“Sounds good,” Burch said.
Kandler glared at the shifter and then stared at the knights.
“Where can we start?” Deothen asked. “Our offer is given freely.”
Kandler thought about it for a moment and then spoke. “You people have religion.”
“Certainly,” Deothen said, a relieved smile creeping across his lips.
“The dead woman’s family worships the Sovereign Host.” Deothen began to speak, but Kandler waved him down. “The Flame isn’t the same, I know, but it’ll be close enough.”
“Do you not have a priest here who could comfort his flock?”
“He was the first to go missing.”
Deothen offered a slight bow. “We would be honored to lend this woman’s family what comfort we might. I understand you must burn bodies in the Mournland to ensure their spirits fly free. Before we meet with the family, we shall help construct a pyre.”
“That would be a fine start.”
“I assume the family has the remains.”
Kandler shook his head. “Not yet. They won’t want to see them before the burning.”
Deothen raised his eyebrows. “Then where might these remains be?”
Kandler looked down at the bundle on the porch. “You’re almost standing on them.”
The younger knights gasped. Levritt stepped back off the porch to swallow some air and force down the bile rising in his throat.
Before the youth set foot on the ground, Deothen barked a series of orders. His knights set to work straight away, glad for something to keep their hands busy and their minds off of Shawda’s death.
Deothen turned back to Kandler. “We will have a pyre constructed in the main square by afternoon. I suggest we conduct the cremation at least an hour before sundown.”
“I’ll spread the word.”
The elder knight made a curt bow to Kandler, then left to join his fellows in their work.
The knights labored hard throughout the day, ranging for miles about in a quest for enough wood, and by the time the sun was lowering in the west, they had completed the finest pyre Mardakine had ever seen. Kandler sent Burch to tell Mardak about the funeral plan, confident that Mardak’s wife Priscinta would swiftly get the word to every person in town.
When the time for the ceremony came, Kandler and Burch walked Esprë to the main square. It seemed like the entire town was there. Shawda’s family—including her husband Nortok and her daughter Norra—stood closest to the pyre. As soon as Esprë spied Norra, she ran over to her. Kandler started to stop her, but Burch stepped into his way, so he just watched.
Wet-faced and red-eyed, Norra held Esprë close, and they wept together.
Deothen gave them a moment before he lowered his head, extending his arms for those around him to do the same. Kandler looked straight ahead at the knight. The crowd fell silent.
“I am no priest,” Deothen said as he raised his staff before him, its silver flame shining bright, even in the midday light, “although I feel the force of the divine in me, moving me, moving all of us. Today, I pray that this power—which my fellow knights and I know as the Silver Flame—shall move me to eloquence on behalf of our departed sister Shawda.
“I never had the privilege of meeting Shawda, but I know we had a connection. As people good and true, we shared a bond, just as she shared a bond with all of you. As a citizen of Mardakine, as a former daughter of Cyre, she was dedicated to standing up against the darkness, to lighting a candle, to saying ‘No more.’
“Although I never knew her, I am lessened by her loss. We all are. For when one who stands against the darkness falls, the darkness grows. Only by standing together can the light from each of our candles join together. That light is enough to force back even the darkest night. Only by working together can we hope to prevail.
“And so I mourn the loss of Shawda with you. And I pray that the Silver Flame gathers Shawda’s light into her own, now and forevermore.”
Kandler nodded with respect for the knight. Deothen had not been idle while the others built the pyre. He’d obviously talked with some of the people in town. From the kind looks with which Norra and her father favored the paladin, it was clear he’d offered them some comfort.
Deothen’s open plea to lend the knights aid was transparent, nicely couched as it was. Kandler felt a sense of duty to the world tugging at him, but protecting the people of Mardakine—especially Esprë—had to be his top priority.
When Deothen looked up from his prayer, he captured Kandler with his sky blue eyes. Kandler looked away, and his eyes met those of Burch, who gazed up at him like an expectant puppy. Kandler looked away from him too.
