The Sorcerer Knight

by Robert Ryan

  Blood spurted and slicked the floor. It ran in red slivers over their naked skin and down their bodies. Then they laughed madly and dissolved into a red mist that seeped into the floor and was gone.

  Faran understood. These were creatures of magic, and they could be anything and take any form. They had no true substance. They could not harm themselves. But they could induce fear. More than that, they could invoke terror, and that was what they had tried to do just now.

  He also understood they had sent a message. Death waited for him and his companions. The harakgar would attack and kill the moment they could do so, and it must yet be a long way out of the tombs.

  With a deep breath, Faran slowly walked forward. He would see everyone out of here, and he would fulfil the trust Kareste had placed in him. As she had said, he must fulfil it. There was no one else to turn to and no other choice.

  He moved over the stone where the harakgar had disappeared. Of the blood that he had seen, there was no sign, and he tried not to think of them lying in wait and preparing to attack. He knew the charm, and he would voice it when he saw them. That would keep them at bay, and nothing else mattered.

  The strange mist-light that Kareste had summoned moved along with them as they traveled. It was eerie, but it served its purpose. Faran could see where he was going, and he could see the harakgar if they attacked. That was all the light he needed, and it was better anyway that many of the alcoves and side passages remained hidden.

  Most of the time, he had no trouble finding his way. There was one main passage, and it led up. That was where he had been told to go. Kareste must have been watching him, but she did not speak or interfere in his few choices when he came to a fork or crossroad. She was busy with what she was doing with Aranloth, but had he made the wrong choice she would have spoken.

  He did not set a fast pace. He was unburdened, but he was mindful that Ferla and Kareste carried the lòhren. That was no easy task, and it was uphill also. If one of them were injured or grew too weak to go on, then they were all in trouble. He would not risk that.

  The underground tunnels seemed to have no end. But it was hard to measure time down here. How far they had walked, or how long, he could not tell. But he yearned to feel a cool breeze on his face and to see natural light. It did not matter if it was the sun or the moon or the stars. He just wanted to feel open spaces again.

  And he wanted to be free of the dead. How many millions of corpses were there down here? How many tens of millions? Hundreds even. Nor, he knew now, were they fully dead.

  The Letharn had trapped themselves. They had bound their spirits to this world. In their pursuit of life after death, they had invoked some magic that preserved them. They were not alive, but they were not quite dead either, and he wondered what other spirits roamed the darkness beneath the earth other than the old queen whose armor Ferla now wore. Would they all be friendly as she had proved?

  He did not think so. The queen had said as much herself. Aranloth had enemies among his own people. He had done something long ago that a group of them considered a betrayal. But the queen did not. Faran did not know what it was, and he knew better than to ask. But he would back Aranloth’s judgement. He was a good man. Not just because the legends said so, but because he had proved it himself in times of danger.

  Faran strode with more purpose now. Aranloth had helped him when he needed it. Now, it was his turn to give back.

  They climbed a stairwell cut deep into the stone of the earth, and then they emerged into a different type of tunnel. Maybe it was not a tunnel at all but a natural cave. The walls were rough, and the floor as well.

  It was here that the harakgar came against him again. There was a rush of air and a screeching sound. But they carried no knives this time, nor did they appear as women.

  The harakgar filled the tunnel as a wave of water. It rolled toward Faran, seething and hissing. White foam roiled at its crest, and the water churned like the green of a storm that brought hail.

  Wind came before the wave, buffeting him. He tried to voice the charm, but the maelstrom of air and swirling dust within it filled his mouth and he could not speak.

  He cowered down. But he did not retreat. In the vastness of the wave rolling toward him he saw the leering faces of the harakgar, and he saw the lust for his death in their eyes.

  Once again he tried to voice the charm, but fear stilled his tongue. The wave rolled on, and in moments it would consume him and those he had been tasked with protecting.

  10. You Have Met Your Match

  Druilgar, king of Faladir and First Knight, still felt the pain of his sundering from the creature of magic that he had sent against Faran.

  The pain was of little consequence. He was a knight, and he could endure far worse than that. No, what hurt more was the wound to his pride. He had thought the Elùdurlik, the Shadow Hunter, invincible. He had thought it sufficient for the task at hand to kill the young man and the ancient prophecy with him. But he had been wrong, and that was harder than all the pain in the world to endure.

  He did not like doubt. The world was a better place when everything was certain and fitted to a precise order. Eventually, that would be his order. Faladir was falling into line, yet while the prophesy remained there would be those who had hope to oppose him. Hope gave them life, and he must snuff that out.

  But the young man could wait. He had escaped, so far, but death would catch him sooner or later. He had eluded it by leaving Faladir, yet that was a two-edged sword. By leaving, he had also withdrawn the possibility of fueling hope. Not being there was nearly as good as being dead.

  A spasm of pain wracked his brain, and then left. He did not pause as he walked, and he gave no sign of the problem to the twenty soldiers marching behind him. They must think him a god. They must think him invulnerable to the ailments of lesser men, as they must also think him all-knowing and all-powerful. If they did not already, then they would in the future.

