by Robert Ryan
Ferla answered swiftly. “It may be wise. Certainly, I can imagine that it brings peace. But not forever. Sooner or later the outside world will intrude on the elves even as we have intruded on you.”
Asana seemed surprised by that answer, but he gave a sad little grin.
“You may be an intrusion, but you are most welcome.” He turned to Faran. “What do you think?”
“I’m a hunter. I love nature and the quiet of the forest. I love being alone. And though I wish it were otherwise, what Ferla says is true. The outside world intrudes. But that does not make it unwise to try to find tranquility.”
Those sad, brown eyes of Asana gazed out toward the distant forest.
“Two very different answers, and yet the same in their way. Grief is a good teacher of wisdom, is it not?”
Faran nodded, but did not speak.
“When trouble comes to the elves, as you predict it will one day, what should they do? Seek to seclude themselves even deeper into the forest? Or fight for a just cause, even if it kills them?”
It seemed a strange question to Faran. What did this have to do with their training? But at the same time, for all the inscrutability that Asana showed, Faran sensed that the man waited with extreme curiosity for their answer.
“Who can say what is right or wrong?” Ferla answered. “Both courses of action may seem wise. Yet inner conscience will dictate how a people, or a person, will act under such circumstances. And by their actions they will show what they are made of.”
Asana did not take his eyes off the horizon. “You are correct.”
9. The Hundred
Menendil inserted the spigot in the new ale keg atop the bar. This was a good brew, made by himself as they all were, but it was a pity there were few customers around to enjoy it. And some of those that were there, he did not like.
He turned to his wife. “This is a good batch, love. The best for some while.”
Norla did not stop polishing the glass she was working on, and she spared him only the slightest of glances before concentrating fully on the glass again as though it was the most important thing in the world.
“Better than this lot deserve,” she muttered. “We should charge more.”
She was still unhappy with what he had done. It showed in her every glance. But it was too late now to go back on things.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps not. But she was wrong about raising the price of ale. That would offset their lower take since customers had nearly stopped coming in, especially at night. But they would find another place to drink, and fast if he did that. Better to keep the customers he did have and wait things out until better times. If they ever came.
He poured a young man a glass of the ale when he came over. The man did not say thanks, and he was slow enough to pass the coins for it over the counter too. Typical. Some people wanted everything for nothing as though the world owed it to them.
He would learn though. The young man went back to sit with his friends. They were a lot like him, only worse. There were thieves among them, of that Menendil was sure. You did not keep a bar without learning to be a good judge of people.
“You’ll get us killed. You know that, don’t you?”
His wife had come closer without him noticing, and she continued the gist of the conversation they had been having all morning. She was careful that no one could hear them, though.
They rarely argued. The worst thing about this one was that she was right. But what else could he have done?
“Would you really stand by,” he answered, “and let evil overrun the city?”
To that, she gave no answer. But his words did not remove her scowl. He had a feeling that nothing would. Not anytime soon.
“Anyway,” he went on, carefully looking around the room to make sure no one was watching or could hear. “The Hundred are selected and gathered. The way is prepared if it is needed.”
He did not say it was prepared for the seventh knight. Even thinking that was dangerous, and just a few days ago he had heard of an inn burned to the ground by the king’s soldiers because a storyteller had told the tale of the prophecy.
The knowledge that he risked death, and the death of his wife and the destruction of all that he held dear was a burden to him. Yet the love of truth and justice must be served also. All the more so if it came at risk, and it was not in him to back away from that, come what may.
There were others who felt like him. Some could not act. They did not know how. But he did. He was a former soldier. An elite soldier. Danger was not new to him, nor planning how to counter it.
And he had planned well.
In the far corner, farthest away from the table of young men, Norgril sat by himself. He was second in command of the Hundred, and he was a man to be trusted. He was skilled too, though a little hotheaded and prone to act first and think later.
The two of them were friends, but they spoke as little as possible now. It was better that way, for by distancing themselves they each gave the other some small measure of protection. Not that it would last long if either were put to the question. The king sanctioned torture these days, and few tongues could not be loosed with enough pain.
His wife seemed to read his mind. “How long before one of the Hundred betrays you all? One person can undo all that you have done.”
“You’re right,” he replied. “Yet still, every man I chose is a man of courage and patriotism. Their loyalty is to the realm and its people. Not our despot of a king. And also, we have all sworn the blood oath.”
Norla’s frown deepened. “Fool man. Ale is stronger than blood. A few glasses at a bad time could have a man whisper what should not be spoken to the wrong man.”
“There will be no more,” Menendil said. “One hundred men is enough, and the risk of one of them speaking is low.”
His wife put a glass in a rack and took up another one to polish.
“Maybe. But what if one of the men you trust is already a spy for the king?”
Menendil understood that. He knew the risk, and he knew that establishing the Hundred in the first place was far riskier than maintaining it. If he had chosen poorly, it would be all over before it began.