Mardak, standing a dozen feet to Kandler’s right, cleared his throat. Suddenly remembering his duty here, Kandler stepped toward the pyre. He unfolded the cloak in which Shawda’s body was bundled, exposing her remains to the sunlight so that the flames that consumed her could carry the smoke from her body straight into the sky.
Kandler winced as he completed the grisly job, knowing that the villagers would be able to see how viciously Shawda had been murdered. As he stepped back from the pyre, he heard a shout from the other side of the pyre.
“By the Flame!” Levritt said as he drew his sword and charged the pyre. Before anyone could stop him, the young knight swung his sword down and cleaved the remains of Shawda’s head into clean halves.
Norra screamed. The assembled crowd, several score strong, roared in shock and rage. Kandler had his own sword out, its curved tip at the knight’s throat before the youth could pull his blade free from the pyre. All around him, scores of rusty knives, daggers, and swords rattled free of their scabbards as the villagers leapt to join Kandler in the defense of Shawda’s corpse. Levritt looked around him wide-eyed, seeing the knights outnumbered at least forty-to-one.
“I think,” Kandler said to the young knight as he pressed his blade hard up under the youth’s chin, “you have some explaining to do.”
A broadsword flashed out. Steel clanged against steel. The young knight yelped as Kandler’s blade was pushed aside, its tip nicking the boy in the throat as it was forced from under his chin.
Kandler stepped back and swung his sword back around to his left at the attacker. The same blade parried his riposte. He found himself staring into the flashing green eyes of the lady knight.
“You shall not threaten a Knight of the Silver Flame,” the woman said, holding her sword at the ready.
“Stand down,” Kandler said, leaning his blade against hers, testing her strength. “Your friend just desecrated a good woman’s corpse.”
“Hold!” Deothen thrust his steel gauntlet into where the two blades met. “Hold friends! Words shall serve us better than swords.”
“I don’t know Thranite customs, but we don’t butcher our dead here,” Kandler said, never taking his eyes from the woman’s. She met his stare without flinching and held her ground, but he could feel that she stood ready to counter any move he might make.
“It’s her!” Levritt said, as he scrambled to his feet, his hand at his throat. When he brought his fingers away to point at Shawda’s corpse, they were smeared with blood. He blanched at the sight. “Am I slain?” he asked weakly.
“Not yet,” said Kandler. He glanced at the young knight’s neck. The cut was shallow and small. He guessed that the boy had nicked himself worse the first time he’d tried shaving. The crowd pressed forward, and several men reached out to grab the young knight. They held him fast and snatched his sword from his hand. Levritt cried out in fear.
The lady knight used her sword to slap down Kandler’s blade, then brandished it before her as she spun about. The townspeople who had been hoping to grab her fell back with a communal protest.
“Sallah,” Deothen said in a firm tone, “these people are not our foes.”
Sallah glared at Kandler and stepped back from the crowd, though she kept her sword at the ready. “Levritt did no wrong,” she said.
K
andler opened his mouth to protest, but Mardak stepped between the justicar and the lady knight. Looking over the elder knight at Sallah, Mardak said, “We might see matters other wise.”
A cry went up from Levritt, and Kandler turned to see the crowd starting to haul him away.
“Hold!” Kandler said.
The people carrying Levritt away stopped in their tracks. When they saw that the justicar was speaking to them, they put the young knight down, although they still held him tight.
“These people aren’t going anywhere,” Kandler said. “I’d like to hear their explanation if they have one.”
Some of the people in the crowd grumbled at this, but those holding Levritt let him go. One sandy-haired man to the side kept hold of the knight’s blade.
Kandler looked to Sallah and sheathed his own blade. She lowered her sword but did not put it away. She hefted the hilt in her hand as if daring the people in the crowd to rush her.
Kandler looked to the shaking young knight. Levritt gulped and stood as tall as he could, glancing nervously at the angry people who surrounded him. “So,” Kandler said to him, “what is your story?”