  The pain had abated little since the sundering, and it hindered his clear thinking. He would heal it, not because he could not endure it but to better fulfil his own destiny. Faladir needed him whole and functioning perfectly. And the world thereafter.

  He looked forward to the touch of the stone also. The Morleth Stone. Each time he used it, he grew. It was the greatest power in Alithoras, and Aranloth would have it kept guarded and unused?

  But the lòhren was an old fool. He had fought a good fight for years beyond count. But his time was over. The world was changing, and a new order was coming.

  Why should the lòhrens be the guides of the land? Why should they counsel kings and wander realms dispensing knowledge and wisdom? The Morleth Knights would one day take their place. After all, the knights had been established in imitation of the lòhrens from the beginning. But the imitation could grow. There could be more than six knights, and why should they limit themselves to Faladir alone when all Alithoras would benefit from them?

  It was a short distance from the palace to the Tower of the Stone. Yet twice he had nearly stumbled from the pain of the sundering. It was pride that made him delay the healing, and he could not afford pride. Everything rested on him. He must keep himself healthy. And it would be a loss to have to kill the soldiers as well. If they saw him stumble, they could not be allowed to spread word of his weakness. They were only men, and they could be replaced. But not swiftly. It took time to train a soldier well.

  He approached the tower, and marveled at it. His ancestor had crafted something great here. The tower was tall, and the dark stone of its making smooth and well fitted, piece to piece, without crack. The squat barracks nearby were made of the same stone, and they were pleasing in their way. But they served only one purpose, and that was to have soldiers close at hand to help the knights guard what was inside the tower. That had been all important, and it still was. He would suffer no other hand to raise the stone save his own.

  He cast his gaze upward. High above there was a window at the top of the tower, and in
the room beyond was the stone. It was the great hope of humanity. He could not wait to reach it, and see it again. Even better would be to touch it, and his hand trembled at the thought.

  He quickened his stride, and the tread of the soldiers marching behind him grew louder as they matched his pace.

  The city around about was vague. Streets and squares and commoners looking at him in awe meant nothing. The stone was everything, and it was his. His to command. His to rule. His to hold up and strike down the enemies of mankind.

  Set into the thick stone of the tower was a door, and he reached it. Once again, his ancestor had built wisely and with beauty. The door was not of wood, but dark metal infused with magic. Through all the long years not a speck of rust touched it.

  On massive hinges the door rested, and covered by stone and mortar were doorposts of the same metal, sunk deep into the tower foundations to hold the weight.

  But his ancestor was not perfect. Druilgar looked at the engraving on the door with distaste. It was inlaid with gold, and this contrasted well with the dark metal. But the image was of a knight sitting cross-legged. A book was in one hand and from the other light shone from the palm. It symbolized the quest for knowledge and the spreading of wisdom.

  Druilgar shook his head. He was beyond emotions such as anger, but the art was stupidity itself. Better by far if the knight had been standing with his sword drawn. Wisdom availed little in the end. It was action that counted, and the willingness to enforce what was right rather than speak of it.

  There was another group of soldiers standing guard at the door. These knew by now not to speak to him, but quickly and efficiently they opened the door and made way for his passing, heads bowed. No one looked him in the eye. That was not by his command, but he liked it anyway. It showed the proper respect.

  With a quick gesture he commanded the soldiers following him to stand guard at the front. He would ascend the tower alone.

  They closed the great door behind him, and it grew dark. The only window was far above. But the dark did not disturb him.

  He had changed. He had grown under the influence of the stone. Aranloth had taught him a spell for light, which had seemed like a transformation of its own at the time. He had become greater than other men. Yet the stone had worked a true transformation, and a superior one. His eyes were altered, and he could see in the dark without the need for light at all.

  He began the ascent. Eagerness grew in him, but he calmed himself and did not hurry. He took one step at a time. This he hated. The climb was long and arduous, and there was nothing to see but the winding stairwell, the circling stone of the wall and the hollow center of the tower that grew deeper and deeper.

  Time passed. The only sound was at first the soft tread of his doe-skin boots. Then as he climbed, the drawing of his breath. He was too old to climb the tower, but the stone had made him young again. Even so, the effort quickened his heart and made him breathe harder. But not so hard as the other knights who at times made the same climb with him. Despite his age, he was become stronger than they.

  At length, he came to the end of the staircase. Before him was a door. This one of wood, yet engraved in it and inlaid with gold just as below, was another figure. This time the knight was standing, but his head was bowed and his shoulder stooped as though he carried a heavy burden. It was supposed to symbolize the great task of the Kingshield Knights, and that the temptation of the Morleth Stone would weary them.

  That was nonsense, for he had learned otherwise. The stone gave him vigor, and the image made the knights look weak. Had it appeared in public, he would have destroyed it. But here, he let it be. In time it would be seen otherwise. It would come to symbolize the burden the knights would bear in the future. The burden of spreading his rule to all lands and peoples.

  Three times he knocked on the door, using the gold knocker attached two thirds the way up. The very same the first king would have used.

  A voice came dully from the other side, following the ritual.

  “Who seeks entrance to the enclosure of the stone?”

