Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  "Well," said Cull, "we both received word from our respective peoples in the last few days that our sovereigns have declared an official end to fighting."

  Garrin frowned at the man. "I didn't know there had been open war between you."

  "No, no," said Cull, waving the thought off with a stick-like arm, "there has not been anything like that for over a decade now, but that isn't the point." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "There, of course, has always been some, shall we say, disagreement between the Tower and the Summit over the matter of Creveya. Despite the lack of actual declarations of war, small skirmishes, here and there, occur with regularity." He raised an eyebrow. "You are aware of this, I'm sure."

  Garrin nodded. "You're saying these 'skirmishes' have stopped?"

  Cull nodded. "It would appear so."

  Garrin turned to Brocke, who was staring at Cull with a mixture of confusion and frustration. "So you've received the same news from the Summit?"

  Brocke turned to Garrin and nodded. "I have. It seems that the declarations occurred simultaneously, though my messenger only arrived to give me the news today."

  Garrin looked back and forth between the two men, who both seemed as confused about the matter as he. He stole a look at Aiella, who appeared to share the sentiment. He decided to ask the obvious question. "Black Moon?"

  Brocke answered him. "We do not know, your Highness. It has not been made clear to us why the orders have been given, but it seems that things have gone so far as to allow our respective priests and priestesses to meet in the waters of Creveya to discuss a permanent peace."

  Garrin's eyes widened. He was beginning to understand the consternation among the people before him. Not only was the idea that the Tower and the Summit might find a peace between them nearly unfathomable, the prospect changed the dynamic between these two men considerably. For years, they had been rivals, had plotted against and hated each other. Now, it seemed that, nearly overnight, their rulers had informed them that they were to end all hostilities.

  Garrin had to hold back a smile. The ideas that Ambassadors Brocke and Cull might have to be allies, not to mention the obvious discomfort that they were having with the concept, were so bizarre as to be funny. He looked between them again, trying to address both at once. "Do you think it will last?"

  The two men, staring at each other with equal measures of disbelief and shock, seemed lost for words, each of them drawing breath so as to answer the question, then saying nothing.

  Aiella spoke for them. "It would appear, Prince Garrin, that the impetus for this peace came from the high priests themselves, not the sovereigns."

  Garrin nodded in understanding. The hostilities between Creveya, the Tower and Creveya, the Summit had always been religious in nature, having something to do with the lake between them. Garrin had never understood the subtleties of their disagreement, but he believed that Lake Creveya functioned as some kind of door between worlds, much the same as that pillar of fire at the Temple of the Conflagrationists that Be'Var was so proud of. He imagined the feud had something to do with control of that portal.

  If the religious leaders, and not the secular sovereigns, were the force behind the truce, then the proposed peace had real teeth, and stood a very good chance of lasting a long time indeed.

  Garrin leaned back in his chair again, bridging his fingertips before him, considering the implications of this news. The people of the two nations of Creveya, situated north of the Tebrian grasslands, had long wished to become part of the Tebrian League, the formal alliance between Kepren, Shorevale, and the broken city of Laivus. They had always been denied entry, however, due to the schism between their two factions. A people that could not cooperate with each other, after all, could hardly be expected to cooperate with a greater alliance. If the rift between the Tower and the Summit could truly be mended, however, then their addition to the League was all but guaranteed.

  Indeed, the soldiers of Creveya would be a great addition to the forces of Kepren. Besides their battle prowess, many of their people were skilled, in one way or another, in the Aspects of water. Their devotion to that lake demanded an amount of religious study that was uncommon in other cities. Garrin had once heard of the people of the Tower defeating a Mael'vekian excursionary force by pulling an inland sea into the battlefield, drowning nearly half the enemy number. He'd always though the story embellished, but it was a fascinating concept, nonetheless.

  The question was one of timing. If he were to count Creveyan men among his soldiers against the Black Moon Army, they would have to join the Tebrian League very soon. If these discussions of peace took too long, then there simply wouldn't be time to formally ally with Creveya before Black Moon was knocking at Kepren's doors.

  He looked up at the two ambassadors, who were patiently waiting for him to address them. "I suppose," he said, with a plaintive smile, "it's too much to ask to know when this lasting peace might arrive?"

  The two men shook their heads with grim expressions. "I am afraid not," said Brocke. He motioned to the other man. "We are still trying to understand the situation better ourselves. Messages take many days to arrive here from Creveya, so, for all we know, the peace may exist already."

  Nothing was said about the possibility that the peace could also have already disintegrated into open war.

  Garrin put his hands on the table. "Do you think," he said, "that—should the peace exist—I could count on a united Creveya for assistance against this force from the North?"

  "I have already communicated this need to the Summit," said Brocke.

  "As have I, to the Tower," said Cull.

  The two men glanced at each other with a hint of surprise. It seemed they hadn't communicated that bit of information to each other yet. Garrin wondered if they would ever really be able to work together.

  Wearing a smile that he liked not having to force, Garrin stood. "That is all I could ask of you," he said. "Thank you, Ambassadors, for your time."

  The two men politely stood, bowed slightly, and turned to leave the room. Aiella followed after her father, but Garrin reached out and gently grabbed her arm.

