After several minutes I continue my wandering journey through the crypts, noting the name location of this man's final resting place. Perhaps I can look up his information later.
Soon, not five tombs down the line, I see another four-pointed star etched into the stone.
I stop short and examine the sarcophagus and its inscription, my eyes growing wide as I recognize the name.
"Ian Glenmoore?" I say the name aloud, completely bewildered. "The man was a renowned mage and scholar!"
A proud bust of the ancient mage stands at the mouth of the alcove, covered in dust and cobwebs and staring sightlessly out at me, a grim expression on his face. Glenmoore was involved with the Harbingers? How could this be?
The thought that someone so prestigious and well-known was counted among these fanatics forces to me to question everything. I've read his books, I think to myself as I reach out a hand and touch the star with my fingertips. All evidence seemed to indicate that he was a brilliant scholar with a sound mind.
And yet here I am, looking at proof that seems to indicate he was a member of this cult.
Making another mental note, I move on to find more prominent tombs bearing the Emblem of the Chosen like a badge of honor. Members of the royal court, noble women who had come from wealth, mages and scholars, some I recognize and other I don't, all bearing the same accursed symbol beneath their name.
Trying to make sense of what I have learned down here, I begin to trace my way back to the staircase.
As I turn down another corridor, someone slips out from a shadowed alcove in front of me, causing me to jump and squeak in alarm.
I take a step back, holding my ball of magefyre warily in front of me as I regard the man, trying to determine whether he is friend or foe. He is clad in a dark cloak, whether it is black or dark blue, I cannot tell. His hood is drawn, covering his face, and his shoulders are broad, reminding me of a fighter's build.
"You shouldn't be here," the man says quietly, standing in the middle of the corridor and blocking my escape.
I hear the sound of boots on stone, and I glance behind me to see that two more of the cloaked figured have slipped out of the shadows, their hoods low and their postures threatening.
"Get out of my way," I command in the strongest voice I can muster. Channeling more source energy, I cause my little ball of magefyre to flare dangerously.
The first man chuckles, a low, menacing sound that makes the hair on my arms and neck stand on end. "This place belongs to the dead, little mage. And the dead guard their secrets jealously." From the folds of the cloak he produces a knife that glitters in the azure light.
It is a perfect replica of the blade the assassin had used that night on the road.
Time seems to stand still as I suck in a breath, preparing myself for what I know will be a fight for my life. The talisman feels warm in my hands, pulsing with an inner light, and I can feel my heart starting to thump faster in my chest. The words of a spell come unbidden to my mind.
Then, I begin to channel.
Chapter Twenty-One
Owyn
Rickard Shaw is dead.
Arrows pepper our position at the edge of the road, thudding into tree trunks and skidding on the stony forest floor. One of the arrows pierces the haunch of Rickard's stallion, causing the beast to whinny in pain and bolt, speeding off down the road and disappearing from sight.
I spit out a curse as I try to formulate a plan.
The tree I am hiding behind thuds with the impact of many arrows. I glance over to see Talon huddling behind a small boulder, his short swords laying in the dirt beside him as he uses his hands to cover his head.
Much good that'll do you, I think sarcastically, my mind racing. Light, I have no idea how many there are, or where these arrows are even coming from!
Gritting my teeth in consternation, I put away my father's hatchet. I need to figure out where they are first before go charging through the brush. Looking down the road, I can see my longbow hanging with my quiver on my gelding's saddle. Luckily, our horses had been behind Rickard's, and so they are relatively protected from the projectiles by a bend in the road.
Letting out a breath and counting to three, I dash from my position and run over to my horse, doing my best to keep my head down as I go. Arrows whizz past me, and by some miracle, I manage to get to the protected spot without becoming a pincushion.
"What are you doing?" Talon cries out in alarm, his eyes pleading for me not to leave him alone.
I pull out my bow and sling my quiver around my shoulder. "Saving our skins!" I shout back, pulling out an arrow and fixing it to the string.
The enemy projectiles abate for a brief instant, allowing Talon to abandon his scanty cover and get behind a tree closer to my position. Not wanting to squander the opportunity, I step back into the line of fire, pulling on my bowstring and taking aim down the shaft of my arrow.
Several dark figures crouch on the hillside behind rocks and shrubs, their bows held up and their quivers bristling with arrows. I quickly loose my own arrow and retreat to the horses as they see me and begin to shoot with renewed vigor. I wasn't able to get a sure count, but it seems like there are four or five of them up there, pinning us down on the road.
"Eleven Hells," Talon curses as an arrow thuds into the bark of the tree right next to his head. "Are they Nightingales?"
"I'm not sure," I reply honestly, nocking another arrow.
Talon glances over at his dead master and visibly blanches. Blood has begun to pool on the rocky ground near his head. "Light save me... he's dead!"
"Get a hold of yourself," I bark at him sharply. "I need you to pick up your bow. Now!"
"I told you I'm not a very good shot," he replies, looking longingly at short swords lying in the dirt.
"I don't care," I shoot back, noticing that the arrows have stopped flying again. "Quick, get over here!"
