“And then these…enemies will be repulsed?” said Caldorman.
“Oh,” said Aeliana. “Easily. A bloody little skirmish, but that’s all.”
That was a lie. It was possible Ridmark would win the battle tomorrow…but it was just as likely that he would lose, and both the town and the monastery would burn. Abbot Caldorman and Prior Simon and all the Drakocenti in the monastery might die tomorrow. This did not trouble Aeliana. The Drakocenti thought themselves the keepers of the true knowledge, the men and women who would ascend to godhood, but they were only expendable tools.
In fact, only Aeliana knew the Warden’s true plan.
Well. Aeliana, and four others.
But the five Heralds of Ruin would not gather until the hour of the Warden’s triumph.
“Very well,” said Caldorman. “All shall be as you command, emissary.”
“Good,” said Aeliana. “Serve well, and you shall have your rewards.”
Perhaps they would be allowed to keep their lives. If they were fortunate.
Without another word, Aeliana turned and vanished back into the darkness. Without the benefit of her enhanced sight, she knew that the monks would lose track of her at once. She slipped into an alley, climbed up a brick wall, and moved from rooftop to rooftop until she was nearly to the forum. Aeliana descended another wall, settled in the mouth of an alley, and waited.
The white menhir jutted from the earth in the center of the forum. No one in Castarium really saw it anymore. It was a strange thing, no doubt about that. It never weathered, never eroded, and was impervious to every tool known to man. The strange symbols of the high elves covered its sides, but no one could read that language anyway, so it didn’t matter. The men of Castarium went about their business, and the stone was only a landmark to them and nothing more.
Aeliana knew better.
She waited as the hours passed, the sky in the east starting to brighten, the moons and the stars moving through their courses.
An echo of the Warden’s voice whispered through her head, a memory of one of his lessons.
“Fifteen thousand years ago,” the Warden had said, “twelve nations of the high elves renounced both the Threefold Law and their immortality, becoming what they called the Liberated. Some of the Liberated settled elsewhere on this world. Others opened magical gates and fled to worlds beyond the reach of both the dark elves and the gray elves. And one of the nations opened a gate to the world where I shall go, the world created to hold the door that must never be opened.”
And that lesson meant Aeliana knew what the stone in the center of the forum really was.
It had been called a Dwyrstone, and it had been created as sort of an anchor point. That was a crude analogy, but it was accurate enough. The world gate that the Liberated had created had been a thing of immense power, and spells of equal power had been required to regulate and control it. Those anchor points had been called Dwyrstones, and they had been placed in a circle hundreds of miles wide around the world gate.
That world gate was dormant now, sleeping until a sorcerer of sufficient power opened it once more. But the Dwyrstones were still there, their power locked deep within them, so deep that not even the Keeper could detect it.
But the Warden had given Aeliana the key to that power.
She pushed back her sleeve and looked at the mark on the inside of her right forearm, the lines of the symbol giving off a faint blue light. Tattoos were permanent, but Aeliana could reveal and conceal the mark upon her at will. All the Drakocenti had marks like that to identify them as part of the High One’s secret order, but Aeliana’s was different.
For she was one of the five Heralds of Ruin that the Warden would use to reshape the cosmos, and the Mark of the Herald gave her power beyond anything the greedy little fools of the Drakocenti could imagine.
And the time had come to use that power.
Aeliana took a deep breath and strode into the forum, heading towards the Dwyrstone.
It was just before dawn. Another few moments and the people of the town would begin to awaken. Already the fishermen were on their boats, sailing out in pursuit of the day’s catch. The bakers were awake and tending to their ovens. The farmers would head to their fields outside the town, and the monks of St. Bartholomew would begin their morning prayers, though several of them had forsaken the faith of the Dominus Christus by now. The bells of the cathedral would ring out, and the more pious of Castarium’s people would arrive for morning mass.
