by Robert Ryan
“What news?” Caludreth asked.
Menendil told him what he had learned, but did not mention the nine men who had died. That was a burden that Caludreth need not bear for his freedom.
But the man asked anyway, knowing the information was left out.
“How many, friend? How many died to rescue me?”
Menendil told him then, reluctantly.
“It is a hard price to pay, and I am not worthy of it. But still, I have some resources. Later, if I survive, I will see their families paid a compensation.”
Menendil was impressed. Nor did he doubt the knight. Until the Kingshield Knights had fallen, no one’s word was more highly valued.
“They thought you worth it, my lord, otherwise they would not have made the attempt.”
He explained then what his problem was, and how he knew they should take further advantage of the situation and fan the hope to life that had sprung up throughout the city.
“Well now,” Caludreth said when he was finished. “The people know that a resistance exists. Moreover, they know that it’s effective. That’s a good start.”
“Maybe so, but surely we can do more. The seventh knight is prophesied, but he cannot do everything by himself. We need to build a foundation for him. Something he can use.”
“Quite,” Caludreth answered.
The once-knight was silent for a while, and he absently stroked his skin where his moustache used to be. Then his eyes widened slightly.
“The people,” he said, “know that a resistance exists. But what they need to know, not just hope for, is that the seventh knight is coming.”
Menendil thought about that, and he nodded slowly. It was true. Knowing something was different than hoping for it. If the people actually knew that the seventh knight was no mere story from the old days, but actually walked the land and would soon come to defy the king himself, then who knew what was possible? Their fear would be transformed to courage.
“That’s exactly what we need,” he said. “But how can we accomplish it? I can arrange for men to spread the story you told me. How you met the seventh knight and that a day of reckoning is coming.”
Caludreth did not answer, but looked out the window in thought.
“Perhaps that’s not such a good idea,” Menendil said. “No matter how careful the men were, there would always be a chance of their story being tracked back to them. Then the Hundred would be revealed, and many of them taken.”
They sat in silence a while, thinking. Then Caludreth rose and walked to the window. It was as close as he could get to going outside, and even here he was careful not to show his face too close to the glass in case he was somehow seen and recognized from the street below.
The once-knight straightened by the window, and for all that he was beaten to within an inch of his life so recently, he was a figure of power now. The king may have stripped him of the title of knight, but he could never take away from him his bearing as a man of wisdom and strength.
Caludreth turned. “I have a plan,” he said. “We need something bold. Something striking. Something that sends just the message we want, and that the whole city will learn of. But to send a strong message, we must do something very, very dangerous. And it must be in public.”
Menendil felt a shiver of fear. But at the same time, he knew he had been right to talk to this man. There was no fear in him, no lack of courage. He was a bold leader, but could ordinary men hope to stand beside such as he, and live?
12. For Faladir
During the late reaches of the night, when the starry sky was clear and cold, Ferla called a halt to their march. It was time for a rest, and she chose the crest of a rise to have it.
It was not a hill, for this part of the land was still flat. But it did offer a view, of sorts, and while Asana and Kubodin prepared a small meal she looked back over the lands they had traversed.
There was little to see. Despite the bright starlight, the various folds and rises of the countryside were shadowed. She listened as much as she looked, but there was no sign of the enemy at all.
She should have felt relieved. But she was not. Nor did she know why. But she did have a sense that something was out there. Something.
There was no name for her fear. But that only made it stronger. Was it caused by the words of the dragon? Perhaps. Did the enemy seek her out? No doubt. Did the absence of Faran unsettle her? She knew that it did.
But none of these things were quite the source of her anxiety. Once, she would have dismissed such a thing. But not now. She was older, and she had learned to trust her instinct. Reasoning could only take you so far. Reasoning was what people did when they did not know the answer to something.
But she knew. She knew in her bones that she was under threat, and it did not matter that she could not put a name to its origin. It was there. It existed, and she would be ready for it when it came.
Or she would die. But what was it that the dragon warned? There are worse fates than death.
“Come, Ferla, eat with us,” Asana asked.
Reluctantly, she turned back to the camp.
She ate a light meal, for they were being careful with their supplies. Soon, she would put her bow to use and bring down a deer. Maybe even an aurochs if the opportunity presented itself. But it was better at this stage not to hunt. The farther and the faster they got away from Nuril Faranar the better their chances of never being located. And taking the time, as she did, to try to obscure their trail was already slowing them down.
“We must consider,” Asana said, “what you will do when you near Faladir. What will your strategy be? What tactics will you use to fulfill it?”
Ferla suppressed a grin at that. Her relationship with the blade master had changed. She was still very much the student, and getting her to think about these things was just another part of his training. But now he asked questions rather than gave instructions.
“I’ve been giving it thought,” she answered. “But I see no easy way to achieve my goals. I’m one knight against a king, his knights, an army and the Morleth Stone.”