Only hesitating for a moment, Talon rushes over to where I stand in the bend of the road, a steep portion of the hill blocking us from view. Upon seeing him running, the attackers begin shooting again, trying to keep him from reaching me.
Looking more than a little shaky, Talon reaches for his bow and quiver.
Nodding to him, I poke my head out from cover and let loose another shot. My arrow barely misses one of the figures, embedding itself into a sapling nearby.
"Damn," I curse, stepping back and nocking another arrow.
Talon steps out next, pulling the feathered shaft to his cheek and letting fly just as an enemy arrow narrowly misses taking his ear off. He, too, did not hit his target, and he steps back with a curse of his own.
"Why are they attacking us?" He mutters to himself, drawing another arrow and waiting for an opportunity to shoot. "They've never become violent with us before."
"I don't know," I reply lamely, poking out and shooting before returning to cover.
From what I have experienced personally, the rebels aren't a particularly violent lot. Even with the war with the crown, they only seem to fight when backed into a corner. Ambushing rangers out on the road does not seem to be like something they would do.
We exchange fire back and forth, neither side causing any real damage to the other. One of my shots hits one of the figures in the arm, but from what I can tell it is only a flesh wound, leaving the attacker still able to shoot. A stray missile grazes Talon's cheek, drawing blood and leaving a nasty-looking gash on the side of his face. He whimpers at first when the arrow slices him, but he keeps shooting, bearing the injury with forced stoicism.
Before long, however, our quivers start to dwindle.
"This isn't working," I growl in frustration, launching one of my five remaining arrows and ducking back behind cover.
"I know," Talon replies grimly, wiping the blood away from his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm almost empty."
I set my jaw. "If we stop returning fire they are going to come after us. We'd better get ready."
It only takes a
moment of us hiding in our safe zone for the hailstorm of arrows to stop, and soon I can hear the sounds of brush crunching as the attackers move from their position. It sounds like they are coming closer, booted feet crushing leaves and branches as they make their way towards us.
I curse and throw down my bow, pulling my father's hatchet from my belt loop.
"Talon, arm yourself," I command urgently. "They're coming!"
"I can't!" He responds, his voice filled with alarm. "My short swords are over there!" He points down the road where they are still lying in the dirt.
"You'll have to make do without them." I jerk my head over to where a long sword is strapped to his horse.
Talon shakes his head, the blood draining from his face. "I can't. Master Shaw insisted that I take that sword with me for training, but I never liked it. I'm hopeless with a long sword!"
I step over to him and roughly grab the neck guard on his leather breastplate, forcing him to look me in the eye. "Listen, Talon. You have to pick up that sword and fight. If not, both of us will die here today. Assume a protective position and fight defensively, and I'll have your back. Got it?"
He nods, but in his eyes I can still see fear.
Readying my hatchet, I move forward and wait for the enemies to fall upon us, letting Talon race over to the horse and pull out his sword.
Words from the Ranger's Oath come unbidden to my mind, as they always do before a fight: Our solemn duty is to protect the borders of the realms of men, from those enemies that would seek our destruction... none shall pass while we stand guard.
Four cloaked men step out onto the road in front of me, swords drawn and glinting in the sunlight. They immediately fan out before us and the horses, closing in with slow, careful steps.
Talon approaches my right side from behind, his longsword clutched tightly in white-knuckled fists. I can practically feel the trepidation coming off of him like an aura, causing me to feel a little nervous as well.
As the men draw near I take in their appearances, trying to glean what I can in one swift glance.
Their cloaks are dark, and embroidered with a silver bird in flight over the breast. They are Nightingales, then, I think angrily. It infuriates me that they would attack me after having fought with their brothers. Then I notice something odd. Their faces are all as expressionless as statues, their mouths drawn in thin, tight lines beneath their noses. They move in a synchronized fashion, the way that trained soldiers are supposed to in combat. Most troubling of all, however, are their eyes, which are covered in a film of swirling mist that reminds me of a blind person's gaze.
These men are not Nightingales at all, I realize with horror. These are mind slaves!
The two on the left fall upon me with cold efficiency, slicing with their swords in an attempt to disembowel me. I dodge to the side, knocking one of the blades wide as the other misses, giving Talon more than enough room to properly defend himself.
Letting the calmness of my training take over, I fall into a battle stance, bringing my hatchet up and watching their every move.
They assume a fighting posture as well, their swords held aloft as they begin to circle me.
The sounds of steel on steel ring out in the air as Talon engages with his attackers as well.
Feinting to the side, I lunge at one of the Nightingales only to break away at the last second to attack the other, bringing my hatchet down in quick, precise chops. The Nightingale backs up, clearly not expecting the attack, and only barely manages to block as I search for a weakness in his defense.
The second Nightingale comes in as I engage the other, attempting to exploit my open back and slide his blade in between my ribs.
I duck to the side and his blade misses, causing him to stumble as his sword point pierces only air. Spinning around, I bring my father's hatchet up in a wide arc, striking the Nightingale in the shoulder and biting deep into his flesh.