None of them knew what would happen today. Caldorman and Simon thought they knew, but even they would be in for a nasty surprise.
Aeliana smiled to herself as she walked to the Dwyrstone.
She stopped a few paces from it, the white stone seeming to glimmer in the fading moonlight as if it had been made of ice. Aeliana drew in another long breath and concentrated, unlocking the power of the Mark of the Herald on her arm.
The symbol began to glow, and then burned with ghostly blue fire that spread into the blood vessels of her arm and hand. The Mark was wrought from sharp lines, and it looked like the stylized image of a human figure with a dragon’s head. Which was appropriate, given what the Warden intended to do, and what lay behind the door that must never be opened.
The power blazed through Aeliana, and she stumbled and let out a gasp. The magic radiating from the Mark brought her more pleasure that she had ever known from food or drink or the touch of a man, but it also felt like molten knives tumbling through her veins. The combined sensation was overpowering, but she would not need to hold it for long. Indeed, she dared not hold it for long. The Warden had warned her that both the Keeper and her apprentice Antenora had the Sight. So long as Aeliana didn’t use the power, it was invisible to the Sight, but the minute she touched it, she would shine like a beacon of corrupted light for the Keeper and Antenora.
Fortunately, she needed no more than a moment.
Aeliana reached out and slapped her palm against the cold white surface of the Dwyrstone. The symbol of the dragon-headed man on her arm burned brighter, and the blue fire leaped from her and sank into the Dwyrstone. The ground shuddered beneath Aeliana’s boots, and the sigils on the Dwyrstone glowed with harsh azure fire. She backed away, dismissing the power of the Mark, and the symbols burned hotter.
Aeliana turned and ran, heading for the alley.
The forum before the gates of the castra was about to be an unhealthy place to linger.
The stone shuddered again, and arcs of blue lightning lashed upward from it, stabbing into the air. A massive bolt ripped upward, seeming to claw at the sky.
It sliced through the air…and tore open a rift maybe a hundred feet above the ground.
For the first time in her life, Aeliana Carhaine looked through a portal to another world.
A world where the sky burned.
The green dragon and its rider burst from the rift a few moments later.
***
Chapter 8: A New Enemy
Like any other skill, swordplay had to be practiced to be retained.
As the sun started to rise in the east over the battlements of the curtain wall, Ridmark practiced at swords with Kharlacht, Vegetius, and Sir Longinus in the castra’s courtyard. Like every other castellan or master-at-arms in Andomhaim, Sir Longinus had a collection of wooden practice swords with iron cores to simulate the weight of a real sword. Though they were a bit heavier than a real sword, but that was all right. The training helped build strength, which was needed in a fight with actual swords.
Ridmark faced off against Kharlacht, a wooden longsword in his right hand. The big orc carried a wooden greatsword, the hilt grasped in both fists. He moved fast for his size. Not as fast as he had thirteen years ago when they had first met. Alas, time took its toll from everyone in the end. Yet Kharlacht was still quick, and he was still strong. Ridmark had to concentrate on staying ahead of the blows.
He had some advantages. He might not have been any faster than Kharlacht, at least without
drawing on Oathshield for speed and strength, but his wooden longsword was a quicker weapon than Kharlacht’s greatsword. Ridmark could retract the sword and strike in the time it took for Kharlacht to raise his massive blade for another blow. Additionally, the sheer size of the greatsword meant that Ridmark could get inside Kharlacht’s guard. Of course, if Ridmark stumbled or stayed in one place for too long, Kharlacht would have him.
They circled around each other, wooden swords cracking together again and again. Ridmark landed several quick hits on Kharlacht’s chest, and the orcish warrior grunted in annoyance every time. At last Ridmark’s sword came to rest against the side of Kharlacht’s neck, and Kharlacht let out a harsh laugh and lowered his own blade.
“Enough,” rumbled Kharlacht. “You’ve got me.”
Ridmark let out a long breath and lowered his sword. “It was a close one.”
