Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “What’s the hole in the door for?” I asked.

  “Air and gruel.”

  Apparently, the plan was to never remove a prisoner once confined. None of these weenie ideas about exercise time or yard time or any of that. This was an oubliette.

  Ariander threw the two bolts holding the pivot door closed. A light touch started the carefully-balanced stone swinging. He stopped it when it reached a vertical position. I conjured a light and shone it down.

  A middle-aged fellow in some rather dirty robes glared up at me. From the looks of him, he recently had a nosebleed. Other than that, he didn’t seem hurt. His feet were braced against the wall on the deeper side as he reclined on the cold, sloping floor. He sat up as the light hit him.

  “You can’t keep me here!” he shouted. “I am the High Priest of the Light!”

  “What is it with people? They keep telling me I can’t do things when the evidence clearly points the other way.”

  “I will be delivered from this dank confinement and deliver vengeance seven-fold upon you!”

  “Can you swim?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked, confused. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “If I can’t keep you here, I suppose I should lock the door and flood the pit. So, before you start telling me what I can and can’t do, maybe you should consider what I will do.”

  “Hearken to me, filth! You are an abomination of life and all things pure! You shall be cast down and condemned to the darkness of the underworld—”

  I pushed the pivot-door so it swung closed and waited for the screaming to die down. A quick word to one of the armored gentlemen accompanying us and a couple of buckets of water were brought in. They poured the water down the gruel-hole. The screaming changed pitch, from angry to panicky. After four buckets of water, I called a halt to it and nodded to have them pivot the door open again.

  A wet, frightened, and angry priest looked up at me. His comment was remarkably profane, involving as it did my mother, a scorpion, and a pile of feces. I figured he had cause to be upset, so I didn’t take him seriously. Mary suppressed a smile and turned away. Torvil simply stood there, inscrutable in his helmet.

  “Yes, surely,” I agreed, “but at least my mother knows who my father was. Now, if you can cut out the religious rhetoric and profanity, I’d like to discuss the political future of the kingdom of Rethven. Hold it!” I snapped, as he opened his mouth. “Before you say one more word, understand this: I’m in no mood for screwing around. For every pious mouthing you spit out, I will remove something from your body. Starting with toes and moving up one joint at a time. Once we get to your hips, I’ll start over on the fingertips. And before you tell me I can’t do that, consider the difference between ‘can’t,’ and ‘I don’t want you to.’ And look where you’re standing.”

  I glared at him. He glared back.

  “Now,” I said, more softly, “I’m going to have you brought before me. Use the time to consider what you can realistically get away with and how many body parts you’re prepared to lose in finding out.”

  I turned to Ariander.

  “Put him in chains and bring him to the great hall,” I said, speaking loudly enough for Lotar to hear me. “If he gives you any trouble at all, beat him unconscious and drag him by the chains.”

  “As Your Majesty commands.”

  A wee bit touchy, Boss?

  I’ve only met two priests of this light-god who I like, I replied, and both of them are dead. The rest of them killed women I loved and hunted me. One of them made deals with magicians, demons, and even one of the other so-called gods of this world. The last time I encountered their deity, it was being eaten from within by a demon who wanted to shatter the firmament and let the Things Beyond into the world. So, yeah, I might be a little less nice to them than a diplomatic, tactful king really should be.

  I understand. I’m not sure most other people will. They’ll just see the Demon King again, Boss.

  Damn! You’re right. I have to be nice all the time, don’t I?

  Yeah. Slow walk back to the palace while you cool down?

  I would, but I don’t have the time. Too much to do and I need to set stuff up in the great hall.

  We left the guard station and headed back up. Torvil led the way, but Mary stopped me in a ladderway. She grabbed my head and kissed me, hard. When she let me breathe again, I asked my question.

  “What was that for?”

  “For the bit in the dungeons. That was the man I was looking for.”

  “Lotar?”

