Caymus slowly tried to feel out the concept as the krealite once again rose to its knees. It didn't make sense to him. How could a blade moving slowly take hold of an enemy when the same blade, moving quickly, could not? He could think of nothing he knew, no parallel in the world, which would react in that way to an outside force.
The kreal, he had to remember, was not of his world, of the Quatrain. It was of another realm altogether, called the Sograve by the Lords of the Conflagration. He reminded himself that he shouldn't expect such an alien element to react to his blade in a predictable way.
The krealite was making the transition from a kneeling position, getting to its feet. Caymus didn't wait for it to rise. Instead, he took three steps forward, reversing the grip on his sword as he advanced. He kicked at the back of one straightened leg, dropping the creature back to its knees. Once it was down, he put the sword point to the creature's neck, at that soft place where the dark flesh met the base of its skull. The motion was awkward: his arm was accustomed to large, coarse swings, not this delicate, precise kind of motion. Within the space of half a second, however, he had positioned his blade right where he wanted it.
Instead of raising the blade again and stabbing, he simply pushed.
The result, despite what he had been expecting, was profound. He found, as he applied force, that the cutting edge met with a great deal of resistance. His first impulse was to push harder, but he controlled himself, managed to force his arms to hold back, to instead reduce the pressure. The blade began to sink, surprising Caymus despite his own hopes and expectations. His muscles weren't used to this kind of attack, and a great deal of his effort was required in order to control the pressure. As the blade slid into the black skin, however, he did find that the further he drove the steel, the more pressure he could exert upon it, and the faster it sank.
In the space of a moment, before he could fully come to terms with how he had done it, he had buried his blade a full foot into the neck of his enemy. When he felt that he could attain no additional result, he withdrew the weapon. It came free easily, as though he had pulled it from a lake, rather than a body. As soon as the entire length was removed, he reflexively stepped back, preparing for another attack.
He looked down at the krealite. There was no blood. There was not even the appearance of a wound. As he watched the body lose tension and slump forward, however, he heard what sounded like a heavy exhale of breath coupled with a muffled scream. He was nearly certain that the sound came entirely from within his own mind.
He could scarcely believe the accomplishment. As he watched the fallen body crumble to dust before him, he reveled in what he had done. He felt as though he had been fighting the thing for years—decades, even!—but he had finally prevailed over it. A wicked grin played over Caymus's face as the dust that had been the body of the krealite dispersed, catching on a non-existent wind and blowing away and into the wall of kreal from whence it had come.
Suddenly, Caymus was not the least bit tired. Suddenly, he was eager to succeed in battle again, to use what he had learned, to hone his skills.
Without consciously thinking about what he was doing, acting solely on the purest instinct, he prepared to reach out to the wall of kreal again, to summon a new opponent from its inky depths.
***
Be'Var looked up from his book when he heard the knock at the door. A quick glance out the window told him the hour was later than he'd thought, and the dwindling supply of candles at Caymus's bedside came as a bit of a shock. He could have sworn there were an even dozen of them a mere hour ago. Now, they numbered only five.
Stifling a yawn and scratching at his face, he looked to the door. "Yes," he said. "Come in."
The door opened just a few inches and Milo's headbanded face popped through, a tired-looking smile on it. "Any change?" he asked.
Be'Var smiled. He liked the way that Milo always inquired after Caymus, rather than him, first. Y'selle and Aiella would always begin by asking if he was busy or how his reading was going, but Milo always came straight to the point. In the three months since they'd arrived in Kepren, Be'Var had really come to appreciate the man's honest and simple outlook.
He turned his eyes to Caymus, still resting quietly on the bed. Be'Var had spent today just like every other day of the last few months, working to either raise or reduce the boy's temperature, depending on the need. After all of this time, he'd still not been able to figure out what was happening to him, why he could be so cold one minute and so hot the next. There even appeared to be days when one part of his body seemed colder than the rest: feet or fingers he could understand, but a rib or shoulder? It made no sense.