  "A moment?" he said, when she turned. She nodded, but her eyes, those wonderful, brown eyes of hers, didn't betray whether or not she was happy about it. Garrin supposed that being the daughter of an ambassador had something to do with that. "Walk with me?"

  They left through the opposite door to the room. The sand had stopped its percussive notes against the window, and so Garrin planned a stroll along the Keep's ramparts. He led her down the main corridor that led toward the stairwell.

  "I haven't seen much of you lately," he said, one hand held in a fist behind his back, the other holding his sword steady as he walked.

  "I have been spending much time in the libraries lately," she replied to the implied question. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at him, as she spoke. Garrin always wondered at the way she did that. Every other young woman in the Keep—in the entire city—would be looking up at him through her lashes in that moment, but Aiella was different. "Master Be'Var asked me to help him with his research."

  "Really?" he said, genuinely intrigued. "Research of what sort?"

  "Of many sorts," she said. "Many of the books I have found for him are of military history, some are religious texts, but the information he has asked me to focus on is of a 'war that came before'."

  Garrin looked down at her face, but her dark locks hid all but her nose from him. "Which war?" he asked. "One of those with Mael'vek?"

  "No," she said, "it is a much older war. It had something to do with the elements themselves." Her voice took on an uncertain tone, unusual for her. "I am not able to tell, specifically, from what I have read, but it seems that this war had something to do with the shaping of the world."

  Garrin frowned, once again looking ahead. This, then, was why she'd asked for access to the Royal Library. He hoped that his earlier decision to follow protocol, rather than bend the rules and jus
t let her in, didn't turn out to have been a mistake. He considered what the consequences of reversing that decision would be as he opened the door to the stairwell for her, and they both took the two flights of spiraling steps up to the main rampart.

  Remains of dust and sand stood here and there among the smoothed stones of the rampart, but the wind had stopped completely. The dusty smell still hung in the air, though, and the evening felt unusually warm. Garrin leaned against the wall and looked out over the city of Kepren. Lamps burned dimly in the main streets, and many windows still boasted their own light, as people went about the evening's business.

  He felt, more than saw, Aiella follow suit, leaning her elbows on the stone wall next to him, though she wasn't close enough that they were actually touching.

  "I don't suppose," he said into the air, "old Be'Var would mind you telling me all this?"

  She shook her head. "I think he would come and tell you himself, were he not so busy tending to Caymus."

  "Right," said Garrin, "Caymus." He'd been to Flamehearth only once since that first time, when Be'Var and his party had first arrived in Kepren, but he'd seen Caymus while he was there. The young man's huge body had been lain across a bed that was about three feet too small for him, with Be'Var keeping a watchful eye at all times.

  He'd liked Caymus's unassuming attitude when they'd met. Garrin wondered if he'd ever get that chance to spar with the young man. "How has he been? Have you seen him lately?"

  "Nearly every day, when I meet with Master Be'Var." For the first time, she looked up at him, a frown creasing her forehead. "He is alive, but his body is sometimes hot and sometimes cold." She looked away again, turning her gaze out over the city. "The strange thing is that you would expect someone bedridden for so long to have lost muscle, to have begun wasting away."

  "He isn't doing that?"

  "No," she said. "In fact, I would swear that he seems to grow stronger by the day. It is a mystery. I do not understand it."

  Raised voices came up to them from below, interrupting the conversation. Garrin looked down to see a pair of guards on one of the lower ramparts arguing about something. They were too far away and their voices too muffled to tell what the disagreement was about, but they carried on for several minutes. Garrin was considering going down there when, suddenly, the raised voices evaporated into raucous laughter. Garrin smiled. He knew well the frustration of guard duty and also the joys of camaraderie that came with it.

  "Master Be'Var tells me," Aiella said, picking up the thread of conversation, "that he believes something is happening to Caymus that we cannot see, that we may never understand."

  Garrin nodded, more to himself than in any kind of agreement. "I hope the boy recovers soon, Aiella. I really do."

  "I do also," Aiella replied, a thoughtful tone to her voice. "Be'Var says he is important."

  Garrin had heard Be'Var say that very thing once before, though he still didn't know what the old man meant by it. "Do you agree with him?" he said, still staring out into the dark night.

  For a few moments, Aiella said nothing. When Garrin turned to look, he saw that she was slowly nodding her head. "Yes," she eventually said, "I do."

  ***

  Caymus reeled, taking several steps backward and bringing his sword up in front of him in a defensive posture. The creature was moving slowly, tracing in a large circle around him, so he took a moment to feel his shoulder. There was no wound, no tear in the flesh, but he felt as though ice had been sewn beneath the skin where the kreal weapon had touched him.

  All over his body, there were similar injuries, places where the krealite's hand-blades had snuck past his guard, torn through his clothing, and touched the surface of his body. Each strike had felt, when the blade had hit home, as though it had opened his skin, but none had left any actual holes in him. Each, however, carried either the sensation of freezing or of burning, with no seeming pattern to which he would feel at any given hit.

