked itself out, and she saw that they were boats: galleys and canal boats, mostly. But she couldn’t see any standards or sign that let her recognize their origin.

  When the guard brought her meal, he looked frightened.

  “What is it?” she asked him. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s nothing, Queen Mother,” he said.

  “It’s been quite a while since you called me that,” she observed.

  “Auy,” he replied. He started to say something else but shook his head and closed the door.

  A brief moment later it opened again. It was the same fellow.

  “Don’t eat it,” he said, his voice pitched very low. “His Majesty said if ever…just don’t eat it, please, Your Highness.”

  He closed and locked the door again. She set the food aside.

  Time passed, and the tumult quieted, then renewed itself farther down, in the outer keep. She had a very thin view of the Honot Yard before the great gate of the outer keep, a
nd she made out sun glinting off armor there, along with dark streams of arrows. Shouts of valor and shrieks of agony filled the air at times, and she prayed to the saints that no one she loved was dying.

  It was nearly dark when she heard the ring of steel in the tower itself. She composed herself in her armchair and waited, with no idea what to expect, thinking that at least it was something, something Robert hadn’t planned. Even if that meant they were invaded by slaughtering hordes of Weihands, that was better than whatever her brother-in-law would think of next.

  She winced as the fighting came to her door and a piteous howl cut through the heavy beams and stone walls. She heard the familiar scrape of a key in the lock.

  The door swung wide, and the bloody body of the guard who’d warned her not to eat the food flopped onto the threshold. He blinked at her and tried to speak, but his mouth was pouring blood.

  Just behind him came a man she did not recognize. He had a distinctly southern look to him, enhanced by the weapon he carried, the sort she had known Vitellians to wield. His dark regard picked quickly through the spare chamber and returned to focus on her.

  “You are alone?” he asked.

  “I am. Who are you?”

  Before he could answer, another face appeared behind him.

  In the first few heartbeats, all Muriele saw was the regal bearing and stern gaze. Saint Fendve the War Witch incarnate.

  It was only as the woman lifted off her helm that Muriele recognized her daughter. Her skin was dark and weather-changed, and her hair fell only as far as her throat. She wore men’s clothes and even a small breastplate, and one cheek bore an angry-looking bruise. She looked wonderful and terrible, and Muriele could only wonder what had eaten her daughter and taken her shape.

  “Leave us for a moment, Cazio,” Anne said quietly to the man.

  The swordsman nodded and vanished back through the doorway.

  When he was gone, Anne’s features softened, and she rushed forward, meeting Muriele halfway as she rose.

  “Mother,” she managed to choke out, and then she dissolved into tears as they wrapped their arms around each other. Muriele felt strange, almost too stunned to react.

  “I’m sorry,” Anne gasped. “Those things I said to you. I was afraid they would be the last.” She broke into deeper sobs, and months of isolation suddenly distilled in Muriele. Endless days of suppressed hope collapsed.