  “Not what I meant, moron,” she countered, running fingers through my hair. “If you weren’t busy being a powerful, confident ruler, I’d have your domineering butt up in the bedroom for the rest of the day.”

  “There’s something not quite right about your statement.”

  “Yes. You’re busy. Pity.”

  We chased after Torvil, who waited when he realized we stopped. He didn’t come back for us, though—quite the soul of discretion.

  We took all the shortcuts back up. Mary went off to do whatever Mary does when she’s not baby-sitting me. I didn’t ask.

  Instead, I grabbed crystals and set them up around the throne end of the room, embedding them in the walls. Torvil helped; he kept them pressed in place while the mountain slowly slurped around them, mounting them in place. Given the tree/vine motif of the metallic veins in the walls, I think they blended it quite well—rare fruits, or something. A little spell-work to set them up and I was ready for Lotar.

  Naturally, Lotar wasn’t there, yet. Torvil checked on their progress. Someone decided to take him outside and up the Kingsway, rather than travel up inside the mountain. Oh, well. I hadn’t intended to make such a public production out of it, but his arrest was probably news everywhere already. We still had some time to wait.

  I was on a roll and didn’t feel like sitting around. I took Torvil back to the workroom and started setting up my Tort-detector. We picked up another knight, there. His name was Gilam and he was from the Temple of Shadow. Seldar picked him as one of the additional guards for the King. Frankly, I thought of him as some fresh-faced kid. He may have been a full-grown, well-trained knight, but he still looked the part of the eager-beaver sidekick who gets killed in the second act to establish how awful the villain is. His job was to follow Torvil around and learn the drill.

  Poor guy. If he thought of me in religious terms, he was going to be amazingly disappointed. I hoped I could keep him alive long enough to get away from me and any unexpected meteor strikes in my vicinity.

  Once I powered up my newest Tort-detecting spell, I started searching. It wasn’t rocket science. All I did was stand behind the spell’s dish and swing it in a very slow circle, listening intently for a clear, steady tone—the resonance between the signature built into it and the signals it received.

  Three hundred and sixty degrees of scan and all I got was static.

  Damn.

  Well, should I be surprised? If Tort is dead, I won’t find her. However, since she’s alive—I choose to believe she’s alive—and I don’t know how she managed it, she must be more clever than I. She’s concealed herself from this form of detection as well. She’s a professional, after all, while I’m merely a talented dabbler in the dark arts.

  It still pissed me off. Torvil sensed it and escorted Gilam out of the room to give me some privacy. I didn’t thank him; I was too frustrated to speak. This was a huge disappointment, and the way it hit me shocked me. Of course, I know why it bothered me so much. I’m still fragile after… well, everything. Knowing I’m fragile and why still doesn’t help, though. In some ways, it makes things worse, because I know I’m stronger than this, even though I’m not, and it frustrates me further, causing a spiral of emotional chaos.

  I got a grip on myself and deliberately calmed down. I settled to the floor and did my best to breathe and center myself. No Tort. Fine. Maybe Sir Sedrick had something by now. Probably not, but I could call him
on his mirror and ask what he discovered. I did so, apologizing for the brief conversation and for pestering him for a report.

  “Think nothing of it, Your Majesty,” replied his image in the mirror. “I have discovered few clues, and most of those regarding your other magician, T’yl. I have some evidence he is a prisoner of the Duke of Vathula.”

  “I just got a report from there about how they killed him.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. I’ve heard how they killed him on two different occasions. This makes me think they did not do so at all, but were deceived.”

  I recalled the remains I found that were supposed to be Tort. If she could construct a duplicate to attract assassins and assaults, why couldn’t T’yl? And, if you do that, you want to defend them… but not too hard. Just hard enough to convince someone he got the target.

  “I’ve seen some things to make me think you’re right,” I admitted. “Anything on Tort at all?”

