Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  "I disagree," said Rill, walking next to Milo. "Most of the really fun people I know are a bit pointless, too."

  Be'Var turned to look over his shoulder at Rill. Rill just smiled back at him, so he turned his eyes forward again. Burn him, but that boy had gotten cheeky since Draya made him a lieutenant.

  The three of them walked along the top of the wall for awhile, heading towards one of the towers that would take them inside the Keep itself. As they walked, Be'Var heard the sounds of swordplay and the shouting of young men. He looked over the side of the wall to see a number of them, all practicing the sticking of their swords through the armor of a couple of dead krealite insects.

  Be'Var marveled at the sight. Just a few months ago, these boys, these defenders of Kepren, had thought these creatures to be invincible. They had collectively trembled at the very thought of the black chitin approaching the walls of their city. Now, they were learning how to cut down the bastards. The soldiers thought their newfound skills were terribly important, but Be'Var knew that wasn't the point; it was the change in their attitudes, the knowledge that, yes, they could fight this enemy, that was the important thing.

  He was glad, too, that they had the bodies to practice with. When Caymus had beaten that black-hearted, no-faced leader of the Black Moon Army, the Chieftain's body, as well as the bodies of many of the insects, had simply vanished into the ground, the way so many of them had vanished before. Be'Var wasn't sure why that had happened. He'd not thought that a dead thing could have performed that particular trick. Had they not been dead? Or had some otherworldly force reached out from the Sograve and pulled them back? That thought, in particular, gave him the shivers.

  About a dozen of the insects had remained above ground, however. Most of the corpses had been commandeered by the engineers, who had been busy studying them, trying to figure out ways to use the alien element in their designs. The Keep-Marshal himself had needed to intervene on the soldiers' behalf in the end, saving a couple of the bodies so that the fighting men could learn and practice the set-and-push attack.

  "Looks like they're getting the hang of it," said Milo as they reached the large door of one of the Keep's five towers. Be'Var opened it and they began their descent down a long flight of spiral stairs.

  "They really are," said Rill. "I spent some time down there myself, today."

  Be'Var looked up and over his shoulder. "I wasn't aware that you needed the practice."

  Rill shrugged, his head down. "Never had the chance before now," he said. "Caymus was the one sticking swords in 'em, and until the day that Black Moon showed up, I'd never seen anybody but Merkan kill one without using fire. That first night at the Temple, even in Otvia, my strategy was always to keep as far away from them as possible."

  The mention of the day when Black Moon had arrived reminded Be'Var of a question he'd been meaning to ask, though he had to admit he didn't much care for bringing the subject up. He waited until they'd reached the bottom of the tower and were passing through one of the Keep's wide, stone hallways before he slowed to let the other two catch him up. "Did you ever speak to Roland's parents?" he asked, once they were walking three abreast.

  Rill seemed to deflate a little bit. "I did," he said. "I managed to steal away for a couple of hours, a few days after the battle."

  Be'Var didn't say anything. He knew the subject was a sore one for Rill, and he didn't want to push. Sannet had always been one of Rill's better friends at the Temple, and that would have made giving the rather horrifying news to his mother and father particularly difficult. Be'Var didn't envy the boy the responsibility, especially since it had been he, himself, who had been the one to catch Roland and put him into the arms of a royal inquisitor. It was a heavy burden, perhaps too heavy.

  They walked on awhile, going through another wide doorway. The hard stone of the floor had given way to polished marble before Rill continued. "His father said Sannet's brother had always been angry. 'Exceptional jealousy' was the term he used." As they rounded a corner, he heaved a big sigh. "It sounded like he was sad about Roland, but not very surprised."

  "I'd like to know how the krealites got to him," Milo said.

  "So would I," said Rill. Then, after a moment, "So would they."