“If that were so, we would already be dead,” he said.
She frowned at him even more strongly, and placed the glass in the rack with great enough force that several heads turned to look at her because of the noise.
She waited until they went back to their muted conversations before she replied.
“Have you considered that they may be waiting to find out all the names of the Hundred?”
Menendil had indeed considered that. He knew it might be possible, but if so he had planned for it. He himself would be betrayed, and ten others. But that was all. One man in ten was a leader, and the men he commanded was not known to the other ten leaders. Only Menendil himself knew them all, and he kept a tiny vial of deadly poison in his boot. If he were captured, he would kill himself. That way the Hundred would be kept safe. At least, if he had the courage to do what must be done.
Norla gave up polishing glasses and took a cloth from her apron to wipe over the bar.
“I hear tell that the saddler’s son up the street turned in his own father for talking about the seventh knight.” She whispered those last words so softly that he could barely hear it.
“I heard the same story,” he replied quietly, wiping down the bar next to her. “Only both father and son were talking about it, and it was the apprentice that turned them in. The king’s men spread the word that it was the son in order to encourage relations to report on one another.”
That was what he had heard anyway. It was hard to know the truth these days. It was hard at any time, but things were worse than they ever had been before, and they would deteriorate further.
“That may be. But either way, secrets will out, as they say.”
He knew she was right. He played a dangerous game right now. Worse, he did not know if there was even a point in i
t. But he did believe in the prophecy. He just hoped the seventh knight would show up soon. The longer things went on, the greater the chance that Norla’s fears would be realized.
It was at that moment that the door to the inn opened, and his heart thudded in his chest. Beside him, Norla stilled, then her hand recommenced swiping the cloth over the bar.
A soldier entered the room, young and dangerous looking. Following him came four others. They were well dressed, their uniforms new and their boots shiny. But they had not been in the army long. These men were mercenaries, gathered from off the streets to swell the king’s army. They had none of the look to them of trained military men, yet that made them all the more dangerous.
Menendil glanced casually at Norgril in the corner. He suddenly appeared drunk, half asleep in his chair. But that was an act. His hand hung loosely in his lap, right next to the hilt of his sword.
The soldiers entered the room, an air of arrogance to them. They looked about, and the inn was suddenly deathly quiet. The young men in the corner looked nervous. No doubt they regretted, at least for the moment, whatever misdemeanors they had been up to last night. Guilt exuded from them, but Menendil did not think they had any reason to be worried. If anything, they were just the type the king was looking to recruit into the army rather than punish.
In the silence of the room, the footfalls of the soldiers’ boots were loud as they came toward the bar, looking everyone over as they did so.
Menendil took a deep breath. If the worst happened, he was not too old to defend himself. He had not forgotten his training, and Norgril he could count on. His wife would make an account of herself too. She had more than one knife on her body, and she knew how to use them. That was necessary when working in an inn, at least from time to time. Though showing the blade had always been enough.
It would not be for these men though.
10. Words of Power
The days atop the mountain passed, and Faran and Ferla prospered in their training. Asana remained somewhat cool and distant. But they did not think that was because he was displeased with them. Something weighed on his mind, and he seldom spoke at length to anyone but Kubodin.
This place was very different from the valley. Faran’s heart remained there, within the little cabin and by the lake. Yet still, he had begun to like the mountain more and more each day. The peace here was wonderful, and the thought that the immortal elves were not far away was intriguing. Asana said they never ventured beyond their forest, but Kubodin said he had seen them once as a company of them marched by the foot of the mountain on some errand. He had seen them, but not spoken to them.
Faran and Ferla still practiced with their bows. But they did not hunt. Neither Asana nor Kubodin ate meat, and there was plenty of food available from the gardens Kubodin tended.
Their skill at sword-fighting increased. Yet their gains now were slow. It was always thus, Faran knew, and Asana confirmed it. The better at a skill you got, the slower gains in expertise became. But this was where mastery was attained. For those who could push themselves hard, those slight improvements did come, and in a fight that was the difference between life and death.
And the both of them pushed themselves, earning even Kubodin’s grudging respect. He seldom gave praise, but he watched their practice from time to time and grinned at them in approval. Once, he even bowed to them when they had finished sparring.
“Those knights had better be as good as legend claims,” he said. “Else they’ll be in for trouble they can’t handle.”
Faran’s heart surged at that, but Kareste’s reply sobered him.
“They are as good as legend claims, and some better.”
It was not what either Faran or Ferla wanted to hear, but the truth was all that mattered. Sweet lies would kill them. Pride would destroy them. Only the truth would save them, so they trained harder still and even Asana seemed surprised. But however hard they trained, he had more to teach them, and they realized how truly skilled he was. Beside him, they were fumbling amateurs.
