Quest SMASH

by Joseph Lallo

  “I have—”

  Myra let out a wailing moan. She was rocking backwards and forwards on her stool. Loriane turned away from Tandor and massaged the girl’s back, speaking soft words.

  Tandor heaved a sigh of frustration and strode up the stairs to the sleeping shelves. He was trapped here, trapped, with two crazy women, while outside the Knights were looking for him.

  Icefire streamed in from all sides. The Heart was producing more than ever before, and he had lost Ruko and Isandor, and he couldn’t reach his one remaining Imperfect.

  He lay down on the bed, even though the room was stuffy enough to make him dizzy. Loriane should open a vent.

  He closed his eyes and cast his feelings out for Ruko.

  But even the pillow over his head did not stifle Myra’s screams from below.

  Come on, woman, shut up and get on with it.

  Then a cold breeze drifted over him. Not just cold, but freezing. Was that . . . Tandor pulled the pillow off his head and looked up. The wall next to the bed shimmered. First the rough planks that formed the inner wall of the limpet dissolved. An amorphous blob of blue rose from the middle. The blue become clearer and took the shape of a young man. Ruko stood next to him, blue and shimmery.

  Ruko, his saviour.

  He wasted no time in grabbing Ruko’s hands. The boy was strong again. His anger burned, not just for the Knights who had come to Bordertown, but the ones who had injured him. Ruko wanted his girl back, and he was angry enough to kill everyone in his path. And he was Tandor’s to command. The time for trying to solve this nicely was over.

  So he ordered Ruko, I want Isandor brought here. Alive. I don’t care how you do it. Make sure that the Queen doesn’t leave the Outer City. I don’t care how you do that either.

  Ruko said nothing, but Tandor knew he would obey. Ah, blissful obedience and none of the women’s silly protests.

  Chapter 20

  ISANDOR RE-ARRANGED his cloak on his shoulders for what had to be the tenth time, ignoring the gazes of hundreds—no—thousands of people who were waiting for this ceremonial part of the festival to begin. The eagles in their pens at his back squawked and hissed, two of the Outer City’s butchers were talking to each other accompanied with hand gestures to the animal pens and a young boy was sweeping the dull layer of sand off the snow-covered ground so it was again white.

  Every time he put down his broom, golden sparks flew along the handle, but the boy gave no sign of having seen them.

  To Isandor’s eyes, the atmosphere in the arena thrummed with tension. Icefire sizzled and crackled through the air like he had never seen it before. Isandor couldn’t believe he was the only one who noticed. Some in the audience would see it, too, but no one mentioned it, perhaps for fear of being labelled a sorcerer. Perhaps they hoped it would go away.

  A large group of Knights gathered at the spectator stand to his left, where Jevaithi had come in moments earlier. Isandor had only spotted glimpses of her white fur cloak amongst the crowd of grey ones as she settled in the seating stand. The Knights carried daggers and swords, and Isandor even spotted a crossbow. The Knights might not be able to feel or see the icefire strands, but they knew something was going on, or they would not be as heavily armed.

  He tried to catch Jevaithi’s eye, but couldn’t even see her head most of the time. He’d been silly to think that he would be allowed near her for the second time. And he’d even been so stupid to think that he should warn her.

  The citizens of the Outer City crowded around the perimeter fence, bright-eyed, to cheer on one of their own. Young girls with ribbons in their hair, older girls with their hair pinned up, wearing pretty earrings, with their leather necklaces and feathers prominently displayed. Younger boys with dreams in their eyes of becoming an Eagle Knight themselves.

  In one corner of the arena, a couple of men were dragging a large wriggling shape in a net. The bark of the Legless Lion cut through the chatter of the crowd. The men would have caught this animal on this morning’s hunting trip. The first of the annual harvest.

  The men moved the net into the middle of the arena and drove stakes into the ice to pin the corners down before retreating to the perimeter. They were all wearing butchers’ aprons. A nearly bald man winked at Isandor and smiled. His uncle.