  So would I, Be'Var thought. He'd caught sight of the lad around Flamehearth a couple of times since that first encounter with him in Caymus's room, but had never paid him much mind. He'd been surprised to find out that Sannet had a brother in the first place, and found the whole mess confusing. Why would a boy, even one so angry as Roland, decide to throw his lot in with the force that was invading his world, that would eventually destroy everything he knew? Be'Var had surmised that some krealite emissary must have offered him something, something his young, inexperienced mind couldn't say no to. Perhaps it had been that Mrowvain character that had turned him.

  Maybe he'd just hated his brother that much.

  "Hey," Milo said, brightening a little, "I never thought: should we be fetching Miss Aiella?"

  Be'Var chuckled, glad for the change of subject. "What?" he said, arching an eyebrow at his young friend. "Do you really think she's not already there?"

  Milo gave him one of those mischievous smiles that he had such a ready supply of. "Hmmm, yes, I suppose she probably is, isn't she?"

  Be'Var had long-suspected that Brocke's daughter held feelings for Caymus that went further than comradeship. She'd spent a great deal of time at Flamehearth while the boy had taken his long nap, after all. He—and everyone else, for that matter—had been surprised, however, at the fierce devotion she'd displayed on, and since, the day Black Moon was defeated.

  Be'Var knew he didn't have the full picture, but from what he'd pieced together from the stories the soldiers told, she was the reason Caymus had survived that day. It seemed that the very moment the boy had put out the fires that the engineers had been lobbing at him, she had ordered Milo, in no uncertain terms, to find Be'Var and bring him at once.

  Milo, for his part, had wasted absolutely no time in completing his task—Be'Var never particularly wanted to ride down the side of the White Spire on a column of air again—but all the time that the air priest had been away, she had been the one who had kept Caymus going. She was the one who had kept him still and safe. When others had moved to lay hands on him, she'd shouted at them until they'd backed away again. When the body of the Chieftain, over which Caymus had been slumped, had disappeared into the ground, she had held his mass of dead weight up all by herself, had stopped the blade in his chest from being jostled, even by a hair's breadth.

  Caymus had been conscious the entire time. He'd later told Be'Var that he'd been completely blind from the moment the sword had gone into him—that was something Be'Var had seen before; the shock of such a grievous injury could sometimes take a man's sight for a while—and that it had been Aiella's soothing voice in his ear that had convinced him he was still alive, and that he wanted to stay that way.

  Milo had also reported that the girl had pulled more water from the ground that day than should have been possible, saving a great deal of the city from destruction by fire. That fact was one in which her father had shown great interest, once he'd found out.

  Be'Var had spent the better part of a week removing the sickly, black blade from Caymus's chest. At first, he'd thought the task impossible, but he'd eventually discovered that he could make a slow kind of progress if he moved the blade only a little at a time, stopping after each movement to seal up the bleeds. He'd lost count of how many times he'd repeated that process, but he'd eventually managed to pull the blade free without killing the boy. He was particularly proud, too, of that fact that Caymus still had use of the lung that had been skewered after he'd finished.

  Aiella had been there for all of it, from the moving of the body back to Flamehearth, to the slow removal of the sword, to keeping the boy company until he'd finally regained his sight, nine days after the attack.

  "That Caymus," Garrin had said, when he'd learned
that their savior was going to live, "I swear, since I've known him, he's spent more time in bed than on his feet!"

  Be'Var shook his head, bemusedly, at the memory. Garrin, too, had spent a lot of time in bed, lately. He'd argued at first, but he had eventually been convinced that his people, glad as they were for his service and leadership during the battle, could take care of things for a while. In the three months it had taken for Be'Var to knit Caymus's flesh back together, the northern and western gates had been mostly rebuilt. Dead soldiers had been buried or burned, each according to his religion, and the civilian citizens of Kepren, only a handful of whom had actually been killed in the attack, had gotten to the general business of putting their city back together.

  Be'Var found that he was smiling as the trio entered the open doors of a grand hall. He didn't usually care much for events like these, but he was going to make an exception in this case.

