The Sage Knight

by Robert Ryan

  Eventually they slept, though they could hear Kubodin laughing in the room next door, and there seemed to be someone with him. They ignored that.

  The next morning they gathered their stores from the shop and packed them securely on the mule. Faran felt sorry for it because it would be hard going uphill. But the three of them also strapped packs to their backs and bore some of the burden.

  It was still early when they left, but there was a cheer from some of the villagers as they passed. The killing of the bandits made life safer for them.

  Faran ventured the view that they had sent a signal to their true enemies. Their swords might be recognized as blades of Kingshield Knights, but Kubodin, quiet and subdued now by a hangover, did not think so. Few would ever recognize the swords for what they were, and skilled warriors and fights were commonplace.

  Faran was not so sure.

  17. The Shadow of Winter

  The fight at the inn had a profound effect on the way Faran and Ferla sparred. They knew, now, the difference between reality and similitude, and their way of moving changed slightly as a result.

  What had just been words to them before, spoken either by Aranloth or Asana, now suddenly became weighted with meaning. If the point of their sword was a handspan too low, it might be the difference between life and death, and they now knew the value of those little verbal corrections to their posture. Or in the case of Asana, more likely he just gave a visual cue, emphasizing something in his own posture as he demonstrated a move.

  Asana had questioned them about the fight too, probing how they had felt and reacted. No detail was too small, and he urged them to think deeply on what had happened, and why, and what they might do differently next time.

  This was part of his training. He made them think for themselves, and evaluate things from different angles. Any fight, he had instructed them, was an opportunity to learn. But not to berate themselves for mistakes made, just to incorporate the lessons into their practice.

  It seemed good advice to Faran. But Asana showed another side too. He was clear that the way of the warrior was not to seek trouble needlessly, and to avoid battle. But only when possible. There would be times when trouble was brought to them, as it had been in the inn, and then they should learn to apportion guilt where it was due. And that was on the perpetrators of the violence. If they died, the guilt for that was theirs. If they were maimed, so too it was their fault.

  Ferla especially needed to hear that, for Faran knew that she felt badly over what had happened. He had felt something of the kind himself. He knew he should not have, but somehow the feelings crept up on him anyway.

  But Asana had set their minds at rest, and that he saw the need for such teaching, and that he cared enough to give it, was an indication that he had been in that situation himself, and that despite his cool exterior there was a bond between them.

  Kubodin, when he had recovered from his hangover, merely laughed and reminded them that it had been a good fight, and that bad men had got what they deserved. He had also told them that likely they had saved lives, for those bandits had committed murder in the past and would have done so again. So he too, for all that his manner was rough, understood exactly how they felt and worked to ease their guilt.

  Kareste left those lessons to Asana and Kubodin. But her eyes were deep wells of emotion, and Faran knew what she was thinking. There would be more fights and more death before this was over.

  He knew she was right, so he trained even harder than he had before.

  And what he faced just now atop the mountain was the hardest training he had ever endured. He and Ferla fought together, trying to fend off both Asana and Kubodin.

  Asana wielded his thin sword with a quiet but deadly grace that was frightening. Kubodin came at them with his axe. He laughed as he hacked and hewed, but his attacks were very nearly as dangerous as Asana’s.

  But on top of that, Kareste also struck at them, mostly lashing out with magic but also striking deftly with her staff.

  Swords clashed. Sparks flew. Faran and Ferla fought together, maneuvering so as to try to keep their backs to each other and protect themselves as best they could.

  A streak of lòhrengai flashed at Ferla. Even as she summoned a shield of flame to protect herself, she also deflected a killing thrust from Asana.

  Faran, his arms trembling from weariness for the sparring had been going on for quite some time, flung fire from his left hand at Kareste while the sword in his right thrust at Kubodin.

  Kareste raised her own shield of flaring magic and blocked his assault with ease. But at least it prevented her from continuing her attack on Ferla. Kubodin likewise darted back out of harm’s way, but even as he retreated his axe swept sideways in an attempt to knock Faran’s sword from his hand.

  This was a fight Faran could not win. He knew that, and so did Ferla. They were outnumbered, and their opponents surpassed them in skill. The result was inevitable.

  But victory in this contest would not come by winning. It would come by enduring as long as they could against an assault that was beyond them. Endurance was a victory. Fighting together, back to back and forcing their opponents to fight them eye to eye, rather than a tap of the sword on their backs was a victory. The confidence gained by holding their own, even just for a time, against such an onslaught was the greatest victory of them all.

  Faran was not fast enough to withdraw his sword and avoid Kubodin’s blow, so instead he used the flat of the blade to resist the strike with force. But that was a ploy.

  Kubodin continued the strike, trying to dislodge the weapon, and in doing so he overcommitted and leaned too far forward. Suddenly Faran used his wrist to roll the blade out from underneath the axe and at the same time kicked with his left leg at Kubodin’s knee. It was a strike intended to buckle the leg that supported all of Kubodin’s weight.

  Kubodin, always unpredictable, did the last thing Faran expected. He charged forward so that Faran’s leg strike missed, and with his shoulder he rammed into Faran’s chest.