Today had been a fairly uneventful day. In fact, and he'd gotten quite a lot of reading done.
"No change," he said, looking back to the door. "Come in, come in," he said, clearing some books off a nearby chair. "Tell me about life outside this room."
Milo grinned at him and entered. He grabbed the back of the chair that Be'Var had cleared and turned it around so he could straddle it, leaning his arms on the backrest. As he did so, he reached into a pocket and brought out a few small pieces of paper. He pushed them toward Be'Var. "From Master Ket," he said.
Be'Var started at him, then reached out and took the folded messages. "Ket?" he said. "This is from Temple?" He gave Milo a questioning look. "How is that possible? Who sent them?"
Milo smiled and held his arms up in a supplicating gesture. "It wasn't one of mine!" he said. "It arrived by regular messenger. Sorry, I guess I should've said."
Be'Var rolled his eyes at himself. "Of course, of course. That was stupid of me, wasn't it?" Just because Milo was the one that brought him a message from the Temple, it didn't mean that it had arrived through the air priest's network of wind-whispers. As he opened the messages, he noted the tears at the edges of the paper and the slight smudges of dirt that betrayed this message had, indeed, been carried to Kepren by hand.
As Be'Var read over the text, Milo produced a pair of apples from a pouch at his waist. He silently offered one to Be'Var as he crunched into the other. Be'Var waved it away, so he instead put it on top of one of the stacks of books.
Milo ate in silence for a time, allowing Be'Var to quickly scan both notes. Only when he had finished with the second sheet of paper, and was going over the first again, did the air priest open his mouth, talking around the piece of fruit. "Anything good in there?"
Be'Var had lost himself in his thoughts for a moment, and so was a bit surprised when he looked up and discovered there was someone else in the room. He shook off the feeling. What was wrong with him lately? Was it just being cooped up in here that was driving him to such distraction?
He took a deep breath. "The Falaar boys are doing well, it seems," he said. "One of them, Fach’un, is a master now."
Milo looked away for a moment, considering. "That's pretty fast, isn't it?"
Be'Var nodded, looking over the message again. "It is. Less than six months. Although, it must be said that they had quite a bit of experience with their own fire Aspect before they arrived, so I'm sure they had quite an advantage over the rest of them."
Milo squinted at him. "What is their Aspect anyway, the Falaar?"
Be'Var looked up from the papers again. "They call it 'Unburning'."
"Unburning?"
Be'Var snorted. "Tacky, isn't it? It means they're able to walk through fire without getting scorched."
Milo tilted his head as he chewed on another bite of apple. "Unburning..." he said, then smiled. "I like it. Doesn't beat around the bush. You can't be burned, so," he snapped his fingers, "you're Unburning."
"I still say it's the kind of word a simpleton would use," said Be'Var.
"Unlike 'pulling' you mean?" said Milo, arching a grinning eyebrow at him.
"However," Be'Var continued, ignoring the eyebrow, "it seems that the Knight of the Flame—the first one, from the Old War—was a friend of the Falaar." He looked around at the stacks of books, tr
ying to remember which one he was thinking of. "Bah," he said, after a moment, "I don't remember which of these said it, but there was a passage about him 'knowing their tricks and secrets'."
Milo had a look of curiosity on his face. "It mentioned the Falaar by name? I didn't think they'd have been around long enough to show up in an old book."
Be'Var managed a small smile. "It seems," he said, "that many cities have risen and fallen since the Old War. The Falaar, however, have been a constant. I think it might be a good idea for one of us to go down there and see what we can learn about them before much more time passes."
Milo waggled his head, noncommittally. "What's the other note say?"
Be'Var looked down at the other piece of paper, considering it. "You remember I asked Ket to take a look in the libraries for any reference to kreal or knights or anything about the Old War?" He held the paper up, then surveyed the three dozen or so books piled around the room. "He's coming up with the same kinds of references I've been seeing."
"About the weapon?"