  Oh yes, he would be happy. Isandor knew from past years that his uncle’s back room would hold a number of other animals, waiting to be killed for the festivities, waiting for customers who would be flooding in after today to buy fresh meat.

  From today for the next few moon cycles of highsun, the butchery would be a place of activity, of large vats with salted meat and oil, stacks of uncured skins and racks of drying meat. During highsun, the hunters harvested enough for the people to survive the dark lowsun days. Tonight, there would be a huge feast.

  Jevaithi had settled on her bench, and the Knights stepped back to form a line around the stand.

  “Are you ready, Apprentice Isandor?”

  Isandor started, and nodded at the Knight who had come into the arena.

  The three butchers came forward. One of them, Isandor’s uncle, approached, handing Isandor a fearsome knife.

  Isandor gripped his dagger’s hilt, cold in his fingers and drew it out of its sheath. The blade, sharpened by his uncle, gleamed in the sun.

  The two other butchers were at the net, one of them undoing the knot that kept it closed. He glanced at Isandor.

  “Ready?”

  Isandor nodded. He took up a fighting stance, his legs wide.

  His uncle yelled and the man pulled away the rope that held the net. All three of the men retreated.

  As they did so, a strand of icefire crackled through the air like lightning, and struck the ground at the other end of the arena.

  Some people gasped, but most looked around confused; they hadn’t seen the icefire.

  The Legless Lion writhed on the ground, trying to free itself from the loose net, splashing its flippers in puddles.

  Isandor stalked closer, holding the dagger in a white-knuckled hand.

  The animal’s mouth opened, showing yellow teeth, emitting its fearful bark and a waft of fishy breath. The eyes, liquid brown, roved the arena. Did animals see icefire or did it see the citizens who had come to witness this spectacle? Did it see Queen Jevaithi who had insisted watching her champion kill the beast?

  Quickly.

  Cut the heart, kill in one stroke, as it was done properly. Don’t show his uncle his hesitation. He’d cut up carcases often enough in the butchery. There was nothing to it.

  His uncle stood on the edge of the area, holding an axe at his waist. Ready for action.

  The rope around the animal’s flippers and neck dangled on the ground. Isandor grabbed it and with a sharp yank, he pulled the animal upside down, like he had helped his uncle do many times.

  Before the animal could get up, he stabbed deep into the hairy chest. As the blade sank in, icefire crackled out of the ground. Strands exploded all around him. A golden glow burst, unbidden, from his fingers.

  Oh, by the skylights!

  The chest split open with a sickening snap, widening the cut he had made. The animal’s heart jumped out. Isandor managed to catch it in his numb hands. Gold light poured from his fingers, filling the hole in the animal’s chest. The lion barked and snapped at the rope around its neck, raising itself on clumsy flippers. Its fur had faded from mottled grey to an eerie blue, a faint glow. At the place where the heart should be, the chest shimmered.

  Isandor stared from the throbbing heart in his hands to the animal. Severed arteries spilled no blood, but pure icefire. The golden threads snaked through the air, gathering to converge around the animal.

  Around him, people in the stands stared. Some murmured in a tone of confusion. Someone said, the voice carrying across the pen, “Where is the Lion?”

  A little boy pointed, but his mother clamped a hand over his eyes.

  The Lion
hobbled a few paces away from him, the net dragging through puddles, now half-frozen. It glanced at the end of the arena, where the plains beckoned.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Isandor lunged as fast as his wooden leg would allow, catching the Lion around the neck with one arm. Someone in the audience shouted. “Look, look!”

  The animal’s fur was rough and stank of fish, but Isandor cared not about the animal’s snapping mouth.

  But he was still holding the blood-covered heart, and the fur was greasy and slippery. The animal shrugged, and Isandor’s arm lost its purchase.

  He fell, painfully, on the ragged frozen ground. The heart rolled from his grip, still thudding, and came to rest against a block of ice. Sparks of icefire burst from it and leaked into the snow

  On hands and knees in bloodstained-puddles, Isandor met the Legless Lion’s deep blue eyes. Its fur rippled with tension. Whiskers twitched. The net lay free on the ground.