“Aye,” said Caius from where he leaned against the wall, watching the fight. He had started the day as he started every day, by rising before dawn and singing one of the Psalms. That pious duty accomplished, he had settled in to amuse himself by watching the practice bouts. “Ridmark almost stumbled about half a minute ago. If he hadn’t caught himself, you would have had him.”
Kharlacht grunted. “Almost, but he didn’t. You’re fast for a man your age.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “Calliande and the children keep me young.” In truth, he knew it was more than that. His bond with Oathshield provided him with stamina that he would not have otherwise possessed. And when the Guardian Rhodruthain had used the power of the Sword of Life to heal Ridmark from manticore venom, there had been other effects. Ridmark felt more vigorous than he had and seemed to need less sleep. His knees and back no longer ached as they once had. Perhaps the power of the Sword of Life had repaired the wear and tear of an adult life spent in travel and battle. Calliande had channeled that power for the healing spell, and she had enjoyed something of the same effect. Given that she was the mother of a vigorous two-year-old child, perhaps that was just as well.
“I should have known better than to do this,” said Kharlacht. “I wish to leave for Rhaluusk tomorrow, my lads and me, and I’ll ride back to Rhaluusk with a sore back and sore shoulders.”
Ridmark frowned. “I didn’t think I hit you that hard.”
Kharlacht laughed. “You could have hit me with a feather, and my damn back would still ache.”
“I should depart for Khald Tormen tomorrow as well,” said Caius. “King Axazamar will wish to know the results of my visit to Owyllain. Best not to keep him waiting.”
“Kings are never the most patient of men,” said Ridmark, glancing to where Vegetius dueled Sir Longinus. Sir Longinus had the better form, but Vegetius had far more experience and knew every dirty trick besides. Ridmark suspected that Sir Longinus was going to end up on his backside in the dirt in another few moments.
“Human and orcish kings, perhaps,” said Caius. “I suppose it is both a strength and a failing of the dwarven kindred that we can take years to decide anything serious.”
“Better that than a rash decision,” said Ridmark.
“But delay can make matters worse,” said Kharlacht.
Sir Longinus let out a startled yelp, and Ridmark turned to see the young knight on his backside, just as he had predicted. Vegetius took a step back and wiped the sweat from his forehead, breathing like a bellows.
“Sorry about that, my lord knight,” said Vegetius. “But you left yourself open with that thrust, and a boot to the gut is a great way to put your foe on the ground.”
Longinus grumbled something unflattering and got back to his feet. “That was hardly knightly.”
Vegetius grinned. “I’m not a knight. Besides, in a real fight, when the swords are out and the arrows are flying and the blood is flowing, you do what you need to do to win.”
“Poetic,” said Longinus.
“The ladies always thought so, sir. The ladies always thought so.”
“I’m sure,” said Longinus.
“I think it is past time for breakfast,” said Ridmark. “We can continue this discussion over food.”
He turned towards the doors to the great hall, and the world froze around him.
Everything seemed to drain of color, the courtyard and the people around him fading to blurry shades of black and white. Ridmark turned in puzzlement and a little alarm, wondering if there was something wrong with his eyes, or if a blood vessel had ruptured in his brain and he was about to drop dead of a stroke. But he saw that the others had gone motionless, too motionless, and…
“Ridmark.”
The woman’s voice was sharp and acerbic and very familiar.
Ridmark turned again and saw the Guardian Morigna standing before the doors to the great hall.
Unlike the rest of the world, she was in color.
And she did not look well.
Morigna looked much as she had when Ridmark had last seen her three years ago after his return from Owyllain. She had green eyes and red hair, her features elven, her ears pointed. Morigna wore traveling clothes and golden elven armor, a gray cloak hanging from her shoulders. In her right hand she carried a long black staff carved with symbols that sometimes flashed with white light. In her first life, when she had been human and his lover, she had been shorter than he was. Now she was almost as tall as him.
