Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  Garrin nodded. "Looks like we'll be sleeping with our swords again," he said.

  Cyrus chuckled. "I'd rather a good woman, myself."

  Nobody laughed, though the prince smiled briefly. "Maybe when we get back," he said.

  They all had their weapons out, the prince included. The black blade rested on his outstretched legs, his fingers gingerly touching the hilt. Caymus was fascinated by that sword, by the black hue that permeated the entire length of it, from pommel to point. He was getting his first good look at it since he'd met the prince, and part of him felt he could literally fall into that blackness.

  Maybe he was just tired.

  "What is that sword made of?" he found himself asking.

  Garrin looked up at him, eyebrows raised. For a moment, Caymus thought he'd asked an impertinent question, but the prince didn't rebuke him. Instead, he looked back down at the blade, his fingers still on the grip. "I don't know, to be honest," he said. "It's been in my family for a very long time, passed down from father to son. A lot of people before you have asked that question, and I don't think anyone's ever had a good answer."

  "It's always been in your family?" Caymus asked. In the dark corners of his mind, something told him it was an important question, but he was too tired, too exhausted to think very hard about it at that moment.

  "I don't know its origins," the prince admitted, "who made it, or when, but the documents I've read don't show it as ever being in the hands of anyone but the king or the prince."

  "The Champion-Protector's blade," said Grant in the moment of silence that followed. "It's given from the king to his son, the prince, as soon as he's old enough to claim the title, to start making the defense of Kepren his full-time job." He looked pointedly at Garrin. "One day, when our good prince here has settled down and had a son of his own, he'll pass it down to him." A wry smile played across his lips. "If our good prince ever gets around to finding himself a willing queen, that is."

  Garrin smiled, shaking his head. He had just opened his mouth to say something in reply when they all heard Cyrus utter a muffled scream as he was simultaneously dragged from the ditch.

  Immediately, they all had their swords in their hands, though they dared not stand yet. For all they knew, a volley of arrows was waiting for them to poke their heads above the bushes.

  A voice came to them through the dry brush, a voice full of subdued, icy menace. "I think you'd better come on out of there."

  Caymus had heard that voice before.

  They all looked to the prince, who gave a quick nod and motioned for them to stay their blades. When they stood and walked out of the ditch, they found six figures standing before them, just a couple of feet past the bushes.

  Cyrus lay on the ground, a growing redness beneath his head. His throat had been slit.

  Five of the men were strangers to Caymus, though he felt as though he knew their purpose. Each of them exhibited the taint of the kreal, much more so than had the previous soldiers he had encountered. They wore black, leather armor, sprinkled here and there with metal studs. The armor seemed to serve to reinforce the dark, ashen color of their skins. They looked like they had been covered in soot.

  The sixth man, Caymus knew too well. The last time he'd seen the dark figure, it had been standing over him, kreal-tainted knife in-hand, as the world had gone dark. Caymus had known him as Callun, though he'd revealed his true name to be Mrowvain.

  "Why, hello, Caymus," said the figure, his skin so dark now that it was almost black. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

  Caymus didn't say anything. What was there to say?

  Mrowvain turned his eyes to Garrin. "I'd rather not kill you, Your Highness," he said, affecting a slight bow that showed no measure of deference. "From the time I spent in Kepren, I think I can confidently say that taking your city would be a great deal easier if we had you, alive, to trade."

  Caymus was furious with himself. Why had he not sensed these men coming? Mrowvain, especially, was deep into this dark transformation, so he should have been able to feel his presence from a long way off. How could they have snuck up on him so?

  "How did you find us?" Garrin said, his voice low and intense.

  Mrowvain made a show of inspecting a fingernail, which slightly opened the dark cloak he wore, revealing a short sword that hung from his hip. His eyes were still dead, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves. "The commander has his ways," he said. He looked up at Garrin from under his eyebrows. "He was quite surprised to discover your little band in fact, and is a bit irritated with you.”

  Mrowvain stepped forward then, drawing his sword. Things started moving very quickly after that.