  Inside the hall, dozens of people stood waiting for the ceremony to begin. Dukes Fel and Chenswig were there, of course—Korwinder had been struck with a sudden sense of duty just before the battle; he hadn't survived his wounds—as were King Garrin and Ambassadors Brocke and Cull, of Creveya. Keep-Marshal Tanner was talking to a pretty woman in a bright yellow dress, an impressively large goblet in his hand. Everyone from Flamehearth Mission was in attendance; Keeper Elia gave him a nod and a wink when she noticed the three of them approaching. Even Kavuu, the headman of the Falaar down south, who had taught Caymus how to walk through fire without getting singed, was standing in one corner with three of his people, including Tavrin and Gwenna. Be'Var hadn't understood why Gwenna had suddenly decided to live out in the desert the way she had, but he'd eventually accepted the idea. He was glad the Falaar had made it for this, though; it was right that they should be here.

  A few dozen other people whom Be'Var didn't know were also present. He'd been told that a number of other important individuals, be they noblemen, priests, or merchants, had been invited to attend. Be'Var didn't really like having all these strangers here, but he supposed that if he was going to go through with this ceremony, the more people that saw it, the better.

  Standing in the middle of everything, a foot or two from the dais at the far end of the hall, was Caymus himself. Somebody had decided he needed a set of armor, which had been constructed from leather, mail, and even a few plates; somebody had also decided that the whole thing would look better painted with hues of red and orange. Be'Var thought it was a bit much, really, but he had to admit it drew the eye nearly as much as the huge sword strapped to his back. He still wondered how that blade of his wasn't constantly scraping across the ground, just hanging off the boy like that.

  Standing next to Caymus, as was her custom of late, was Aiella, her blue robes of state arrayed about her, her hair spilling down in dark waves. Be'Var decided there must still exist some uncertainty between the two of them. They stood close enough to each other that anyone could tell there was obviously something there, yet they were a bit too far apart for that something to be anything intimate. Based on the quick glances they both kept darting around the room, the conversation they were engaged in wasn't one they wanted others to overhear.

  "I can't believe she talked me into this," Be'Var grunted.

  Milo laughed and slapped a hand on his shoulder. "She told me you were the one who brought it up!"

  "I only found some reference to it an old book." Be'Var protested. "I didn't expect to actually have to perform the flaming thing."

  In truth, when Be'Var had first read about this particular event in one of the old tomes, buried deep in the bowels of the Royal Library, to which Garrin, since becoming king, had finally given him access, he'd thought a bit of ceremony might be a good idea, that it might bolster Caymus's reputation, especially among Kepren's upper classes. He had not, however, actually been planning on performing it himself, at least not so soon. Then, Aiella had caught wind of the idea, and she'd pestered him for days with that overly-reasonably way of hers until he'd finally agreed to go through with it. Now, here he was, about to carry out this service, this ritual that nobody in living memory had ever seen.

  "Well," he said, looking around the room and taking a deep breath, "I suppose we'd better get it over with."

  When Aiella saw him coming, she had the good grace to take a few steps away from Caymus, leaving him alone before the dais, though not before giving his hand a squeeze.

  "You ready for this, boy?" Be'Var said as he stood to one side of his former student.

  Caymus smiled a big, easy-going smile. One would never suspect that smile had been at death's door just a handful of weeks ago, or that those huge hands of his had struck down hundreds of men. "Shouldn't be too hard, right?" he said.

  Be'Var just clicked his tongue, then managed the single step up to the dais and took his position. He waited a few moments for the low murmur of a dozen conversations to die down. After those few moments passed, however, and he didn't have silence, he reminded himself that he wasn't a patient man.

  "Quiet, all of you!" he yelled out. When the voices stopped and everybody looked at him questioningly, he said, "We're starting."

  He waited for a few more moments, drinking in the silence, then began.

  "By now," he said, loud enough for all to hear, "everyone knows about the krealites, about this element that has invaded our world, about how it has destroyed many of the cities to the North, and how it then sent the Black Moon Army south, through the Greatstones, to destroy the rest of us."