  “Not since the Demon King went to Karvalen. I suspect she had some sort of plans already laid, rather than a sudden urge to hide. It does not do to run from an immortal. It attracts their attention.”

  “I know her. She definitely planned it out in meticulous detail.”

  “Then I will continue to investigate.”

  “Thank you. Need any help?”

  “Not at present. I shall continue to seek your Tort and T’yl.”

  “Thank you for all your efforts, Sir Sedrick.”

  “It is a dream of every Hero to rescue a kidnapped lady at the behest of a king. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  We signed off and I headed back to the main hall. It was time to browbeat the clergyman.

  The main doors opened. I was already on the throne, ankles crossed on the dragon’s nose. Torvil stood on my right and the new guy, Gilam, on my left. The firepits were burning brightly and throwing light all over the golden ceiling, illuminating the whole room. The side doors were closed, with guards outside to keep them that way.

  Surrounding Lotar, forty men in black armor came in through the main doors. He was cleaner than I recalled, but wearing chains. He was also walking on his own feet. Maybe my comment about beating him unconscious and dragging him encouraged cooperation. It boded well for our future relations.

  The rest of the floor was clear, but up in the gallery, people packed together along the rail. The Demon King summoned the High Priest. This should be a good show.

  Witnesses were a good thing, at least for the first part of My Nefarious Plan.

  The escort stopped at the foot of the dais and parted enough to let Lotar forward. He didn’t have a lot of choice; the men behind him pushed him until he was on the lowest step.

  “Good afternoon,” I offered. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  I waited patiently while he launched into his diatribe about “creature of evil,” “Demon King,” “son of the Lord of Darkness,” and so forth. Knights shifted restlessly behind him, clearly ready to turn him into cutlets on the spot. I sat back on my not-too-uncomfortable chunk of rock and smiled, waiting for Lotar to wind down. So far, he was being perfectly predictable, which suited me. Besides, I was trying to work a couple of small, special-effects sorts of spells while he rambled on.

  When he finally ran down—I think he ran out of religious insults and wasn’t willing to stoop to simple vulgarities in public—I uncrossed my ankles and leaned forward.

  “Now that you’ve made your position abundantly clear, to me and to everyone present, it seems you have absolutely no tolerance for me. At all. In any way. Am I correct?”

  Naturally, this set him off again. I waited until he was through; it was a much shorter outburst.

  “Leave us,” I commanded. “Seal the doors. Lotar and I will speak alone.” I nodded at Torvil and then at Gilam. Torvil frowned, eyed Lotar, and eyed me. I nodded at him again, so he took Gilam with him as he left. Everyone filed out in a reasonably orderly fashion. We waited some more, the guards closed the doors, and the room grew quiet.

  “Okay, Lotar; we’re alone.”

  “Kill me if you will, creature of evil! It matters not that no one sees—my death will be on your hands!”

  “I’m surprisingly okay with that. It’s the duty of my kind to escort important people out of the world when their time comes, but I’ll stoop to helping you. Not today, though.”

  “You will not kill me?” I wasn’t sure if he was more surprised or disappointed.

  “That’s correct. See, here’s the deal. I know you and I aren’t going to get along. Your Church has a long history of being unpleasant to nightlords and nothing I can do will change it. I’ve got a history of being unpleasant to the Hand—a sect within your Church—and, by my standards, for good reason. We’re not going to agree on much.”

  “Except that.”

  “Pretty much. However, can we agree hunting nightlords through magical gates has been… shall we say… less than wonderfully successful?”

  Lotar thought about it, trying to see where I was going.

  “Perhaps.”

  “If you hadn’t been opening gates and hunting for us in other worlds, you would never have come to my attention. I wouldn’t be here. True?”

  “True.”

  “Then I’ll make you a deal.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even heard it.”

  “I will not bargain with one whose very blood is corrupted by the outer darkness!”

  I sighed and counted to thirteen. Ten wasn’t enough.