Ferla was better than Faran, as she always had been. But not drastically so, and when they sparred he could sometimes win.
Their training changed after a few months though. Not with Asana, but with Kareste. For, as she warned them, the knights did not fight with weapons of steel alone.
“I cannot teach the way Aranloth did, by laying my mind over yours. I don’t have his skill. But you don’t need that now. You have the feeling of magic inside yourselves, and we will fan those flames.”
Faran could tell that she did not like admitting a lack of skill. If lack of skill it was. How many other lòhrens could do what Aranloth had done? He was not sure, but he suspected it was few. Or none.
So it was that they trained with Asana until noon, and then after lunch with Kareste until the stars sprang in the sky.
She taught them more words of power, concentrating on those that could be used in battle. But mostly, they were defensive magics, for that was the foundation of attack. Only when you were secure could you bring the fight to the enemy. Doing so before then was to risk life on a gamble.
Late one afternoon when the shredded clouds across the sky were turning pink before the oncoming night, they practiced just such a thing.
Kareste stood before Faran, staff raised, a tongue of faint blue fire darting from its tip.
Durnwah, he proclaimed, though he was getting better at using words of power by thought alone instead of saying them aloud.
This was the word for shield, and a green dome of wavery light flared before him. Kareste’s magic struck it and slipped away.
Faran staggered back, surprised. This was the first time that a shield had appeared when he uttered the word of power. A proper shield, at any rate. Before then it had been tattered filaments of light like ribbons in the air before they fragmented and fell apart.
“Excellent!” cried Kareste. “Keep it together!”
Even as he looked he saw that the shield had begun to fade, so he concentrated again and uttered durnwah once more, this time under his breath. The shield strengthened, and it was perhaps even stronger than it had been before.
Kareste stepped toward him. Blue fire darted from her staff again, this time toward the lower edge of the shield. With his mind, he imagined the shield a little larger, and it expanded at his thought.
The two forces met each other. Her fire flashed away and disappeared. But it was stronger than it had been before, and this time he felt something vast behind it. It was, he thought, her will, and he realized how much she was holding back her power. Yet the Kingshield Knights would not have her skill, and he sensed that using magic in this way was like a muscle. The more it was used the stronger it became. So he could improve.
Again and again Kareste attacked him, moving around and forcing him to raise the shield, or lower it, or form it behind him.
And he beat her off, even if she was not employing her full power. But he grew weary, and the shield eventually dimmed and then flickered out like a candle gutted by the wind.
She came to a standstill and leaned on her staff. “You did well, Faran. Very well indeed.”
“But the shield failed me.”
“So it did, but all magics have limits. It’s no different than running, or swinging an axe or enduring cold or heat. The body and the mind have breaking points. You have learned more in months than some lòhrens in years. Don’t despair at that. Rejoice, for you have a greater gift at magic than any of the knights.”
“Yet they have the greater practice and experience.”
She nodded at that. “Do not forget it. But do not underestimate yourself either. They fear you, and Ferla. Otherwise, they would not seek your death.”
Ferla’s turn came next, and Kareste pressed her hard. Even as Ferla was better with swords, so Faran was better with magic. She could not match what he had done, yet still she conjured a shield of sorts, and held it for a while.
When they were done, night had fallen and they w
alked the little distance back to Danath Elbar. Kubodin stood at the entrance, and a smile hovered on his lips.
“Better to trust steel than magic,” he said.
Kareste pursed her lips. “A strange thing for you to say.”
The little man seemed surprised at that, but he said nothing.
Faran was surprised too. The words seemed to indicate that Kubodin had use of magic, but there had never been any indication of that, and the little man seemed the most unlikely type to delve into such arts.
Kubodin drew his axe from its belt loop. “See this?” he asked raising the wicked weapon high. “It’s all I need, and it has a name. Do you know what it is?”
“No,” Ferla said, curious.
“Ha! Tricked you. It has two names, in fact.” He tilted the left blade of the axe toward them. “This blade is called Spite.” Then he tilted the right blade toward them next. “This is Malice. And do you know what their name is together in my language?”
They did not, and he knew it, for he did not wait on an answer.
“Discord!” He proclaimed. “It’s an ancient weapon of my people, handed down through long generations even as Asana’s sword was. It’s even said a spirit dwells in the axe. If so, it’s one crazy spirit. But I like him! He enjoys a good fight!”
Kubodin slid the haft back through the loop and wandered down the tunnel ahead of them without saying anything more.
Ferla grinned. “I like that man,” she whispered.
“There is more to him than he shows,” Kareste answered. “But don’t heed his words about magic. It can be unreliable. But it’s the same with anything. Get to know it. Master it. It’ll serve you well when it’s most needed.” She pointed her staff at their swords. “Don’t forget there’s magic in your blades and armor as well. Its nature is different, and you have no control over it, but it’s invaluable.”