The Sage Knight

by Robert Ryan

  Balan sighed. “You’re a harder man than you look, Mender. But I’ll spread the word.”

  Balan left after that, walking away down the street with sure strides. Menendil wished he could be so confident himself.

  But he could not. He was pitting himself, and the lives of others, against the might of evil. But it had to be done.

  He got up and went inside the inn. He moved slowly though, feeling suddenly old and wearied not just in body but in spirit. Could a man really be turned to the shadow? What of free will?

  He did not wish to know the answer. But if Caludreth were not rescued, he would find out.

  21. Death and Magic

  Menendil waited in the shadows of an alley. He had been here for quite some time, and fear built as the night wore on and nothing happened.

  They had not expected Caludreth to be taken from the barracks to the tower early in the evening, but it was now approaching midnight and still there had been no sign of anything.

  The few men with him were anxious too. The alley stank of fear, but that was in his mind rather than anything he smelled. No doubt, it would be the same for the other men spread out in other alleys, loitering on corners or discretely gathered a block away.

  They all waited the sounding of his horn to act. But what if their information had been wrong and Caludreth was not going to be taken to the tower? Worse, what if the Hundred had been betrayed and even now the king’s soldiers were closing in on them?

  He took a step forward, coming to the mouth of the alley but hugging close to the deep shadows so he could not be seen. The Tower of the Stone hulked to his left, a massive structure, sinister looking in the darkness. It was the pride of the city, for it was a memorial of a great victory in a previous age. But inside was evil, and that was unsettling.

  Across the road, and a little to his right were the barracks. There was no sign of activity there. No more than normal, anyway. There were always lights in some of the windows, and always at the front of the building too. But nothing was happening tonight that was different from any other night.

  He stepped back a pace, but still maintained his vigil. Something had to happen soon, or the nerves of the men would grow too great. Worse, if nothing happened at all on their first venture, his leadership would fall in doubt. The men needed a victory to bind them to him and to each other. If their first venture was a failure, why should they follow his lead in the future?

  But they had followed him easily enough when they met this afternoon. He had been shocked how easy it was to talk them into this action. How easy it was to ask them to risk their lives. The guilt of that hung over him, and if anyone died tonight it would be his fault.

  His wife had looked at him with steady eyes when he told her. For all that she had warned him of the many risks he took, both for his own life and for hers, she had merely nodded.

  “It must be done,” she agreed. “A Kingshield Knight shouldn’t be executed. Or worse. Evil cannot go unchallenged.”

  That was all she had said, but after, when he had belted on his sword and pulled up his hood as evening fell, she had hugged him fiercely before he slipped out the back door and into the shadows.

  She was at the inn now. She and the staff would have shut already, and the staff at least would think he had gone to visit a sick friend.

  His thoughts drifted back to the meeting with the men. Huddled in a dark warehouse, sentries guarding the entrance, they had agreed to act at his suggestion and then agreed to his plan.

  Guilt washed over him again, but then it was gone in a heartbeat. Like the soldier he had been in his youth, the needs of the present outweighed all else, and nothing now mattered but the task at hand.

  Across the road, there was movement in front of the barracks. Torches flared. The large doors opened and men in armor spilled out and milled around.

  Laughter drifted to him, but those soldiers looked nervous.

  “Be ready,” Menendil hissed quietly to the few men with him.

  The horn he carried, strung by a leather cord around his waist, he freed and held before him. His hands trembled, but in the dark only he knew that.

  More men came from the barracks. There was no sign of the king, which was just as well. He might already be in the tower. But there was a Kingshield Knight there, his silver armor gleaming in the light from many torches, and he stood tall and proud and aloof from the others. He was quiet where they joked and laughed. He was still where they moved about nervously.

  Then two men came through the doors, and they were fierce looking warriors. Between them, they supported a third man. He was shackled, and it seemed that he could not walk without aid.

  This was the moment. It had come at last. It could be no one else but Caludreth, and in the short space between barracks and tower was the time to strike. Once he was inside, there would be no saving him.

  Menendil waited. If he blew the horn too soon, the captive could be taken back to the barracks. If he waited too late, the tower would be within reach.

  The tension mounted. The Kingshield Knight strode forward, and the company of men, at least fifty strong, came with him. In their midst, Caludreth staggered forward between his two guards.

  Time took forever to pass. The Kingshield Knight looked invulnerable, and the full weight of what the Hundred was about to attempt ground down on Menendil. Should he blow the horn? Could he blow the horn?

  Caludreth staggered again. One of his guards slapped him across the face, and then hauled him forward. The soldiers around them jeered.

  The sound of the horn shattered the night, and the sweet music of it filled the street and rolled out over the city.

  Menendil forgot doubt and fear. He lowered the horn from his mouth and drew his sword, racing forward. All that lay before him now was the enemy, and the prospect of bringing justice.

  His boots thudded against the cobbles. Behind him his men came on in a great rush. The soldiers seemed dumbfounded, and they hesitated. The knight was the first to react, drawing his great sword, and then his men followed suit.