Be'Var nodded, searching for the quote on the message. When he found it, he read aloud. "The knight is his weapon. The weapon makes the knight. The knight seeks his wisdom within his weapon's grip. Without it, he is but a man."
Milo had stopped eating. "You found those exact words in one of the other libraries, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Be'Var, "or Aiella did, in any case. And it wasn't word-for-word, but it was very similar."
Milo held the half-finished apple absently in his hand. He was looking at Caymus. "What do you think it means?"
Be'Var, too, looked toward the motionless young man. He'd asked himself the same question a dozen times since Aiella had brought him the moth-eaten scroll that had referenced the knight and his weapon. He sighed. "I wish I could figure out if it means that a knight needs a weapon," he said, "or if he needs a particular weapon."
Milo raised both eyebrows. "You mean a particular kind of weapon?"
Be'Var shook his head. "I don't think so. I think the flaming thing means that," he waved his arm in a big arc, "somewhere out there, there's a very specific weapon that we need to get our hands on, one that's going to have a very special significance for Caymus. Gu'ruk told us that the Earthwarden had a hammer that he's keeping safe until the rock-knight returns, so it stands to reason the Knight of the Flame had his own special weapon, too."
Milo frowned. "Anything I should be looking out for?"
Be'Var barked a laugh. He indicated the mark on Caymus's hand. "I suppose if you happen to come across something with one of those on it, you might be on the right track."
Milo smiled a sad smile, but didn't laugh.
Silence filled the room for a long moment as they both looked at their sleeping friend. "It was his birthday yesterday," said Be'Var, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Did you know that?"
Milo's eyes flitted to him for a brief moment. "I didn't," he said. "I'd have gotten him something."
"It's really happening, isn't it, Milo?" Be'Var asked, breaking the quiet that followed. "There's actually an army of worshipers of some flaming-bizarre element marching down at us right at this moment, isn't there?"
Milo nodded, then looked at his hand, seeming to remember the apple. He took a bite and talked around it again. "Afraid so," he said. Then, his eyes went wide and he motioned toward Be'Var. "Did you hear," he asked, "that the Tower and the Summit finally signed the treaty?"
Be'Var allowed himself a small smile. "I knew they'd been talking peace for awhile," he said. "You're saying they're actually sticking with it now?"
Milo nodded, emphatically. "Heard the message myself," he said. "With Black Moon marching south the way they are, they can either come through Falmoor's Pass or go around the Greatstones altogether. Nobody knows which it's going to be, so I suppose it was just a matter of time."
Be'Var nodded. Falmoor's Pass was the obvious way to cut through the Greatstone Mountains from the northern cities, but the way was narrow enough that an army might have trouble moving through it. Creveya was located at the eastern end of the Greatstones, so if the army decided to go around the mountains, rather than through them, the Tower and the Summit, rather than Kepren, would be the next civilization under the sword.
"They still haven't figured out which way Black Moon will turn, then?" he asked, absently.
Milo shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "They still haven't come south far enough."
Be'Var was watching the gentle rise and fall of Caymus's chest. The boy didn't seem to need to eat or drink as he lay there, yet, for reasons Be'Var couldn't fathom, he still appeared to need to draw breath. The gash, that black wound on his forearm, still hadn't healed, and Be'Var was convinced that Caymus wouldn't come out of this apparent deep sleep until he had found a way to remove the kreal from his body.
"There's still time, then," he said, more to himself than to Milo. "Come on, boy, come back to us." He paused. "While there's still time."
***
Caymus spun as he stepped forward, letting his blade race out to its target. As soon as the point of his sword touched the skin of the krealite in front of him, he twisted his arms in the other direction to halt the weapon's momentum, then started with the pressure of the actual attack.
He didn't know how long he'd been fighting, only that it had been too long.
His attempt to pull another creature from the wall, all that time ago, had been successful, earning him another adversary, another chance to learn how to kill krealites. He didn't know how many times he'd repeated the process since that first time.