  As if anticipating the move, Grant stepped forward, in front of the prince, to intercept the krealite assassin. In response, Mrowvain took a step to the side, spinning his entire body to add momentum to his strike. Grant raised his sword to block the blow, but Mrowvain's sword sliced through the steel as though it were paper, simultaneously slicing halfway through his torso. Caymus saw the light go out of Big Grant's eyes before any blood appeared at his chest.

  "Bastard!" the prince cried. He grabbed Grant's arms, trying to break his fall as collapsed to the ground. In the same moment, Bernie lunged forward, angling a spear toward the men behind Mrowvain. Caymus didn't see much of what happened to him, as he instead shifted his attention to the spy, the man who had almost killed him, who had just taken the life of another of Garrin's friends.

  One of the krealite soldiers stepped in his way, blocking him, and he found himself in a sudden struggle against three men in the late stages of the krealite infection. Taking a deep breath, he let the first man, swinging his sword high, come at him. He ducked under the blade, but instead of striking out with his sword, he reached out and grabbed the man's forearm, using his immense strength to swing him into his fellows.

  The three men weren't as clumsy as the previous soldiers had been, but they hadn't been expecting such a brash move. The first stumbled into the second and, before they could recover, Caymus had neutralized them both, placing the blade at their chests and then thrusting steel into their hearts.

  The third man stumbled back a couple of steps, but still managed to place himself between Caymus and Mrowvain. Caymus could make out the fighting between the prince and the spy. He didn't know by what force Mrowvain's blade had been able to cut through Grant's sword, but whatever the power was, the Champion-Protector's weapon seemed immune to it. They traded blows, back and forth, blade ringing against blade, and seemed to be in a stalemate for the moment.

  He couldn't tell how Bernie was doing.

  The soldier standing in front of Caymus seemed a few years older than the others had been. The ashen skin made it difficult to say for sure, but he suspected the man had been in his early forties before the kreal had taken hold. His arms were large, strong—almost as strong as Big Grant's had been—and he held his broadsword in both hands. This one was going to be more difficult. Caymus again wished he had his shield.

  At least the attacker's blade didn't appear to be coated with kreal—or, more likely, paint. Caymus again wondered why that was. Why would the men he'd fought on the side of the ravine have had painted blades, but not these men? Could it have something to do with how far along they were in their transformations? Was the coloring merely a psychological advantage given to the soldiers who weren't yet actually invulnerable?

  He didn't wait for the man to attack. Instead, he stepped forward and struck out first. The soldier brought his blade up at an angle in a parrying move, expecting Caymus to try to cleave him in two. Caymus wasn't aiming for the man's torso, however. He was aiming for the man's hands, anticipating the defensive motion and swinging his sword with all his might at a point in space where there had been nothing a moment before.

  His blade struck true, smashing into the man's fingers. He didn't slice the skin, of course, but the concussive force of the blow was enough to make his opponent drop his sword and cry out in shock. Caymus
wasted no time. Before the man could recover, he'd put his sword sideways through the man's abdomen and forced him, writhing, to the ground.

  Caymus looked up. He could see Bernie locked in combat with the two other soldiers. He was landing blow after blow, but wasn't making any progress, though neither of the soldiers seemed able to hurt him either, such was his skill with his spears.

  The prince, too, was trading strikes with his opponent, though neither he, nor Mrowvain, seemed able to get the upper hand.

  You keep him safe, Caymus!

  Caymus paused his thought process and widened his awareness, letting the details of the situation come to him. He measured up the forms of the two men, found the opening he wanted, and stepped forward, taking a swing at Mrowvain's side. He wasn't sure he'd be able to place the blade quite the way he wanted to, but he should at least buy the prince some breathing room.

  He was surprised, and somewhat fascinated, by how quickly Mrowvain reacted. As he watched the short blade spinning in his direction, he wondered if the kreal had imparted some measure of unnatural speed to this man or if he'd always been this quick. Mrowvain's counter-strike didn't touch his flesh, but it shattered his sword, breaking the blade into several pieces.