  The soldiers began to tighten their ranks, and they looked at Menendil and his men. But that was a mistake. Menendil came to a sudden halt before he reached the enemy. Pouring into the main street from other alleys, both behind the soldiers and in front of them, came the rest of the Hundred. Among them were bowmen who plied their trade.

  Arrows hissed in the dark. Soldiers fell, screaming. Blood pooled over the cobbles, and the king’s men, unprepared for an attack such as this, withered before the onslaught.

  This was a moment of great danger. A single stray arrow could kill the man they had come to save. Or the Kingshield Knight could slay him, preferring Caludreth to be killed rather than rescued.

  More arrows hissed. More men fell. Menendil could not believe his luck, for he had expected a quicker reaction than this. But he had timed it well, and the enemy were caught precisely between their two points of safety and could not decide whether to press ahead or retreat.

  The indecision did not last. The Kingshield Knight cried out, his voice ringing with command.

  “Close ranks! March to the tower!”

  Menendil blew his horn again, and began to move.

  The second blowing of the horn signaled it was time to cease the arrow storm. Now, men must fight face to face and blade to blade.

  He leaped in, slashing at the nearest soldier. His sword skills were rusty, and the man blocked it easily enough. But he did not anticipate the riposte that slashed his neck and killed him.

  All around, the clang of blades sounded. Menendil had few men with him, and they barely slowed the marching soldiers. But soon others of the Hundred reached them, blocking them from the front and harassing them from the rear. Only on Menendil’s side was a weak point, but heading this way did not lead to safety.

  The Kingshield Knight pressed on, and men fell before his sword. But the soldiers slowed, and some of them looked back. They knew they were surrounded, and that this was a
fight they may not win. But they had comrades by the hundreds in the barracks nearby.

  Yet Menendil had thought of that, too. His plan had been thought out quickly, but his old training had never been forgotten.

  Some of his men splashed oil at the front of the barracks and set it alight. The archers peeled away from the fight and grouped themselves across the street from the great doors. There they stood and loosed arrows at any from within. This would prevent reinforcements coming out, but only for a time. There were other exits from the building, and in a short while the soldiers inside would rally, armor themselves, gather shields, and strike at their attackers.

  The archers could not stand against that. But they did not have to. They, and the fire, merely needed to create confusion and buy a little time.

  The soldiers came to a standstill, hemmed in, and at least for the moment, outnumbered. Now, the true fighting began. Menendil’s men pushed hard, but many were not soldiers. Against that, the enemy was caught completely by surprise, and the flames leaping up at the front of the barracks must have filled them with fear. They had no way of knowing how large the force was that attacked them, and if more enemies would pour out of the alleys to spill their blood.

  Men fell on both sides. The Kingshield Knight roared and cursed. He stepped back from the fray, his deadly sword lowering in his right hand. But that did not mean he had withdrawn from the battle. It was just the opposite.

  A chill filled the air, and green flame, wicked and sickly, sprang to the knight’s left hand. With a flicking motion like a man dislodging water from his hand that flame scattered ahead of him and into the Hundred that attacked from that side.

  Some of the men went down, their cloaks burning like a torch and the skin and flesh beneath melting away. Other men dropped their swords and ran. They had been prepared to fight blade to blade, but they could not defy magic.

  Menendil did not blame the men who ran. All around him he felt the fear of the Hundred, and their uncertainty. They might be next.

  The attack faltered. The knight swung around, pushing a soldier out of his way and faced toward Menendil. The green fire flared again, and he raised his hand.

  But at that moment Caludreth flung off the soldiers who held him. Raising his manacled hands, smoke swirled around him, turning, twisting, and then it shot out at the Kingshield Knight and enveloped him.

  One of the Hundred, closest to the knight, threw a knife at him also, and the sound of it striking the silver helm was loud even above the battle din.

  The green fire scattered as the knight lost control of the magic. But some of it burned Menendil’s men, yet also some of it burned the knight’s own soldiers.

  Screams broke out, tearing the air as men burned alive. But the Hundred were angry now, and their moment had arrived. This was their chance, and they surged at the knight to prevent him from having a chance to gather himself and unleash more magic.

  Menendil saw his chance too. He killed a soldier, and drove in toward the two guards of Caludreth. There was smoke all about them, and they seemed to have trouble seeing. Menendil used that, felling one while another comrade who had been close to him fought the other guard.

  “Caludreth!” Menendil cried. “Freedom lies this way!”

  Out of the swirling smoke the figure of Caludreth emerged. He staggered, and Menendil swapped his sword to his left hand and with his right arm supported the once-knight.

  Some of the Hundred gathered round, fending off the soldiers who rallied and tried to prevent the escape. More smoke rose, seemingly to bubble up from the cobbles, and Menendil was away. They burst from the fray, and into clearer air.

  By the flickering light of flame Menendil saw the face of the man he was trying to save. It was gray with weariness, bruised and caked with dried blood. One eye was swollen shut, but the other looked out fiercely. Here was a man who would fight until the very end, but that end was close unless he escaped now.