  Gripping the sword with both hands, he joined the thing in the circular movement, watching its feet more than any other part of it, searching for some twitch of motion that would betray its next action.

  He felt that he should be tired. He had no idea how long he had sparred with the creature, but he counted their clashes in the hundreds, if not thousands. Sometimes, his legs or his eyes felt heavy, and yet, when the time came to use them in battle, he found himself both quick and strong. He didn't know why the disparity existed. When he'd spared the time to think about it, he'd decided that, outside of his body like this, he might only be as tired as he thought he was.

  A small rotation of his enemy's right foot announced another impending attack. The krealite spun into him, both blades extended in a sweeping motion that he easily backed away from. Before he could counter, however, it reversed direction, lunged forward, and thrust with both blades.

  Caymus felt a smile cross his face; he knew what to do with this. Quick as he dared, he turned his sword, dropping the point to the ground, then he lifted the blade up and took a simultaneous step forward. In that one motion, he both deflected both the creature’s blades up and to one side of him and positioned himself to strike with his pommel. Taking an additional step forward, he pressed the counter attack, slamming the heavy butt of his weapon into his opponent's throat.

  The creature stumbled backward slightly. Caymus took the opportunity to bring his back foot up and land a solid kick to the exposed mid-section. As the krealite fell backward, he rotated his sword and brought the blade down onto its shoulder, forcing it completely to the ground.

  Caymus wasn't sure at exactly what point the smile had left his lips, but as he stepped backward again, preparing for the next onslaught, he noted its absence. The victory, like all the others, would be short-lived.

  The krealite was just starting to get to its knees, so he had some time to give his shoulder more careful consideration. He turned his head to get a good look, noting that the fabric of his tunic was torn away, but that the skin of the shoulder was not. He frowned, both in incomprehension of the wound and at his own clumsiness. By his own estimation, he'd become quite skilled at sparring with his opponent. He still had not managed to bring it down in any permanent fashion, but the strike to his shoulder was the first attack it had landed in dozens of attempts. He felt foolish for having left himself exposed, but his mind had been occupied with the feel of a strike of his own, which he'd just landed to the creature's thigh.

  He looked back at the dark, faceless form. It was on its knees, preparing to rise. He still had the luxury of several moments to think.

  He'd learned something in that last interaction, something he'd been intuiting for some time, but which he was only just beginning to really understand. The creature before him looked more or less human, but it differed from him in more ways that just the absence of a face and regular appendages. There was something about its anatomy, about the construction of it, the feel of it, which was altogether alien to him.

  He had already learned, during a moment when he'd gained leverage for a throw by grabbing the creature under its right arm, that the surface there had seemed softer than the rest of the black form's skin. At the time, he'd thought he'd been imagining it, but then he'd discovered a similar sensation when he'd struck the creature at the point where the neck met the back of the head. That time, of course, the strike had been with his sword, not with his hand, but he'd felt his blade make contact so many times now that he was able to sense the differences through the steel. The blade had made a different sound when it had struck, had vibrated at a slightly lower frequency.

  His opponent was on its feet now, though it hadn't turned to face him. He had time yet.

  The sensation, that unique ring to the blade that filled the air, had been the same when he'd struck the creature's left thigh. Caymus's momentary fixation on that sound was the thing that had earned him a freezing shoulder. He wondered what it all meant, why a being such as this would have these "soft spots" in such unusual places on
its body.

  The krealite turned its attention on him. The tingling sensation at the back of his neck intensified slightly. That was something else he'd noticed during this extended battle, here in belly of the Conflagration: the sensation on his neck seemed to have to do with the presence of some agent working on kreal's behalf, rather than that of the kreal itself. The feeling always intensified when that eyeless gaze fixed on him. Standing there, looking back into that gaze, he found he was surprised at having not made that connection before.

  He thought about how strong the feeling had been during the rescue of the mitre in Otvia, how much of a distraction it had seemed. Now, the tingling, buzzing sensation seemed no more unusual than any other sensory organ, no more foreign-feeling than his own hands. The thought of Otvia made him remember Merkan, the mitre who had managed to defeat two krealites in hand-to-hand combat, much as Caymus was trying to do now.

  The memory was hazy. He had to reach deep into himself to bring it forward. What was it that Merkan had said? How had he described it?

  The krealite began circling again as he tried to remember what it was that his friend had said to him. It had something to do with the skin, with the impenetrable surface of the things. Could it have had something to do with these soft spots? The memory was rebuilding in his mind slowly, much as Milo's clearing had done when he'd first arrived in this place.

  The krealite had no concern for his memories. It lunged forward, this time reaching out with a single blade, the other arm swinging back to give the attack added momentum. Caymus didn't think too hard about his defense; he knew how to guard against this and, besides, his mind was occupied with other things. With a pair of side-steps and a wide swing of his sword, he cleared the attack away and moved himself to the rear of his opponent, at which point he kicked out, again driving the thing down to the ground.

  As the krealite was falling, Caymus remembered. Merkan had said that a strike of his blade had been unable to pierce through the creatures' chitinous armor, but when he had instead placed the blade and then slowly applied force to it, the weapon had found its mark and had sunk into the black flesh.