  Druilgar gave the appropriate answer, without which the door would not be opened and a horn sounded to summon soldiers.

  “A seeker of wisdom, in humility and without pride.”

  There was a pause, and then he heard the three great bolts that secured the door being drawn back in turn. But it did not open.

  This also was part of the ritual, and for good reason.

  Carefully, Druilgar pushed the door open. He did not move into the room swiftly, but instead took slow movements. It was not a time for misunderstandings.

  Before him stood Savanest, one of the knights and he who today guarded the stone. His sword was drawn, and it was lifted high, ready to mete out death.

  Druilgar took no offence. This also was part of the ritual of guarding the stone. The sword would not be lowered until Savanest studied him and ensured he was who he claimed to be.

  There was a tense moment. Druilgar was careful to make no move and to keep his hand well away from the hilt of his sword.

  With a quick movement, Savanest sheathed his blade and offered a perfect bow.

  “Welcome, First Knight Druilgar,” the man said by way of greeting. Within the tower, that title took precedence over being king.

  “Greetings, Knight Savanest,” the king replied.

  Druilgar looked around the room. It had not changed since the tower was built. It was a simple room, devoid of decoration or furniture except for a desk and chair to the left where the knights could write. This was often poetry but sometimes history.

  The window was small and narrow, and let in little light. Iron bars secured it. On the floor was a bearskin rug. That alone changed over the years as it was worn out by knights sitting on it and meditating.

  But it was toward the far side that his gaze drifted. There, in an iron box, unadorned and rusted, was concealed the greatest treasure of Alithoras.

  “Is there any news?” Savanest asked.

  “Very little. Aranloth yet lives, and the young man and girl with him also.”

  “Then Knight Lindercroft has failed?”

  Druilgar thought on that. He had been harsh with Lindercroft, but it was certainly true that Aranloth was cunning.

  “He has failed. But only for the moment. I do not doubt that he will try harder in the future. At some point, he, or another of the knights, will eliminate the threat.”

  There was no need to mention that his own efforts had also failed.

  “The signs and portents grow,” Savanest told him. “Destiny draws near. Only an hour ago, while I sat meditating, the stone showed me a vision.”

  That focused Druilgar’s attention. The last vision had been some time ago when he himself had been shown Dromdruin Village. Lightning struck it seven times, and then it sunk into the earth and was covered. The meaning had been clear. The threat of the seventh knight would originate there, and it must be destroyed.

  “What did you see?”

  Savanest hesitated. “I saw Osahka, and he burned in dark flames. The earth was blackened, yet his staff lay on that barren ground, and it sprouted in seven places, and from each an oak tree grew.”

  Druilgar considered that. He did not like it. The meaning might be that even if Aranloth were killed, the seventh knight would still rise. But he did not say as much to the other knight. Savanest would have interpreted it in similar fashion.

  “We no longer use the term Osahka. Not for Aranloth.”

  Savanest stiffened. “It was an error, First Knight Druilgar. I did not even know that I said it. It was merely an old habit asserting itself.”

  Druilgar looked at him coldly. Savanest was not the only knight who found it hard to leave the past behind and embrace the future. But they all would in the end. They would have no choice, for the future was like a towering wave of the ocean. Unstoppable.

  “You may wait outside until I am done,” he said. “I would commune with the stone.”

  Sava
nest left quietly, and he closed the door behind him. He had been rebuked, and he would think of his own penance for his failure.

  Druilgar sat cross-legged on the rug. It was time now to cast away thoughts of this mortal world and its everyday problems. Now, he must find his spiritual center and open his mind for the communion to come.

  He slowed his breathing until it was so fine that not even a strand of silk suspended before his face would move. Yet still his breathing was deep. He drew on the true breath, and guided air deep into his lungs and then farther down into the har-harat, the energy center of the body below the navel.

  His abdomen grew warm, and he felt the tingling of energy there immediately. But it grew stronger as his mind focused upon it. For this, the mind was key. Aranloth had taught him so, but under his guidance he had never gone beyond that. Yet under the power of the Morleth Stone, he had advanced farther.

  Calmly, Druilgar shifted his focus. Now, he concentrated on the spot between his eyebrows known as olek-nas, the third eye.

  The energy of his body responded. It flooded upwards and filled the olek-nas. It did not tingle so much, and there was no warmth. Yet he felt the effects of it.

  His mind opened and expanded. Emotion fell away from him like the brown leaves of a tree in a sudden gust of winter wind. He was one with the world now, and there was neither fear nor hate nor love nor sadness. There was only reality, and the knowledge of the true working of the universe to a pattern of ebb and flow.

  He stood in one graceful motion, and he moved with purpose but not haste toward the iron box that held the stone.

  Despite the age of the box, and that rust covered and pitted its surface, the hinges had been well-oiled and the lid lifted easily at his touch.

  Reverently, he gazed at the stone. It was black, yet its surface gleamed and swirled. Almost, he thought he saw something move within it, and then it was gone.

  He removed the stone from the box and sat back down on the rug, holding it in both hands. It was cool to the touch, but not cold. And he sensed the magic within it flare to life.