“Allow me,” Deothen said. He stepped forward and stood next to Levritt, putting a warm hand on the boy’s shoulder to calm him. “He is in my charge.”
All eyes turned to the eldest knight. All voices fell silent but for the sound of Norra’s muffled sobs.
Deothen cleared his throat. “This is not the first time we have encountered this woman whose body you are about to burn.” Deothen glanced about at the crowd, gauging the reaction of those who heard his words. His eyes hesitated on Kandler for a moment, but the justicar offered no consolation.
Kandler was willing to give the Silver Knights a fair hearing. He’d seen too many people lynched during the war, too many innocent souls damned to satiate the rage of an angry mob. He’d do anything he could to keep that from happening here, but he was only willing to go so far. He had Esprë to think of now.
“We first met this woman—”
“Shawda!” said Mardak. “Her name was Shawda.”
“Shawda.” Deothen nodded his thanks. “We first met Shawda last night on the edge of your town, atop the crater’s ridge. We reached your town after dusk and did not want to enter then for fear of alarming the watch.”
“So you killed one of our citizens instead?” Mardak asked in barely controlled outrage.
Deothen ignored the interruption. “As we settled down for the night, we gathered around our campfire for a final prayer. Just as we finished, we heard someone crashing through the brush in the darkness, coming from the east, the direction of the Mournland. We drew our blades, not knowing what to expect. She appeared at the edge of the fire’s light. Her clothing was rent and torn. Her skin was gray and streaked with dirt. I called out a greeting and welcomed her as a fellow traveler. I invited her to share our fire.”
Deothen bowed his head for a moment to collect his thoughts. When the knight looked back up, Kandler could see tears welling in his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was raw.
“She snarled at us, an evil light dancing in her eyes. I called to her a second time. She lowered her head and charged straight at us, attacking with her bare hands. At first I feared she might be mad, and I ordered my fellows not to harm her. As she neared, though, I sensed the evil in her, and I called for them to attack. Sallah stabbed the woman through the heart. Such a blow should have been fatal, but your Shawda kept coming. With Sallah’s blade jutting from her chest, she pulled herself further along its length until she could reach Sallah with her nails, which broke upon Sallah’s armor. Levritt stepped forward and chopped at the intruder with his blade. His blow severed her arm, which then hung from where her fingers had caught along the edges of Sallah’s breastplate. No blood flowed. The woman kept coming. She snatched her own arm from Sallah’s breastplate and swung it like a flail. The palm of her detached arm smacked Levritt in the face and knocked him flat.” Deothen glanced at the young knight before continuing on. “I have fought the undead before. I like to say I can smell them from a league away. I hadn’t sensed that here.”
“It’s the Mournland,” said Kandler. As he spoke, he gazed up at the wall of ash-colored mist. “Bodies don’t rot there. There’s nothing to smell.”
“Perhaps. In any case, once I realized what it was we faced, I called for an all-out attack. We set upon the creature and made quick work of her.”
“Is this what happened with Shawda?” Mardak asked, his voice held low. Kandler angled his body so that he could intervene between the knight and the mayor should Mardak lose control.
Deothen grimaced. “We had to be sure. As your justicar points out, we know little of the Mournland. We had no desire to have the creature return later in the night for vengeance, so we took steps to make sure that could not happen.”
“You hacked her to bits,” said Mardak.
Deothen gave a stiff nod. “And we spread those pieces far and wide.”
“We couldn’t find all of her,” said Kandler. His voice was but a whisper, not out of respect for the dead, but so that Norra might not hear.
“That was the idea,” Deothen said. Norra’s sobs grew louder, and she punctuated them with a keening wail that put a halt to all other words.
Silence fell over the crowd. None of the people surrounding Kandler, Mardak, and the knights dared to breathe a word.
“So you say,” Mardak said, restarting the conversation. Anger seethed between his gritted teeth as he spoke, each word uttered with deliberate force. “So you say, but you offer nothing to prove your words true.”
Deothen stared at Mardak, indignation stitched across his brow. “We are Knights of the Silver Flame.”