  Caymus, surprised, had to take a step back to prevent any of the shards of steel from dropping into his feet. As he did so, he noticed Mrowvain's gaze. The ash-skinned man seemed to be regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and hate.

  Garrin, seeing that his opponent's eyes were momentarily watching something else, took his opportunity and slashed out. Mrowvain stepped back at the last second, but the black blade got a piece of him, tearing a gash, at least an inch deep, through the fabric of his cloak and tunic and into his chest. Caymus nearly gasped. The Black Sword had cut a krealite!

  The look in Mrowvain's eyes was that of murder itself. Caymus was nearly unable to follow the sudden flurry of blows he threw at the prince, his arms spinning and flailing as though he were some manner of killing machine given life.

  The prince obviously couldn't follow the blade either. He deflected the first few blows, but then one of them knocked the black blade out of its defensive position.

  Garrin seemed surprised to find himself wide open to attack, and Caymus felt a cry leave his own lungs in the same moment Mrowvain sunk the blade, up to the hilt, into the prince's abdomen.

  The moment it was done, the spy pulled his blade free and took three steps away from his bested opponent, turning his attention to the fight Bernie was having with his two remaining soldiers. Caymus rushed to Garrin's side, not letting him fall, but helping him down onto his back. Garrin was bleeding. He was bleeding far too much. He saw in the Prince's face the same wide-eyed expression that had been on Mally's face just before he'd died.

  Caymus nearly recoiled in anguish. It couldn't be happening again. Not again!

  Garrin's expression was defiant. Though the fire was going out of his eyes, they locked onto Caymus. "Kill the bastard, Caymus," he whispered, blood making the words gurgle. He lifted his sword off the ground and, with what seemed a last moment of strength, the prince of Kepren placed the Black Sword into Caymus's hands.

  The moment he touched the hilt, fire exploded in Caymus's vision.

  Flames seemed to dance before him, as though the world had suddenly ignited. A strange awakening began in his soul, and memories of faces he'd never seen, of battles he'd never fought, found their way into his mind. As he reeled from the sensation, he felt the prince's sword changing in his hand, growing, becoming heavier. The black color was melting away, a silver sheen taking its place.

  In the next moment, he felt the presence of the Conflagration bursting all around him. Joy, fury, love, despair, all raged through him, found purchase in his heart. The sword's blade and grip lengthened and the cross-guard widened until he found he was holding a fully two-handed weapon, so long and massive that only the arms of someone as large as Caymus could possibly have lifted it.

  The flames in his vision seemed to compress, to coalesce into a point, as though trying to contain the might of a burning sun within a space the size of a speck of dust. Then, in the next moment, the power burst forth, filling Caymus's ears with the roar of the Conflagration.

  That was when the sword caught fire.

  The weapon's entire length was suddenly submerged in orange flames that traveled their way from the pommel to the blade. Immediately, without thinking, Caymus concentrated on the Aspect of the Unburning, forcing himself to embrace the flames as part of himself, not letting them singe his skin.

  The sensation was rapture. He couldn't remember ever having felt so alive.

  Garrin. Caymus looked down. The prince was still breathing. With a motion that felt like instinct, like need more than desire, he placed the fiery blade against the prince's wound and directed the flames to burn through to the other side, cauterizing the torn flesh, sealing the broken vessels, halting the bleeding.

  He didn't know if he'd acted soon enough. Only time would tell him that.

  Having done all he could for the prince in the moment, Caymus turned around and rose to his full height. He smiled a vicious smile when he saw Mrowvain, standing as though stunned, abject horror in his usually lifeless eyes. Bernie's battle, too, had subsided, as all three combatants were now staring at him with varying degrees of shock and fear.