  “Here’s a dilemma for you,” I said. “What do you do when what you want is the same thing I want? If you say a certain man needs to die and I attempt to kill him, do you stop me?”

  “I…” he began, and stopped, perplexed. Then he rallied. “I will not stoop to debate—”

  “Hear me out, because that’s kind of the situation we’re in. Of course, if you don’t want to listen, I’ll publish these,” I added, and tossed him the folio of letters. He picked it up and opened it, flipping through them.

  “Where did you get these?” he demanded.

  “I’m a king. People talk to me. They bring me things. They give me presents. Especially if they think it will help them in some way. I won’t say who gave them to me, but do you know anyone who might benefit if your involvement in these matters was revealed?”

  “No one will believe this,” he said, but I thought I detected a smattering of doubt. “These are not proof.”

  “Proof? Who said anything about proof? What matters is what people believe, isn’t it? Don’t you deal in belief? You don’t care about ultimate truth as long as people can be made to believe what you want.”

  Lotar was silent for several seconds, thinking quickly. He glanced backward.

  “Make a move toward a firepit and I’ll disembowel you,” I said, calmly. He shrugged. I doubt the chains on his wrists and ankles were the deciding factor. He closed the folio, and threw it back to me. I put it in the mouth of the dragon throne, sliding it between two of the teeth.

  “What do you want?” Lotar asked.

  “To give you a chance at everything you want.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Right now, you’re guilty of treason. As the leader of your Church, you’ve made a deal with Thomen, backing him in his bid for the throne. From a religious standpoint, it’s your holy war against the Demon King. From a political standpoint, it’s a chance to regain, at a stroke, the influence you once had in Rethven—for your Church, of course. And, as the leader of the Church in Rethven, it will put you on par with Thomen when he’s crowned King.” I paused as a thought struck me.

  “You’re planning doing the crowning, too, as part of the deal to make him King,” I guessed. “It will add another layer of Church authority, being seen to hold the power to crown a king, make him official. And all that is on the way to a ruling religion, supplanting temporal authority. And, of course, one with you at the top.” Lotar kept eye contact, never flinching, and hi
s face stayed in perfect neutral. That was enough to convince me my guesses were right.

  “As I said, what do you want?”

  “I’m willing to offer you a counterproposal. Recall your faithful followers from their holy war. Wait until the political infighting is over. Then evangelize and missionary-ize all you want. If your religion is destined to be the one true right and only way, then you’ll eventually win. In the meantime, you, personally, will have at least a moderate amount of power and wealth, all the comforts you might desire. I won’t interfere with you as long as you don’t interfere with me.

  “Alternatively, you can continue to back Thomen. Go down that road and you risk everything. Everything. First off, I’ll immediately have a night of the long knives; everyone wearing a medallion of the light will die, tonight, and vanish from the face of the world. No one will know what happens to them. No one will ever see or hear anything. They’ll simply fall off the edge of the world, never to be seen again.

  “The only exception will be you. You will go back into a deep pit, there to live out your long, miserable life in darkness and in filth until it pleases me to drag you out—old, withered, and blind—and present you to your god as the man who provoked me to destroy his worshippers. Do you think he’ll be pleased to see you? I don’t.”

  “You’re saying I can support you or support Thomen?”

  “No, I’m saying you can support Thomen or stay out of it.”

  “You’re not asking for my support?”

  “Of course not! You can’t make such a deal and I know it. All I want is for you to stop meddling. I don’t want your religion—or any other—involved with politics in the first place.” I shrugged. “But you can do whatever you please. We’re not making a deal. We’re not negotiating. I’m telling you what the consequences will be.”

  Lotar paced back and forth, chains clinking slightly, hands clasped together before him, eyes on the floor. I wondered what was going through his head.

  You want me to look, Boss?

  Not really. I wouldn’t subject you to a snake-pit like that.

  “You say if I support Thomen—”