by Justin Sloan
“You’re cold.”
“It’s…” She looked up at him with dark gray in her normally green irises, shadows under her eyes over pale skin. “I’m fine.” The prayer was already on his lips as he reached for her, but she pulled back. “No, keep your energy.” She smiled, and already the darkness seemed unnoticeable, the color returning to her cheeks.
“Your health means more than anything to me. Are you getting enough sleep?”
She nodded, but a distant look in her eyes made him wonder if she was holding something back.
They had never kept secrets from each other, at least, not that he knew of. Ever since their parents were killed in the magic wars and the Paladin order had agreed to take the two of them in, it had been so. He had promised to take care of her and to always be everything she needed in an older brother.
So now, too, he looked into her eyes and said, “If you need me to take you to your bed, all of this can wait.”
“No, I’m feeling much better now.” She put on her best smile and added, “Honestly.”
A gnawing feeling in his gut told him to refuse to believe that. But she was his sister. If she said it was so, she was old enough to know the difference. She had reached her nineteenth birthday just two weeks prior, after all.
“Let’s get in there and overindulge, shall we?” She took his arm and smiled up at him, waiting.
“I’m famished,” he replied, and led the way, wondering the whole time if she was using him for support because she was still feeling weak.
The large, oak doors were wide open, so that the flickering torchlight cast a warm glow on the stone walkway as they approached. Inside, Alastar noted his brothers in arms at the head table, their ladies in waiting, men at arms, and servants occupying the rest of the room. It wasn’t arranged like the King’s great hall down south in Gulanri, but more like a church with a large tapestry at the front of the room that had on it the image of the glowing sword of Saint Rodrick. It framed Sir Gildon’s seat nicely, situated at the top of the stairs, alone, with his own personal table for meals.
An approving glance found its way to Alastar as he entered, but just as quick, the High Paladin had returned to his meal, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.
“Come, I’ll escort you to your table,” Alastar said to his sister.
She pulled her arm free and shook her head. “That would make me appear weak. We can’t have that.”
He frowned, but nodded. “If you have any troubles…”
“You’re halfway across the room, not off in the highlands or something. I’ll be fine.”
She patted his arm and walked off, leaving him to watch her go. He knew no other love like this. His last living relative, sharing the blood of the mother and father the two would never know.
He had his paladin brethren, but would otherwise feel lost without her.
But as she had said, this was his night. His opportunity to finally shine like so many had before him and, he hoped, have a chance to fulfill his holy duty. He wanted nothing more than to go on the quest, recover the Sword of Light, and earn the respect of Sir Gildon.
“There he is, the warlock hunter of the hour!” Sir Taland stood, the tallest of the paladins, with flowing blond hair. He motioned Alastar over to a seat on the bench at his side. Others nodded their respect as he sat, many of them having been in his spot before, but not all.
“Do tell—” the dark-skinned, gaunt paladin sitting across the table, Sir Bale, leaned forward, eyes glimmering in the torchlight “—what form of the dark arts did he manifest against you?”
Alastar relished the moment. He leaned back, letting the anticipation build as the others waited for his answer.
“Fire,” he finally said, and motioned with his hand as if creating fire himself. “The barn was already aflame when we arrived, and when I stepped in to defend the lady Sera, he threw a wall of flame first, followed by an actual ball of fire.”
“Odd how he hasn’t used a lick of magic down there in the dungeons,” Taland said. “The minute we capture them, nothing. Which makes me wonder…”
“He’s one of them,” Alastar said, affronted at the implied accusation, “you can see the singe marks on my other cloak, if you’d like.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust your word, brother,” Taland said. “It’s that these bastards are all the same. They use magic against us and our countrymen when out there, but once they’re surrounded by a bunch of paladins? Nothing.”
“They know magic, sure enough,” a rough voice said from behind, and Alastar twisted to see that Sir Gildon had been listening and actually joined in the conversation. “But they are evil, as all magic users are. Evil is like the darkness. How can it continue to exist when surrounded by such light as ourselves?”
The others nodded and murmured their agreement. It was known that magic users were evil. If they were wrong, why would the Saint give them blessings so? It was certainly a holy sign of their true beliefs.
Alastar couldn’t help but notice a darkness cross his sister’s expression as she turned back to look at the High Paladin. Was she offended at something he had done? While the High Paladin was pure and a true knight to look up to, Rhona often heard tales of him mistreating servants, and let them get to her.
Alastar brushed it off as not important for now, but made a mental note to ask about it later.
Sir Gildon’s eyes turned to the nearest torch, where he lost himself in thought for a moment. For Alastar, this man was everything he wanted to be. Honor, devotion, and a direct line of power to their Saint. All the man had to do was pray over water to make it holy, and run his hand over gem stones in their armor or weapons to bless it with the Saint’s powers. There was none more deserving of the paladins’ devotion in all the land, and none better suited to lead this war against the evils of magic.
As the flames flickered in his eyes, the High Paladin blinked, then rose to stand. The hall fell silent.