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  "By now," he continued, "everyone also knows," he smiled, "that the dark army was beaten, that our enemy's great force was stopped, here, in Kepren."

  A few small cheers went up, but most of the room stayed quiet.

  "The last time forces such as the kreal, elements from realms we've never even heard of, tried to lay a claim on our world, they were beaten by an alliance that, to this day, hasn't been broken. We don't know a lot about how that alliance came about, but we do know that each of the four elements of our world—earth, air, fire, and water—chose champions, representatives of the elemental realms, to fight on their behalves."

  He turned to look at Caymus. "These champions were called 'knights', and the world hasn't seen one for a very long time." Caymus, his eyes locked on Be'Var, wasn't smiling. He seemed to be taking this very seriously. Be'Var turned to address the crowd again. "We recently discovered that there's a bit of a ceremony that goes along with the title. I have been convinced," he darted his eyes at Aiella, "that, now that the elements are choosing champions again, we also need to revive the ceremony. So. Here we are."

  Be'Var looked at the faces around the room. Most were smiling, some nodding in agreement. Several women and even a couple of the men were dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. He had to admit he was surprised at the response. He'd never met most of the people gathered here today, but he'd been convinced that they'd all be too busy thinking about their own problems to really care about kreal, about Caymus, or about anything to do with this war. He'd been expecting indifference, boredom, or, at best, confusion. The overwhelming impression Be'Var felt from the gathered faces, though, was hope.

  He was reminded of something Caymus had told him about his trial in the Conduit, all those months ago. "Hope" was the word Caymus had given when the Lords had asked him what was in his heart, though he'd never known why. Be'Var understood now. Strength and valor might have been a knight's weapons, but hope was his stock-in-trade, what he had to offer the people around him.

  He'd never been as proud of Caymus as he was in that very moment.

  He looked down at his pupil-turned-champion. "The sword, please, Caymus."

  Caymus nodded, then reached over his back and pulled the huge, two-handed sword he kept there, the weapon of the Conflagration's champion. When he reversed it, then offered the hilt to Be'Var, a few gasps arose from the crowd. Be'Var, too, might have been a bit worried, but he had, in fact, handled th
e sword before, knew that he was strong enough to lift it, at least long enough to perform this part of the ceremony. He was an experienced blacksmith, after all.

  When Be'Var had a firm hold on the grip, and after Caymus had released it fully into his care, he raised the blade up in front of him. It was so long, it nearly touched the ceiling. He nodded at the young man before him. "Kneel, Caymus Bolwerc."

  Caymus did as instructed. He got down on one knee. He also hung his head.

  Be'Var then lowered the blade, flat side down. "Now stand," he touched the blade to one shoulder, "as Knight Caymus Bolwerc," he touched the other shoulder, "Knight of the Flame, Champion of the Conflagration, and Sword of Kepren."

  Be'Var and King Garrin had spent a long evening deciding on the latter title. Garrin had wanted to call him the "Shield" of Kepren. Be'Var had spent several hours, and a few mugs of ale, explaining why that hadn't been appropriate.

  As Caymus got back to his feet, a huge roar of celebration went up in the room. Before Be'Var could even return the knight's sword, a certain young woman in a blue dress had run into his arms and was fiercely embracing him.

  As others walked up to shake the knight's hand, pat him on the back, or otherwise congratulate him, Be'Var decided he would just hold onto the sword for now. He'd return it when there was less chance that somebody might get injured.

  After all, there was a knight in the world for the first time in thousands of years. It was only fitting that everyone get a good look at him.

  ***

  King Garrin rested his goblet on the stone parapet as he looked out to the North from one of the Keep's towers. The sun had set in the western sky mere moments ago, and the horizon was awash with red clouds. "It was a good day," he said. "I think we all needed it."

  "I think you're right," Be'Var said, from over Garrin's shoulder. "I really hadn't realized just how much until we were in the middle of it."

  Garrin turned to say something to him, but Be'Var was looking down into the marshaling yard where Caymus, Milo, Aiella, and Rill were talking and laughing.