He had found, after having been in so many battles, that it was possible to combine elements from what he had previously learned of swordsmanship with the place-and-thrust motion that was necessary in order to actually pierce the skins of these creatures. He had spent a long time retraining his muscles, combining the two concepts. Now, after hundreds and hundreds of battles, his completely new style of swordplay had become graceful and deadly, and he had luxuriated in the thrill of it every time he applied his blade to another opponent.
He had also discovered that different opponents had different "soft spots" along their surfaces, but that he didn't necessarily need to find them in order to exploit the weakness. The remains of four krealites, turning to dust at his feet, were proof of that. The soft places were merely areas where he could apply more force than usual, where he could pierce the skin without having to be quite so careful and measured in the pressure he afforded his blade. In the case of this krealite, he had chosen not to search for one of these spots, but had simply gone for the easy target of the chest.
His flesh felt heavy, the pain of dozens of small, icy wounds biting into it. As he plunged the blade into his opponent's torso, his eyes drifted over the hands holding the hilt. They seemed worn, grizzled, calloused, the hands of an old veteran. How long had he been here, in this place? Hadn't there been another place before this one? The creatures came from another place, didn't they? Surely there were other places.
Tearing his sword away from the body of his foe, he turned, once again, to the wall. There was almost nothing left of the boy that had first arrived here. There was only so much battle. Sneering with the intense anger of that thought, of the years he'd lost to this fighting, he once again reached out to the mass of kreal, searching for the attention of another of the beings from the other side, probing so as to catch either their curiosity or their hate.
Instead, for the first time, he felt fear.
The fear wasn't his own. It emanated from the beings behind the wall. They had become afraid of him. He smiled with pleasure at the thought, again sensing the freezing battle scars all over his body, remembering how he'd earned each one, as though they were badges of pride. The krealites wouldn't come through anymore, wouldn't offer him any more pain.
He was struck dumb by the realization. He was a warrior. That was his role, and this was his battlefield. What was he to do if there was no opponent, nobody to fight? Ag
ain, he reached out, placing his mind into the wall itself, trying as hard has he could to make his presence known on the other side so that somebody might take note of his brashness and accept the implied challenge of it.
Nothing occurred. There was only the fear.
Caymus realized his breathing had become heavy. Why wouldn't they come? He had to fight them. There was nothing else. He fell to one knee, confused, gazing about at the flames of the Conflagration, letting the fire lick at his legs and arms. What was he to do?
He looked, once again, at the wall, watching it intensely. If they wouldn't come to him...
With a sudden burst of furious energy, he rose to his feet and ran with all his strength at the dark wall before him. As he made contact with it, he felt the icy grip of the kreal over his body, felt it threaten to overwhelm his senses, if not completely tear him apart.
He felt he was in another place. He tried to get his bearings, but the difficulty of it was great. He could not see the inhabitants of this realm. His eyes saw only black, but he knew the beings were there. With desperate fervor, he reached out to find them with his thoughts, latching on to a particular presence that seemed about to scurry away. Before it could take two steps away from him, he had his sword buried in its torso.
Another presence was nearby. He added the withdrawal of his blade from his first victim to the attack against the second, making a single, graceful motion. The bodies of his foes didn't crumble into dust in this place. Instead, they slumped to the floor as he felt what seemed like sprays of blood on his face and arms. He felt rage, a warrior's rage, as he reached out for another and took its head off.
He knew his opponents too well. They didn't stand a chance against his blinding speed and his calculated movements. Before he had time to think about the motions his body was making, he had felled three more.
As he drove his sword into the last of these, he felt a firm tug on his shoulder, pulling him backward. "Enough!" yelled a voice that he knew too well. The voice was his own, speaking to him in the way the Lords of the Conflagration often communicated their wants. Caymus felt the sensation of falling through the darkness, then he was plunging, headfirst, out of the wall of kreal, and onto his back. Again, he was surrounded by the flames of the realm of fire.
Knight Of The Flame Page 39