“My warriors of the Saint, my paladins, and our followers, today another blow has been dealt in the war against evil. A user of magic, a warlock, was reported to be within our territory, and justice was dealt swiftly. He sits in our dungeons as we speak, awaiting punishment. Who do we owe this to?”
The room turned their gaze to him intently, Alastar straightening up with anticipation.
“First and foremost,” the high paladin continued, “the almighty Saint Rodrick. For all deeds are done through his favor. But we must not forget our own, our servants of the light, and today that honor goes to Sir Alastar Blackthorne!”
Cheers erupted from the paladin table, mugs clanking against wood and feet stomping.
The high paladin smiled down at him, the tapestry with its shining sword standing out strong in an almost halo effect. “Tomorrow, he joins the next group in the holy quest. Let it not be said that I forget those loyal to the cause. Let it not be said that practitioners of magic are allowed to roam freely. They will all be punished!”
More cheering rose throughout the great hall.
“But tonight, we celebrate!”
With that he lowered his head and said a prayer under his breath. He opened his eyes, still glimmering gold from the prayer, and then motioned to the great hall where, at once the torches went out, but a brilliant, gleaming light spread across the stone ceiling.
No matter how many times the men at arms and servants saw this small miracle, it awed them. Hell, Alastar’s prayers were often answered, and yet, he still found these miracles inspiring.
Servants began to pour out of the side-doors with the platters of food Alastar had smelled on his way in. Everything from the roast pheasant to mounds of potatoes, fruits, alternate main dishes of blood pudding and sausages.
The men at arms were given jugs of ale and other spirits, though the paladins abstained, as was their holy duty. Men regaled each other with war stories, such as the time Sir Taland had stood up to a dozen clansmen by himself and bested their witch, a woman who had conjured a water spirit and a
ttempted to drown him with her evil magic.
Alastar wasn’t sure he believed such stories, but he went along with the laughter just like the men to his right. More than once, however, he found himself glancing over to his sister to make sure she wasn’t feeling ill again. So far, no negative signs aside from the annoyed look she gave him the fourth time she caught him.
As they ate their dinner and laughter surrounded them, Alastar’s friend, Stone, leaned over and held his knife like a sword. The man was built like a pile of stones, but that’s not the only reason he got the name—one day they’d come across a wind mage who had attacked them without warning and, while the rest were clinging to the nearest tree for their lives, Stone had charged the man. He was lifted into the air by the winds, but not before managing to cleave the mage’s head from his shoulders. That, they all had figured, proved the man had some massive stones between his legs. So it had stuck. Some of the ladies of the castle had tried to find out if the legend was true, but he stuck to his oaths, far as Alastar could tell anyway.
“You been training, Al?” Stone said. “You go out there on the holy quest at my side and don’t know how to swing your blade, me and you got a problem.”
“Last time we were on the sparring field, what happened?”
Stone grunted and jabbed his knife into the chicken breast before him, but grinned. “Luck’s what happened, and we both know it.”
“Let me say this, Stone. The two of us go into battle, I’m not leaving your side for a minute. I promise I won’t let the big bad remnant hurt you.”
The others nearby laughed at that and Stone grinned. Alastar, for his part, didn’t find the idea of remnant humorous at all. They were like men, but wild, crazed, and as far as the stories went, focused entirely on violence. They could not be reasoned with. They only wanted to wreak havoc.
But he grinned at Stone, and nodded. The two had become friends in the training yard, as Alastar and Taland were the only ones able to truly take him down, and Alastar had only done so twice. Anyone that could take down Stone soon became his friend, which meant he only had the two friends. Everyone else still had to earn their place with him.
“You really think the boy’ll be going?” Taland said, lowering his voice with a sideways glance up to the High Paladin. “Come on, Alastar. So you took down one fire mage. You didn’t kill him.”
“Lady Death has her hands full after all the gifts you’ve given her,” Alastar said, jokingly. But then he added, “And the mothers and widows left behind have enough names to curse without adding mine to the mix.”
Taland sneered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were on their side.”
“Because I don’t want to see lives taken needlessly?”
“They are the enemy. Their lives don’t matter.”
The others had grown silent now, but Stone tore off a chunk of bread with his teeth and, with a full mouth, said, “All lives matter.”
Soon the talk had returned to laughter, ignoring the little confrontation. It wasn’t until the meal had been cleaned away and dessert was before them that the first shouting came from outside.
“The hell?” Taland was the first to stand, reaching for his sword. “Men, to arms!”
His followers pushed back from their table and were quick to move to the doors, weapons at the ready in spite of their rosy cheeks and more than one alcohol-induced stumble.
Another shout came, followed by the distinct sounds of swords clashing and men fighting.
More men were moving to take up defensive positions now, but Alastar’s first response was to reach his sister’s side.
“Servants and ladies, to the back chambers!” Sir Gildon commanded, stepping down from his seat as he pressed his hands together. When he reached the bottom step, he closed his eyes. “By the blessing of the great Saint, let the light be one with you all.”