  Faran sprawled backward. His sword spun from his grip, but even as he tried to rise Kubodin rushed him and Kareste sent a spurt of lòhren-fire toward him.

  He rolled and grasped his sword, but he knew his battle was over. Yet even as he thought that a wild idea occurred to him.

  Acting on instinct alone he summoned magic, and he did what he had seen Aranloth do. He formed the image of a warrior, only that warrior was himself. Then weaving a shield around the image he fended off Kareste’s attack and slipped away in conjured dust and smoke.

  Kubodin struck at the image, but he seemed perplexed. Kareste was not fooled though. She had seen what Faran had done, but she was surprised. He managed to fling fire at her from one hand, and it struck her in the chest.

  Even as they sparred with full intent, but withheld power from their blows, so it was with magic. The fire was little more than light only, but it still caused the edges of her cloak to smolder.

  Suddenly Kubodin roared with laughter. “A pretty trick!” he cried. “But I see you now!”

  The image Faran had summoned dissipated at Kubodin’s blow. At the same moment, Kareste raised her staff but then slowly lowered it and stepped back. She had been defeated, and Faran’s heart thudded. He had never done that before.

  He turned to face Kubodin, but instead saw both the little man and Asana spread out to attack him. Ferla was to the side, and stepping away. Asana must have beaten her.

  Faran tried to move to the side so as to keep Asana between him and Kubodin, but the little man was too nimble and darted around and attacked even as did Asana.

  Deftly jumping back, Faran deflected a thrust from Asana’s blade, but even as he did so he felt the ring of a blow to his helm. Kubodin had struck the top of his head with the axe, and the sparring session was over.

  They gathered together, as they usually did after a sparring session like this, and talked about it.

  Kareste was the first to speak, and there was an e
lement of surprise in her voice.

  “How did you do that, Faran? Even I struggle to create images of people like that.”

  “I don’t know. It just happened. I guess I saw Aranloth do it a lot, and somehow I caught the knack for it.”

  Kareste frowned. “It’s more than a knack. You have great talent in that direction.”

  “But I would still have split his skull with my axe,” Kubodin said, and he grinned wickedly.

  “You both did well,” Asana said. “Neither I nor Kubodin are easy to spar against. And over and above that, you held Kareste at bay for a good while as well. Everything was against you, but you still performed.” He offered them a small bow then, a thing he rarely did.

  Faran was exhausted, and he saw that Ferla was too. But they grinned at each other. A bow from Asana was high praise indeed.

  They spoke for a while after that, but the weather atop the mountain turned swiftly as it often did. The sky was only partly filled with clouds, yet out of them a sprinkling of snow began to fall. It was the first of the season, and winter was upon them.

  Tired, but happy, they went inside for shelter against the cold, and Faran was pleased with the change in the weather. It would make it harder for their enemies to search them out, but he did wonder what steps they were taking to do so.

  18. The King’s Favor

  Savanest meditated, alone, in his tent and before a small but hot fire set within a brazier. His camp, and his company of soldiers, was established on the escarpment that overlooked the land known as the Angle. It was the heartland of the Letharn empire of old, and Aranloth had come here.

  Here also, he had disappeared. Savanest knew how that was done.

  The lòhren had ventured into the tombs. It was a deed that few would attempt. But Aranloth had courage, and he possessed some means of doing so safely. Whatever that means was, it was a secret. For anyone else, entering the tombs was death. So the tales told, and Savanest believed them. He had stood at the entrance, and there he had sensed a great magic hidden within. The malice of it had buffeted him like a wind, though the soldiers with him had sensed little.

  He had nearly sent some in to test the nature of that magic, but there had been no point. The end result was certain. Death. Nor did he wish to kill men needlessly, for they might be needed later. Most of all, it would not help him find the seventh knight.

  Aranloth had entered the tombs with those he protected, and from one of the exits, and no doubt there were many, he had escaped undetected. Worse, the seventh knight would have obtained a weapon and armor in there. This was where Aranloth obtained them. It was not widely known among the knights that this was so, but there were records, and Savanest had read them long ago. It was only when he had come here though that the memory returned to him. That was a pity because it would have been a chance to set a trap.

  It should have been over now though. But Lindercroft had failed. By a stroke of luck, he had discovered where their enemies had hidden in a remote valley. He had surrounded them in a cottage and attacked, but despite his soldiers and his own skill with blade and sorcery, the seventh knight had escaped.

  Only one thing mattered now. The seventh knight must be found and killed. To let him live was to provide a rallying point for all the forces that might oppose the rule of the king and the knights. The prophecy must be quashed. Hope extinguished. Only then would the populace be willing to look at the new order of the world and embrace it. They must be given no other choice.

  Savanest considered what to do next. His brother knight, Sofanil, had also set out on the hunt. Three knights now searched out the enemies of the kingdom, and it was typical of the king that it should be so. He set them against each other. Perhaps this was to find the strongest and ablest among them to help shoulder the burden of rulership in the great days to come. Or maybe it was a plot to keep them vying against each other so that no one would have time to think of supplanting him.