  Isandor’s ears roared, but through the sound, he heard the shouts from the crowd. A servitor! He scrabbled up, grabbed the netting, but before he could throw it over the animal’s head, it waddled away, in the direction of the plain. A line of onlookers stood between the Legless Lion and freedom. People screamed and tried to run away from the animal, pushing into other people, some of whom looked confused, because they couldn’t see the Lion.

  The crowd cleared a small opening to the left, and the Lion took its chance.

  Isandor shouted, “Hold it!” But it was no use.

  A few heartbeats, and the animal was gone, a blue form fast disappearing amongst the tents. Isandor hobbled after it, but there was no way he could ever catch up.

  Oh no, by the skylights!

  People in the audience were screaming and pushing out of the arena. Others stood staring into the sky. Still others were talking to each other, confusion on their faces.

  Isandor scrambled in the snow for the Lion’s still-beating heart, scooped it up and slid it into his pocket, where it continued beating.

  What now? Was there any chance of getting away unnoticed? Where to go in this confusion?

  He looked up, straight into the Queen’s eyes.

  The Knights around her were shouting, but it was confusion, more than anger, that marked their words. Like Carro, most of them were Pirosians. They hadn’t seen what had happened.

  But Jevaithi just looked at him, unmoving, her eyes wide, her mouth open in an expression of shock. She had seen it.

  In his mind, he was running past tents. People were screaming words he couldn’t understand and running out of the way, tripping over their feet. He saw the shore where he belonged, where his females lazed on the ice floes. He couldn’t get out of this maze; there was a fence in his way. A man ran after him, shouting unintelligible words.

  No, no, he had to escape. He must get back to defend his females from the other bulls.

  The image melded with the arena, the audience, Knights, his uncle staring with wide, bulging eyes.

  All around him the Knights were stirring, and the first ones were already entering the arena.

  He wanted to run, but his legs felt like they would buckle under him.

  * * *

  Carro stood with his patrol at the edge of the crowd at the arena. Being taller than many people had allowed him to see most of what had happened, but he didn’t understand it. One moment, the Legless Lion was there in the net, the next moment, it was gone, and Isandor stood there, holding the animal’s heart. And then Isandor ran, or tripped, and fell, and some people in the audience seemed to have seen something. Now, everyone was shouting and the whole festive atmosphere had turned into panic. Knights were forming a circle around the Queen.

  “What happened?” he asked Inran next to him.

  The young man was staring wide-eyed, at Isandor.

  “I don’t know what happened,” another Knight answered. “One moment the Lion was there, and the next moment it was gone, become invisible.”

  A chill went over Carro’s back. He had seen an invisible creature before: last night, when it snapped the necks of two Knights. A servitor, Rider Cornatan had confirmed. And he had just seen who had made a servitor by taking the animal’s heart, just like it was described in the old books. Isandor had been behind the servitors all along. Isandor had wanted to read about the old king’s practices because he wanted to use them. Isandor had deceived everyone, including him.

  His heart thudding, he searched the crowd for Rider Cornatan. He would be with the Queen no doubt.

  The Apprentices in his patrol were just as confused as everyone else. Jono was looking over the roof of the tent on the opposite side of the arena. Caman was observing a group of Knights trying to get into the arena, while Inran kept glancing over his shoulder. None of them knew where the real danger was.

  “You. Stay here,” he ordered.

  Jono gave him a sneering look but said nothing.

  Carro pushed through the crowd, filled with the uncomfortable feeling that he would have to discipline his patrol when they came back to the eyrie. They should be afraid of him, and they were not. But he’d deal with that later. The praise for what he was going to tell Rider Cornatan now would give him the courage to do what needed to be done. Hopefully.

  Knights were pressing each other to see into the central area.

  Carro pushed them aside. “Let me through, let me through.”

  His voice had become deeper, louder. They actually listened, and, after glancing at his Learner badge, move aside.