As he spoke, streams of light fell down upon the paladins, causing them to stand a little straighter as they were filled with courage and to grip their swords a little tighter as they were filled with strength. Even the men at arms stopped wobbling, and their rosy cheeks returned to normal as the light healed their drunkenness.
For a moment, Alastar’s new courage made him want to charge out into the hall and confront whatever had come for them, but he shook it off, remembering that his sister was still there. He would see her to safety first.
“Come with me,” he said, hand on her arm as he pushed past the others and made for the back door.
“You’re hurting me!” she said, and pulled free. For a moment, that darkness returned to her eyes, the same darkness he was certain he’d seen back at the fire. But then it was gone. She shook her head, blinked, and then turned back to him with a glare. “I can walk on my own.”
He watched her stride off, then jogged to catch up. “We need to get you to your room!”
“Then let’s get me there, so you can go off and be the big hero.”
“We don’t have time to bicker, this is a real attack!” He stepped forward to move in front of her, not sure what had come over her, but certain it had something to do with the darkness he’d seen in her eyes.
An arrow whistled through the air inches from his face, and he felt himself pulled back, barely out of its way.
A glance back showed him that Rhona had grabbed him.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and then motioned him on. “Go on then, kill the bad guys and protect me.”
He let out an annoyed grunt, making a note to bring up the issue of her attitude later, then turned back to the entrance to a hidden passage not often used.
“This way will take us right by their target,” she said. “What would be the point in that?”
“Well, if they’re still attacking here, it means they haven’t gotten to him yet.” He pushed on the tapestry that concealed a secret lever, then nudged the passage door open—it was heavy, made of stone to match the other walls. “Plus, I mean to ensure they don’t have him,” he added.
“I thought this was about getting your sister to safety?”
“It is, but you have to wonder,” he pushed past another door and paused, looking back at her. “They’ve never sent a full offensive like this in the past, so why now?”
In the darkness, the glow from his face lit up hers, and he could see the realization hit. “Something about this one’s special.”
“Must be, right? Special enough to be worth dying over.”
He turned, and the two descended the steps into the dungeon.
***
Donnon waited in his cell of this old building that had clearly once been a church from the days of before. The so-called dungeon had an old, rotted cross hanging on the wall, a remnant of the old ways that none in these parts understood or knew the meaning of. There were rumored to be some who did across the water, in other parts of the world, but Donnon wondered if it was all a lie and if there were even people left alive there.
He’d never seen any proof of it, so why should he believe it? It was dark down here, as they hadn’t wanted to leave fire that he could manipulate. The only light came from short windows at the top of the stone walls, just at earth level. Even if he could get up there, he wouldn’t be able to fit through those windows.
Yet, he had to find a way of reaching Clan Renair.
He cursed himself for stopping to help the woman and the old man in their burning farm house, and cursed himself again for not burning the paladin and the sister to a crisp the moment he saw them.
It wasn’t like he could be expected to know they would have magic, or at least, whatever it was the girl had used on him. He had been fighting the paladin, simply trying to scare him away and get enough room to run, when the sister had stepped forward and the shadows went crazy. If he had to say what it was, he’d say the darkness itself was brought to life, but he knew that wasn’t possible. Or rather, he hoped it wasn’t possible. He hoped that everything in him was wrong, and that his senses had been tricked.
Of course, the stories said mystics’ eyes went white, not black as hers had. He shuddered at the thought and confusion.
A sound came from above, and he stood still, listening. Shouting, clanging of swords, and a feeling like energies sweeping over the castle—the feeling of magic.
If he was lucky, a nearby clan had seen the paladin capture him and had chosen now for their rescue. He hoped it wasn’t the Lockmires, who would just as likely chop off his head as save it. No, more likely it was the one who he had left in search of, Estair of Clan Renair. They weren’t far, he surmised. He would be saved and would have found his goal at the same time.
He hoped.
A paladin shouted above and a clanking sound followed. They were likely facing another slaughter, but this wasn’t Donnon’s problem. They had declared war on the clans, after all. So, whose fault was it when they found themselves at the sharp end of a sword? Not Donnon’s; that was for sure.
Still, he felt no craving for blood, and no need to see the servants and others meet their maker. All he wanted was to find Estair and make it back north with her at his side.
“Who is it?” he shouted, rattling the bars to his cell. “I’m of Clan Buchan. Are you friend or foe?”
A figure appeared at the top of the stairs, casting a long shadow his way. If it was foe, Donnon could manipulate the flames and take him down. But what good would that do? He would still be stuck here, in this cell, mostly helpless.
“You there, I need help. I must find the Renairs!”
The figure paused a moment longer, then scurried off. Donnon cursed himself for not trying more, but then a sound came from the opposite side of the room. He spun and prepared, in case he needed to call on fire, but it was just a rat, pausing to stare at him with as much terror as he felt in this moment.
Then it was gone, disappearing through the cracks, while he was stuck there waiting to see what fate had in store for him.