  But it did not matter either way. Regardless, Savanest intended to rise above the other knights and assume a greater role than they.

  Yet he was in doubt. Where to search for the enemy? To that end, Lindercroft was best placed to help him. Not that he would deliberately, but by speaking to him it might be possible to learn some of what he concealed. He must know, or guess, something.

  So it was that Savanest began the rite. He performed it as the king had instructed him, focusing his mind on Osahka, thinking only of the stone and drawing a knife across his palm to provide blood. This was the catalyst of the magic, and it was a small and near-painless sacrifice compared to the power of magic obtained.

  His blood sizzled momentarily as air, fire and the red fluid itself combined in puffs of dark smoke. Then he uttered the words of power just as he had been taught. Sudden pain ripped through his palm, and afar in the Tower of the Stone he felt the thought of Osahka leap out to him.

  The twining tendrils of flame flared, and within their moving filaments an image grew and took shape.

  “What do you wish?” came the crackling voice of Lindercroft. He did not seem best pleased, but the king had commanded them to cooperate, so he could not refuse to talk.

  “Greetings, Knight Lindercroft,” Savanest said. No matter the rivalry between them, it need not show. “I seek word of your progress.”

  Lindercroft frowned, though it was hard to tell in the flickering image of flame. Similarly, his voice sounded like the burning timber. Savanest was not accustomed to this type of magic, and he was not the most skilled at it. A fact that had earned him sly grins from the others. But he would repay that insult. At least, when the time was right.

  “I seek the enemy still,” Lindercroft replied. “They cannot remain hidden forever.”

  Savanest gritted his teeth. That was an answer which told him nothing.

  “Where are you focusing your search?”

  Lindercroft hesitated. This was information he could not withhold, but he still considered his answer carefully.

  “My forces are divided, but for the most part they search the area north of the valley where the boy was last seen.”

  Savanest allowed himself a smile. Their quarry was more than a boy. He had, after all, eluded Lindercroft multiple times. That was an embarrassment, and Lindercroft knew what he was thinking for his frown deepened.

  That was of no concern. They were supposed to cooperate with each other, but Lindercroft had left things as vague as possible by saying that his forces were divided.

  No doubt his searchers were dispersed, but it left him plausible deniability if he were accused of not passing information on. He would be working on a theory, but he would also be casting as wide a net as possible in case his theory was wrong. The elù-draks were of great assistance in that regard, for they could survey enormous amounts of territory.

  Should the comment that he searched especially north of the valley where the enemy had last been seen be given weight? It was not far from where Savanest was now. That was convenient. Too convenient. It suggested Lindercroft did not want him to move. Likewise, if he said he was searching north of the valley, likely he was trying to hide the area of his deepest suspicion. That might well be the opposite direction.

  “Have you given thought,” Savanest continued, “that they would head northward to the city of Cardoroth? That is a place well-suited to hiding and where the lòhrens have many contacts.”

  Lindercroft seemed surprised at that. “It could be. It’s a long way to travel, but as you say it would be nearly impossible for anyone to find them there. Yes, that’s a very real possibility.”

  Savanest did not trust this man, least of all now. His surprise had not been genuine. He would have been a fool not to consider the possibility, and this was more confirmation that his true area of search was to the south and not the north.

  It was time to change the subject. Savanest would learn no more on this one, and if he pressed it Lindercroft would realize he had not been believed. Better to keep him in doubt about that. Oth
erwise, he would be on his guard and take more active measures to conceal his activities.

  “There is unrest in Faladir,” Savanest stated. This was dangerous ground, for it could be seen as a criticism of the king. But it would also distract Lindercroft from their previous conversation and lull him into the thought that he had been believed.

  Lindercroft sneered. He had changed over the years, and the expression seemed strange on his face.

  “There are always those who cannot see the right way forward, even if that path is before their feet.”

  “That is true,” Savanest replied. “Yet it is disturbing, and though the unrest is rarely spoken, it seethes beneath the surface.”

  Lindercroft considered that. The sneer was gone now, and he looked as he had when they first met, which was intelligent and thoughtful. Savanest could not help but wonder how he had changed himself, but he schooled his thoughts away from that. He always did lately. Aranloth had encouraged introspection, but Aranloth was Osahka no more, and introspection was troubling…

  “Do you truly see a danger in this?” Lindercroft asked.

  “I do. The populace is like the forest after several years of drought. It is quiet now, but one spark and it could erupt in flame.”

  Lindercroft shrugged. “It may be so, but it is up to us to make sure there is no spark.”

  He did not seem worried. In truth, there was little reason to be. Yet still a doubt nagged at Savanest. It should have been easy to kill a young man and his companions, but so far they had not been able to do so. Was it really fated that there would be a seventh knight? Was Aranloth’s prophecy more than just legend?

  “You have met this young man who is supposed to be a threat. What is he like?”

  “I know little of him. Faran, he is called. He has courage, which I’ll not deny. But he is an untutored, uncultured farm boy of no account. He is not a knight, nor ever will be.”