  It was hard to tell friend from foe, but the Hundred had wrapped white bands around their right arms to distinguish themselves, and he fell into a group of them now. They gathered around him and helped support Caludreth while they staggered away.

  They moved some way down the street, away from the tower. There several men waited. One held the reins of a horse, and another had a hammer in his hand.

  “To the ground, my lord!” Menendil called. “This man will free you from your shackles.”

  Menendil had guessed that Caludreth would be restrained, and he had arranged both horse and blacksmith. He knew who the man was, but the others did not. He could be any blacksmith in the city.

  Caludreth went to his knees and spread his hands, holding the shackles against the cobbles.

  The blacksmith knelt down, hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other. Mighty blows rang out, and sparks flew in the smoky air.

  Menendil glanced back. Chaos had broken out, the soldiers were fighting for their lives, but many of the Hundred concentrated their efforts on the knight. He was the greatest threat, and at any moment he might disengage from those he battled and cast magic at Caludreth. All of this would have been for nothing if the man died now.

  There was another mighty hammer blow from the smith, and Caludreth cried out in pain. Menendil glanced down and he saw blood on the cobbles, but the shackles had come free.

  “To the horse, my lord!”

  He had to help Caludreth stagger up, and then he mounted the horse, pulling the man up behind him. Once more he blew the horn, and it signaled the attack could cease. Now all the Hundred, those still alive, could flee. They would cast away their white arm bands and disappear down the alleys from which they had come.

  But even as he did so, he saw that the archers had been forced to flee and soldiers were pouring out of the barracks.

  Escape was no longer certain, but even if they did pursuit was guaranteed. It had taken too long to free the prisoner.

  22. Shadows

  Winter deepened around the mountain, and the plateau was capped by snow. This ran down the slopes also, but it thinned quickly.

  It was not as cold here as Faran was used to. Yet the wind blew far more frequently, and harder, and that made it feel colder. It was also more dangerous, and the quickly changing weather atop the mountain was even more volatile in winter than it had been in summer.

  The short winter days came and went. The long winter nights passed slowly. Faran trained hard, though he had run into, as Kubodin termed it, the wall. It was an apt description, for no matter how hard Faran trained it seemed that improvements in skill only came by tiny increments now.

  It was always so, Asana had assured him. The better you became the harder it was to improve. Skill at this level was eked out like a miner digging into a mountain of stone with a blunt handpick.

  Ferla had succumbed to the same problem, but not as badly. She had always been nimbler than he was, and faster. She was better at defecting and returning lightning-like ripostes. In this, she improved no more than Faran. But under Asana’s training regimen, she grew stronger, and when she chose to use force she struck with shocking power.

  It was not her way though. She nearly danced as she sparred, moving with a grace and fluidity that was much like that of Asana himself. In this way she wore down her opponents, but when she had beaten them and moved in for the killing blow she would use techniques then that benefited from strength.

  Her two-handed overhead strike in particular was strong. Once, she had hit Faran on the helm harder than she had intended and his head rang for days afterward.

  He had not yet run into the wall though with magic. It was a discipline to him so vast and untapped that it seemed he could progress at any number of skills. And he had, surpassing Kareste’s expectations and ceaselessly improving at many things.

  He could form shields of magic, and commanded lòhren-fire with which to attack. He could summon smoke and mist. The wind he could call, or hold back. Thunder rolled at his uttering of the right word of power, and e
ven lightning came at his asking.

  None of this meant he was particularly strong at these skills. For instance, his lòhren-fire was hot, but it was not of that blistering heat that Kareste could summon and which could melt metal. Yet he improved and grew stronger day by day. The skill he aspired to took decades to acquire, Kareste told him. Or a lifetime. Many who even possessed the talent in the first place never reached their potential. The training was arduous.

  Increasingly, as winter passed, they trained under the mountain. It was rarely now just sword sparring or magic. They had reached a point where in order to be pushed both were combined as a matter of course. He and Ferla would spar, trading blows of the blades and strikes and defenses in magic in a seemingly mad chaos of battle. Yet it was anything but.

  Asana became withdrawn. It was as though the winter weighed down on him, or some fear of the future occupied his mind. Kubodin was troubled, and he gazed at his master in vexation. As much as he tried, his friend would give him no clue as to what the problem was.

  Kareste had taken to wandering the mountain, even in the depths of winter. Cold held little fear for her, and blizzards that might kill ordinary people were of no account. She merely pulled up her hood and walked abroad where others would seek shelter from the deadly wind.

  She, like Asana, was troubled. Faran thought she kept a watch, waiting for their enemies to appear. But there had been no sign of them at all, and surely by now their trail was cold and only an ill chance could reveal them.

  Or sorcery. Ferla especially seemed worried by that.

  “What powers does the king now possess?” she asked Faran one day while they sat alone by a fire in the underground hall. “Do you think he can scry our presence as legends of old speak of during the elù-haraken?”

  “I don’t know. Yet if he could, surely he would have sent Lindercroft after us now.”

  She rubbed her hands together before the flames. “I suppose so. Yet Kareste says his powers will grow as he falls deeper under the influence of the stone.”