  Up to the viewing stand, where Rider Cornatan sat next to the Queen. All around, Knights were talking frantically, looking over their shoulders and left and right, frowns on faces.

  Carro bowed before the viewing stand. Rider Cornatan acknowledged him, but the Queen just sat there, staring hollow-eyed at Isandor, her cheeks red, like she was deeply upset with his trickery.

  Well, he should put an end to that.

  The words burst from Carro’s mouth. “The one you call a Champion shouldn’t be here. He’s a cripple. He turned the Lion into a servitor.”

  Rider Cornatan fixed him with his light blue eyes. “He’s what?”

  “A cripple. Ask him.” There. That served him right. That horrid apparition last night had killed two good Knights.

  “Imperfect?” Rider Cornatan lowered his voice and met Carro’s eyes.

  Carro nodded. The next question would surely be Why haven’t you told us before? but he would have to handle that, too. Because he has deceived us all.

  “Well, that would explain a lot.” A smile crept over the wizened face.

  Carro added, “There is another cripple in the Outer City, an older man. He was loitering around the area of the brotherhood compound. We followed him, but unfortunately lost track of him in the markets.”

  Rider Cornatan’s face showed intense interest. He nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. “I see. You are proving your worth. Keep looking for this man. Let me know if you want more men.” Then Rider Cornatan pushed himself up, his face set. “Now let’s see about this young man. If what you say is true, you will have done the Queen a great service.”

  Rider Cornatan walked down the steps. A Senior Knight stepped in his way and held up a hand.

  “The boy’s dangerous,” the man whispered.

  “I know,” Rider Cornatan said.

  He pushed the man’s hand away and continued into the arena.

  Knights surrounded Isandor, but none had dared to touch him. In the confusion, no one seemed to have ordered them to do so. And yet Carro’s friend wasn’t arguing; he just stood there, with that gruesome heart in his pocket, still beating.

  Carro could almost feel that someone was looking at him. He glanced over his shoulder into the Queen’s eyes, which burned with pure hatred. She held her lips pursed and little white spots appeared at her upper lip and chin. Carro had to avert his gaze.

  * * *

  Isandor laughs. Gestures at the n
otice from the palace that Carro has brought. In curly letters, it says that Carro has been accepted into the Eagle Knights. Carro applied. His father was against it, but he applied anyway. Isandor encouraged him. He wants to be a Knight, too, and his mother doesn’t mind. He has already been accepted.

  Then we will join up together and we’ll both be famous Knights.

  Carro laughs.

  Then Isandor’s expression changes to one of wonder. Do you think we’ll get to stand guard for the Queen?

  Of course we will. All Knights do.

  Isandor looks dreamy. There is something in those blue eyes Carro can’t fathom. Something he doesn’t want to fathom.

  The Queen belongs to the Knights. She is his, with her honey-coloured hair and milk-white arms. Her eyes gaze into people’s hearts. Carro has seen her twice, both from a distance. She is the most beautiful woman in the known world.

  Yes, he will join the Knights, even though his father will hate him for it.

  The Knights protect the Queen. He cannot trust a boy with a wooden leg to protect the Queen. The books say Imperfects are sorcerers. Carro is trying not to believe the books. They are only stories, after all.

  * * *

  “Apprentice Isandor?” Rider Cornatan’s voice was hard and thin over the chatter of onlookers. He had pushed through the circle of Knights around Isandor and faced him directly.

  Oh no, Rider Cornatan wasn’t scared of sorcery. Real Knights weren’t scared.

  “Yes,” Isandor said, his back straight and proud. His hair black and shiny, his eyes dark blue. Royal blue.

  Carro’s stomach squirmed. Oh, by the skylights, how did he hate Isandor. Even like this, he managed to look arrogant, like he owned the world, like he challenged Rider Cornatan to do something to him, even though he would know he could never escape.

  And I am just a coward. Waited all this time to tell Rider Cornatan about Isandor. Can’t even punish my own patrol.

  Rider Cornatan looked Isandor up and down.