Asana pursed his lips. “Perhaps that is the first problem to solve, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you must recruit an army. Or cause the people of Faladir to rise in rebellion. Just because you’re the seventh knight doesn’t mean you’re alone. You must become a leader if you are to win. And the people must follow you if they are to throw off the shackles of evil.”
What Asana said made sense, and she had considered it before. But her pondering of the idea had never gone beyond the idea itself. She was not sure how to make it actually happen.
“I’ve heard stories of how armies were raised in the past, but it seems to me that it would nearly be as hard as fighting the king’s army single-handedly.”
Asana inclined his head sagely. “It must seem that way, but that is not how I advise you to think of it.”
“How then would you advise me?”
“Simply this. You are in for a fight, but blades are not the only weapons you have.”
“You mean magic?”
“That too,” Asana agreed. “But there is a weapon sharper than any blade and more potent than any magic.”
Ferla knew what he meant now. “Words?”
“Words indeed. Ideas. And in this case, emotion too. Or if you prefer to wrap it up into one simple word itself, propaganda. It is, I think, what you will need in the days ahead.”
It was not something that came naturally to Ferla, but she understood exactly what Asana meant. Words triggered emotion, and emotion could move the world. If she found the right ones, and let them spread before her, she could raise an army ready to strike at her direction. But it seemed still only a little less daunting than taking on the king’s army all by herself.
“Propaganda isn’t something that we’ve discussed. It’s a strategy of generals rather than the swordsman or swordswoman,” Asana said. “I wonder if your training with A
ranloth touched on it.”
“We did talk about it, and he gave us several examples from history. But it was more in the way of vitalizing an existing army, or demoralizing an enemy force or city. We didn’t discuss it in the context of raising an army.”
“Nevertheless, what he taught you will be valuable. What was the essence of it?”
Ferla thought back. Her mind went to days in the valley by the lake, and their training sessions there and the conversations afterward when a clean breeze came off the water and cooled them down. Her heart leaped back to those days as well, and suddenly she missed Faran.
“This was the essential training,” she told Asana. “Propaganda should never seek to change people’s minds. That’s a near-impossible task, and the harder you try the more people resist. No. Propaganda should never try to convince anyone of anything. Rather, it should build on what already exists and flare it to life. Emotion is the secret here. Emotion is the language of propaganda, not rational argument. Find a fear, and flare it to life. Find a desire, and make it burn hotter. Invoke that, and people will decide of their own accord to side with you. Men have started revolutions that way, like a single spark that can lead to a mighty forest fire destroying all in its path.”
“Very good,” Asana replied. “It’s no surprise that the lòhrens know such lore. They’ve long shaped the whole of Alithoras with their quiet counsels. That knowledge is power, so how will you set it to your use in what you must do?”
“That,” Ferla said, “I have to think on. But you’ve set me on the right path. I cannot do this alone. I need to rouse Faladir, indeed, to smithy it like a weapon that I can take to my hand and wield.”
It all seemed a cold business to her, and others would die for her ideas. But neither of those things meant it was wrong. Especially given that she was likely to die for the same ideas and with the same people.
“It may be that I’ll need to signal my coming to Faladir. That’ll give time for emotion to build. When they discover the seventh knight is no mere story, but real, then the fires of rebellion will roar to life. I can use that.”
Kubodin spoke on the matter for the first time. “That would be a dangerous game,” he said. “It’ll help the enemy to find you. It’ll make them try all the harder to kill you.”
Ferla knew the little man was right, but she shrugged his warning off.
“For myself, I’d rather stay safe. For Faladir, there’s no risk I wouldn’t take.”
13. The Spirit Trail
Savanest and his men followed the were-hound. Often, he had to use the influence of the stone around its neck to hold it back. They struggled to keep up with it. At this, the creature howled in dismay. Savanest knew why. It thirsted for the blood of the quarry it scented.
But that desire was not likely to be fulfilled. More and more, Savanest considered the advantages of capturing Ferla, and taking her back to Faladir as a prisoner. There, she could be induced to serve the Morleth Stone. He did not doubt that, and that would become the final stroke of victory.
If the seventh knight, prophesied in legend, came out in support of the king, then who would be left to fight the new order that was coming? No one.
More and more, Savanest liked this new strategy. He would have to gain approval from the king, but he was sure that would not be an issue. The king was displeased with the way things were going in the city. The more he tried to intimidate the people, the more it seemed they plotted against him. This new plan would solve that problem. The morale of those who rebelled would be dealt a death blow. They would never recover from the seventh knight going over to their opposition.
Through the stone on his own neck, he felt the sudden chagrin of the were-hound. It was in a frenzy, and he was not sure why.
He signaled the men into a run, and he ran himself. It was no easy task in armor, but he was fit and strong. Discomfort and pain were to be endured. Hardship made a knight stronger, and right now he felt as strong as he ever had.