  Caymus could now see Mrowvain with a new perception. He could make out the differences between him and the other two soldiers more clearly now—differences greater than just skin tone. He could actually see the kreal, the smoky, oily substance, running through the man's veins. He could also see all the little weak places in his armor: the inside of the right leg just under the knee, the top of the left shoulder, the right cheek between the mouth and the eye. He knew these weak points, remembered them, not just because of his time in the Conflagration, but because of a thousand other memories of battle, memories of the last Knight of the Flame, a warrior who had fought people like this, people who had served the kreal, who chose to take the sickly element into themselves.

  He also remembered the word, "Mrowvain". It wasn't a name; it was a title. It meant "fire-killer", and it was bestowed on the assassin who was charged with ending the threat of the Conflagration to the Sograve.

  The shock in Mrowvain's eyes turned to hate. He screamed something that Caymus couldn't understand and charged toward him.

  The sword's flames ignited into even greater ferocity.

  The fight was over quickly. Mrowvain's intent was obviously to move quickly, to strike Caymus in the heart before he could react, but Caymus was a knight now, and he had a knight's weapon, a two-handed beast, nearly seven feet in length. Mrowvain tried to block—or parry, possibly—the mighty swing of that weapon, but it was far too massive, moving much too fast. It swept past his defenses and bit into his body at the shoulder, the flames searing through the chitinous kreal as they passed through flesh and bone alike.

  Mrowvain fell to the ground, his head and shoulders attached to his torso by only a few inches of muscle and tendon.

  Bernie just stared at him, his eyes wide; the remaining two krealite soldiers fled in panic. Caymus said nothing, but spent the next few moments calming his mind, letting go of his rage, his passion, willing the flames of the sword to dissipate and finally go out. At last, he planted the blade in the ground and turned to the prince, who was, thankfully, still breathing.

  The two men, Caymus and Bernie, didn't say anything to one another. Bernie didn't seem to know what to make of what had just happened, but at least he didn't seem to be projecting actual contempt at Caymus anymore. Caymus was glad for that particular respite. Presumably, Bernie would eventually get around to knowing what questions to ask. Caymus hoped that, by that time, he might actually know how to answer them. Moving quickly, and without words, the two of them inspected the prince's wounds, satisfied themselves that he could be moved without causing greater injury, that he just might last long enough to reach Kepren.

 
; The two men, the ones who had lived, took the time to bury the ones who had not before they left, gently placing their bodies in their former hiding place and covering them with sand. After that, Bernie gathered up the few supplies that he could salvage and Caymus cut a few pieces of leather and cloth from what was left of Mrowvain's belongings, fashioning a sling so that he could hang the sword from his back.

  When they were both ready, they nodded to each other. Then, Caymus picked up the prince's body in his arms and they began their long run to Kepren.

  CHAPTER 20

  Caymus blinked his eyes, partly because they felt as dry as stones, but also to try to clear the strange images from his vision.

  He didn't know what time it was, only that night had fallen again. He and Bernie had been running for hours, nonstop, pushing as hard as they could to reach Kepren quickly. They had a few skins of water remaining, but they had left most of the food, trying to keep their burden as light as possible. About an hour ago, though, he had started fighting hallucinations.

  At least, he thought they were hallucinations. Every once in awhile, his eyes would wander off the road and he would see what appeared to be ghostly apparitions of flame, dotting the landscape. The fiery, orange shapes had no real form, no physical presence, but he could feel a sense of joy, of approval coming from them, as though the Lords of the Conflagration themselves had come to the Quatrain to lend him their support.

  "Stop, Caymus!" Bernie's voice seemed distant in his ears, giving him pause to think that it, too, might be a trick of his mind, but he slowed and stopped anyway, just in case. He turned to see Bernie nearly fifty yards behind, half-jogging, half-stumbling toward him. Caymus understood: the man was badly in need of respite. His own muscles were aching and cramping, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so cold. A rest would be nice right now.

  Gingerly, he bent down and placed Garrin on the ground, being careful not to jostle his wound, lest the flesh tear and the blood start flowing again. When he had inspected the prince's abdomen and satisfied himself that no further damage had been done, he sat, cross-legged, next to him, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his head in his hands.