“Which means nothing here. This is not Thrane, and your goddess holds no sway in our town. Even so, how can we verify your claim? Perhaps you are brigands in knights’ armor.”
Sallah pointed a gauntleted hand at the mayor. “You are bordering on blasphemy. None can speak to Sir Deothen so. How dare you impugn his honor?” She kept her sword lowered, but she gripped it as if it might leap from her grasp and find itself in Mardak’s heart.
Mardak spit at Deothen’s feet. “What honor did you show Shawda?”
The crowd murmured in agreement. The three younger knights gasped. Sallah scoffed in disgust.
Kandler could see that this could soon become ugly. He looked around for Burch but couldn’t spot the shifter anywhere.
Deothen remained impassive for a moment, then spoke plainly to Mardak. “What proof would you have me offer?” he asked. “We came to your town as soldiers of faith, on a mission handed down to us by our greatest prophet. We have no reason to kill your people. What of the others who are missing?”
“How do you know of these?” asked Mardak.
“I told him,” Kandler said.
“We arrived only last night,” Deothen said. “According to your justicar, whoever is responsible for Shawda’s transformation has been taking victims from your village for weeks.”
“Who’s to say you haven’t been lurking in the shadows until now?”
“Why would we reveal ourselves today? Why would young Levritt bring suspicion on us by attacking Shawda’s corpse?”
Mardak shook his head. “It’s not for me to fathom your reasons. The facts against you are damning enough.”
Sallah brought up her blade toward Mardak. Kandler met its edge with his own. The two young knights still armed drew their blades and pointed them at Kandler.
“I have heard enough!” Sallah said to Kandler. Her eyes blazed with anger as she spoke. “We are leaving you ungrateful wretches and your horrid, little town.”
“You really don’t want to try that,” Kandler said, staring into her emerald eyes above their crossed swords. Silently, he begged her to put down her blade, but he could see that this cause was lost.
“And why not?”
The sound of blades being unsheathed filled the air. Every able-bo
died man and woman in the crowd stood with a weapon in hand, ready to fight. The children and elders scattered for cover without a word needed.
“These are not some farmhands you can scare with a bit of scabbard rattling,” Kandler said. He kept his voice friendly and even, as if he was explaining the varieties of local crops. As he spoke, he gazed out at the people of Mardakine and hoped they would follow his example. His eyes landed on Burch in the distance, and he smiled. “Everyone here lived through the War. Most of us fought in it.”
Sallah glanced around at the crowd, looking for an avenue of escape. Kandler grated the edge of his sword against hers and caught her eye. With a quick nod, he sent her eyes up toward the rooftop of the town hall overlooking the square. It was the largest building in town, big enough to hold all of Mardakine’s citizens at once. A low-slung place, it was the oldest edifice in town, made of steel-gray bricks crafted from the ash that had once filled the bottom of the crater and still collected in thick drifts in the farthest edges of the place. On windy days, the breeze threw that ash swirling up into the sky, from where it later settled down upon the town like a patina of fresh-fallen, filthy snow. The roofs of the buildings in town huddled underneath layers of this ash, except directly after a rain. It had been a long time since the last rain, and the roof of the town hall was thick with the dusty stuff.
Burch stood there atop the roof, the steel-tipped bolt loaded in his crossbow pointed directly at Deothen’s heart. The sun glinted off the bolt’s metal tip as the shifter readjusted his aim.
“He can pick the balls off a rat at a hundred yards,” Kandler said quietly. “If you attack, then he”—Kandler jerked his chin at Deothen—“is already dead.”
Sallah gritted her teeth. The point of her blade wavered. Next to her, Levritt shook so hard his armor rattled softly.
“Please,” Kandler said. He didn’t want this fight. His job was to protect the people of Mardakine, and if a battle broke out here, people on both sides would be killed. The knights didn’t deserve to die over this either. None of them did.
Marked for Death: The Lost Mark, Book 1 Page 3