The frenzy of the were-hound grew. Was it under attack? Was the enemy so close?
It was none of those things. Savanest came to where the dog howled. It was a small hollow, clustered with bushes. Here, the enemy had camped. That much Savanest could divine from the creature’s thoughts, but little else.
He went over to it, and slowly stroked the fur of its shaggy head.
“Maldurn that was,” he whispered. “Calm down. Breathe slowly. Think of what you have found.”
The images came to him then. The thrill of the chase, nose to the ground. And then the discovery that the quarry had separated. The hound had followed one trail, then raced back to this hollow and followed the other. The girl had gone one way with two men, and the young man had gone another with a woman.
That woman would be the lòhren, and he sensed her behind this. By all accounts, Faran and Ferla would not have separated. Those two were joined at the hip.
But why? Was it merely to hinder him? That could be.
The dog kept howling, and Savanest casually backhanded it, sending it reeling. At the same time he pulsed searing pain through the stone, and the were-hound whimpered. That too was annoying, but he dared not punish it further. Too much pain could kill, and he needed it alive just now.
This was his fault. He had sent the creature on the scent of the whole party. He had not specified any in particular to follow, but all of them. He should have anticipated that they might split up though.
Did this mean that they knew he was on their trail? Perhaps, but he was not sure how. They must just guess it. But was that the only reason to split up? He did not like not knowing. There might be something else going on, but he had no way of determining how important that was. No, he did not like that at all.
Who to follow though? That was the question. Or should he divide his force and try to follow both groups?
He squatted beneath the shade of a bush and thought. The men did likewise, laying themselves down to rest. Some even prepared to sleep. They were soldiers, and took advantage of a break whenever one was available.
The hound glared at him, its dark eyes glimmering. Savanest paid it no heed.
It was a time to be careful. Lindercroft had made errors, and now his body lay in the earth atop a mountain. Savanest would make no such mistakes. All along, the target had been Faran. That had now changed. Certainly, he must be killed. So too the lòhren with him. She had proved slippery though, as all lòhrens were.
But it was the girl now who mattered most. She was everything, and she was where his future lay. If he captured her, his future was secure. What would it matter then if the others got away?
It would not, he decided. So he would send the hound after the girl. And he would keep his force united. He would need them all, and his own magic, to succeed. Lindercroft had been killed, and he had a greater force. But he had not possessed a were-stone. With that, Savanest knew he could transform his entire company of soldiers. Then, it would not matter how accomplished the girl and her companions were at fighting. Swords and skill were no match against the claws and fangs of were-beasts.
He stood, his decision made, and he was happy with it. Yet it had cost him time, and that was precious. Sofanil was out there somewhere too, seeking the same glory he sought himself. If he found the seventh knight first…
That did not bear thinking about. It must not happen, and speed now was the important thing. He had the girl’s trail, and he would follow it relentlessly and drive the men hard. If he wore them into exhaustion, it would not matter. The transformation would revitalize them.
But he must prepare the way. She was dangerous, and their final confrontation would be perilous. She also possessed magic. So, he must hamper her. And he knew how. Fear would drive her to make mistakes and increase her vulnerability. Fear was something he was accomplished with, especially as a weapon, and he knew how to instill it into her.
Smiling to himself, he ordered the men to stay where they were. Not that they were likely to ever follow him.<
br />
He walked a little way from the hollow, and sat down cross-legged on a patch of short grass. For what he did now, he needed peace and quiet. He let the tranquility of the plains wash over him, and he put aside thoughts of the battles that had once been fought here.
His breathing slowed and deepened, and he entered a meditative state. For what he did now, he would need magic. The battle magic that he was most familiar with would not serve him. This was a magic of the mind and consciousness. This was spirit walking, and it was something the Morleth Stone had led him to. Aranloth had never taught him such a thing, and probably did not know it.
Anger ruffled his calm, and he pushed thoughts of Aranloth aside. Indeed, he thought of nothing. He was alone in the world, and his body was heavy. Very heavy. So heavy, in fact, that his spirit rose above it, floating upward like an eagle drifting on a column of hot air.
Savanest opened his spirit eyes. It was not daylight anymore. Nor was it night. All about him the world was gray and muted as though twilight had descended. Yet there was no sun. For that matter, there was no moon nor stars either.
He was alone. Nothing living was here. The men were close by, and he sensed them, but it was like they were not quite a part of this new world. They were merely shadows.
All the men he could sense, and he knew which was which. The hound, he could sense also, and even more strongly than the others. His spirit form swept toward them through the air, and the were-hound growled but the others were oblivious to him.
Savanest rejoiced. This was power undreamed of, and he loved to spirit walk. It gave him a sense of freedom. In some ways, his power was greatly lessened. He was no longer a physical presence in the world, and he could not touch or feel anything, but some part of his magic could, if only in a simple way.