Being a mind slave, the man does not cry out in pain, instead twisting his body in an attempt to stab at me from the side.
I am too fast for the awkward attack and the blade misses, stabbing the open air as I dodge yet again. I wrench the hatchet from his shoulder and bring it down on his chest, puncturing his leather armor with a dull thud.
The other Nightingale, trying to save his companion, drives his shoulder into my side, pushing me off him but leaving my hatchet embedded in his chest.
I stagger, but manage to still reach down to my belt and remove my belt knife, flinging it at the second Nightingale as I fall to the stony ground.
Landing hard on my back, I struggle to get back on my feet as fast as possible. When I am up, I am relieved to see that my knife throw had been true, stabbing the Nightingale in the neck just beneath the jaw and sticking out the other side.
The man collapses, his sword dropping with him, but the first one with the hatchet in his chest turns to regard me, his dead eyes recognizing that I am unarmed.
"Hells," I curse, twisting to avoid being skewered by the man's thrust.
The blade bites through the armor on my side, and searing pain lances through my body.
Growling deep in my throat, I go against my instincts to back away and instead go into the man, pushing up to his body and coming face to face with him. I wrap my fingers around the handle of my hatchet and pull it out of his chest, then bring it back down again in a savage chop.
It connects with his jaw with a sickening crack, shattering bone and spraying blood all over my face. He falls to his knees, face broken open, and I bring up my foot to kick, knocking him down to the ground.
He does not get back up.
Putting a hand on my wounded side, it comes back wet with my own blood. I can tell that the cut isn't deep enough to cause permanent damage, but it still hurts terribly.
A cry from Talon brings me back into the fight.
I look up to see that by some miracle he is still alive, fending off the two attackers with reckless abandon, his eyes wild with fear. His left arm hangs limply at his side, dripping red, and he holds the sword shakily in his right hand, looking like he is about to be overrun.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I rush up to engage one of the Nightingales, turning his attention away from Talon.
He blocks my attacks then counterstrikes, forcing me to drop to a knee to avoid being decapitated. Fortunately, the swing throws him off-balance, and I am able to shove him with an upward push. He goes down and immediately I am on top of him, driving the blade of my hatchet into his neck and ending his life in an instant.
I had once feared that killing mind slaves would end their chances to come back from their spell. Zara had later told me that it was impossible to bring someone back once they have been entranced.
They were already dead inside.
Somehow, Talon manages to nick the last remaining Nightingale in the thigh, causing blood to spurt from the wound like a crimson fountain. In his inexperience, though, his strike has left him open and the Nightingale responds by punching him square in the face.
Talon goes down, and I use the last of my strength to run over to the man before he can finish the apprentice off. I bring my hatchet down hard on the top of his skull, killing him before he even hits the ground.
Just like that, it is all over.
Grimacing in pain, I walk over to Talon and help him up. His nose is bleeding profusely.
"Are you alright?" I ask, bringing my hand back down to my side.
He nods, and I can see tears welling up in his eyes. "I think it's broken," he replies, his voice pained.
"How's your arm?"
He glances down at the wound on the side of his left arm. It doesn't look very deep. "My nose hurts worse. Bastard Nightingales... I hope they burn in the Eleven Hells."
I shake my head. "These aren't Nightingales."
He looks at me incredulously, the tears now freely falling. "What do you mean, these aren't Nightingales?"
"It isn't them," I reply simply. "Not really, anyway.
Those," I gesture to the corpses around us, "are mind slaves."
His expression transforms to one of outright confusion.
I sigh. "It means that there is a demon about, Talon. We need to get back to the Grand Lodge and notify the Master Warden. Now."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zara
Source energy burns within me like an inner fire, filling my veins as I draw the magic in through my talisman. The power feels good, as if I am welcoming back an old friend, and the ball of magefyre suspended above my palm flares brighter, illuminating even more of the crypts.
Cursing, the assassin lunges at me, raising his dagger in a black-gloved fist.
Without thinking I hurl the magefyre at him, sending the blazing projectile directly into his chest.
He is blown backward and instantly set ablaze, the magical flames engulfing his cloak and devouring him hungrily as if it has a mind of its own. The man screams in terror and collapses to the floor, writhing in agony on the dusty tiles.
On instinct I cast a radiant shield around myself, uttering the words as fast as they will fall off my tongue. Shimmering blue light surrounds me, covering my body in a warm embrace that makes my skin tingle all over.
As the shield forms itself around me a second assassin's blade glances off my back, eliciting a curse from one of the men.
I turn to see him backing off, going to stand by his companion with another silvery dagger clutched in his hand.
Light! I think as I back up to the flames behind me. That was close! The man I had thrown the magefyre at is now silent and still, the crackling flames still using his body as a source of fuel. Even so, the crypts begin to slowly grow dark as the flames die, leaving the three of us alone in the oppressive darkness.
Are these the Harbingers, or are they merely sell swords sent to murder me? I find myself thinking as I regard the remaining two men, who both brandish daggers in the fading light. It doesn't matter, I conclude. They are obviously here to prevent me from learning something important.
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