And she looked as if she had been in a fight.
There was blood on her pale face, and both her skin and her golden armor were stained with soot. Her emerald eyes were bloodshot from smoke, and dark rings of fatigue marked her eyes. Her lips were cracked and bloody as if she had gone a long time without water, and she was leaning on her black staff for support.
“Morigna?” said Ridmark. “What is wrong?”
“I have made a mistake, and I am sorry,” she said, speaking quickly. “I thought the spider-priests were the only threat, that the Herald among them was the only danger, and I was wrong. There is another Herald, Ridmark, and she is in Castarium right now.”
“What are you talking about?” said Ridmark. “What herald? Spider-priests?”
“I only have a moment before they detect me, and I dare not let them find me,” said Morigna. “The enemy is coming for Castarium. Now, right now. You must call the town to arms.” She took a deep breath. “And on the other side of the gate, you will find allies you do not expect. Trust the golden knight, Ridmark. He will be on your side, and he has fought another facet of the evil that now comes for Castarium.”
“What do you mean?” said Ridmark. “I do not understand.”
“I am sorry,” said Morigna. “I have run out of time. I miscalculated grievously, and I am sorry.”
She struck the end of her staff against the ground. It flashed with white light, and she vanished.
Color and motion exploded back into the world, and Ridmark stared at the doors to the great hall.
“I suppose breakfast will be more damned fish,” said Kharlacht.
“I am quite fond of fish, I will have you know,” said Caius.
“I don’t object to it, but the men of Castarium eat so much fish they all but reek of it,” said Kharlacht.
Ridmark stared at the doors. Morigna had been standing there, right there. Had he been hallucinating? No, he knew better than to lie to himself like that. Morigna was the Guardian of mankind, appointed by the archmage Ardrhythain to defend mankind against threats of dark magic, and she had appeared to him several times in Owyllain to warn him of coming dangers.
And it seemed she had done so again.
“What the devil?” said Vegetius.
Ridmark turned, looking at the others.
“What’s that light?” said Sir Longinus.
He looked towards the north, towards the castra’s gate and the outer wall overlooking the forum. A pale blue light rose over the battlements, throwing back the gloom of the brightening dawn.
“I’ve never seen a light like that,” said Kharlacht, his voice wary.
“Must be a trick of the dawn,” said Vegetius, but there was doubt in his voice. “The sailors sometimes see a green flash just before the sun goes down. That must be it.”
“That’s sunset, not sunrise,” said Ridmark. He turned to where he had left his sword belt against the wall, and he scooped it up and donned it, Oathshield tapping in its scabbard against his right leg. “And the light’s coming from the north, not the east or the west. We need to have a look.”
“I’ll order the gates opened for the day,” said Longinus.
“No!” said Ridmark, his voice sharp. “Leave them closed. And call the castra to arms.” Longinus blinked at him. “Right now. All the men-at-arms are to arm and armor themselves. Go!”
Longinus might have been young, but he was a steady man. “My lord.” He turned and ran for the barracks, and Ridmark heard him start to shout commands as he disappeared into the low stone building.
“There’s trouble,” said Kharlacht, picking up his baldric with his sheathed greatsword. It wasn’t a question.
“Probably,” said Ridmark. “Let’s go.”
He ran for the stairs to the ramparts over the gate, Kharlacht, Caius, and Vegetius following him. Halfway there, Ridmark met one of his men-at-arms, a young man with an alarmed expression.
“My lord Ridmark!” he said. “You must come at once. We…”
“Aye, we saw the light,” said Ridmark.
“The stone in the forum,” said the man-at-arms. “I’ve lived here all my days, and I’ve never seen the stone glow like that.”
The stone in the forum?
Ridmark and the others raced up the stairs and mounted the ramparts. He ran to the section of battlements overlooking the gate. The other night watchman stood there, gaping at the forum.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 12
