The Sage Knight

by Robert Ryan

  Caludreth slept then, perhaps for the first time in days. But Menendil remained on guard. He set himself on a chair near the door to the tunnel and waited.

  Dawn was not that far off. Every moment that passed without soldiers bursting in made it more likely that somehow they had gotten away with this undetected. The Hundred had rescued a prisoner of the king, and escaped.

  Tomorrow, word would spread like fire through the city. It would give people hope. It would spark unrest, perhaps even rebellion. If the king could be defied in one way, he could be defied in others. For all his dark powers, he was not invincible.

  There was a reverse side to it too. The king would see this happening, and he would move to stamp it out. He would be ruthless, and he would seek to find people, guilty or not, and make an example of them to cower the citizens of Faladir. Or he might do something else. But whatever he did, it would be designed to increase his power.

  Menendil looked over at where the once-knight slept. Could this man help? Could he be more than a symbol of defiance? Did he have answers to their problems?

  Menendil knew that he, himself, did not.

  24. Ancestors

  Asana sat in the High Chair, and he pondered the future. At least, what remained of it.

  He knew he was going to die, and soon. His foretellings never lied, and he remembered the sorcery being cast at him that would take his life. He had no defense. Perhaps, he could have averted that destiny by refusing to train Ferla and Faran. Perhaps. Yet he had not, and he was glad that he had not.

  They were the best pupils he had ever taught, and that included some of the great warriors among the Cheng. More than that, they were good people, and their cause was righteous. Moreover, he owed Aranloth much, and the old man would have wanted it so.

  But his pondering now was in vain. He had made his choice, and the consequences were inevitable. More than that, he had seen the signs in the foretelling and knew the indicators of when the dark day would come.

  It was at hand. He knew it. Fate ran even the fastest runner down, and eternity was but the blink of an eye. He would die, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

  Yet he could prepare for it. He could do what many of his ancestors had done. There was a ceremony he could perform, one which he had never considered before, but that he had known he would enact from the moment of his foretelling. He had seen himself in that vision, even as he sat here now in the High Chair, and with Kubodin going to fetch Faran and Ferla.

  He sighed, and turned to Kareste. “Destiny approaches, and there is something I must do. On no account interfere, I beg you.”

  She looked at him, and there was no surprise on her face. Was that just lòhren poise, or had she seen her own visions?

  “I’ll not interfere, but what you contemplate cannot be reversed. Are you sure it is your will?”

  How she knew what he intended amazed him. But the knowledge of lòhrens ran deep, and he merely accepted that it was so.

  “I do as I must, and as I feel is right.”

  He drew his sword. It was an old weapon, handed down through generation after generation of his ancestors. The metal was both hard yet somewhat flexible. It was as a man’s life should be. Unyielding where it came to defying evil, greed, corruption, intimidation and the ill chances of the world. Yet pliant enough to withstand the forces that raged against it and still stand up again afterward.

  He uttered the sacred words, and they filled the chamber, whispering back to him. Or perhaps they were no longer his own words but the words of his ancestors, for he had summoned them.

  The room grew cold. All about him he sensed the presence of those who had formed him in ages past. He was one with them, and they one with him. Some part of their spirit was bound to the blade, and would never be released until the blade broke.

  Even as they had done in their lives, binding themselves by the sacred rite to the sword, so he would do now himself.

  It was not immortality. Some held that it would be a torment. He was not sure of that, but he knew it was fitting. He had a destiny, and it involved the sword. When he died, Kubodin had instructions to take the blade, if he could, and find a worthy master to pass it on to. That way Asana could still, in some manner, fulfill his destiny.

  The spirits of the sword had little power. But he felt them gather round him now and give him strength. In that, they were influential. It was the power of the mind that governed a person’s achievements, and if it were strong there were few limits to what might be done. And the spirits of the dead could offer wisdom and insight to help a person and direct their passions.

  So it was that they came to him in dreams. Even, perhaps, they were the source of his foretellings. They were not visible in reality though, but it was said they appeared at the death of one who joined his spirit to the blade.

  That, he would discover shortly. He uttered more of the incantation, and as a part of that he sprang forward, for gestures were part of the spell. In this case the gestures were a special sword pattern, and he flowed across the floor, the blade hissing as he struck the air, performing techniques that he knew but in an order that he never dared perform at any other time.

  Nor would he ever perform the pattern again.

  When he was done, he bowed and then straightened, running the sharp edge of the blade as gently as he could across his left palm. The blood sizzled on the blade, but it did not evaporate. Instead, it seeped into the metal becoming one with it. He had not expected that, but the ceremony had only been handed down to him in whispers.

  He swayed, and felt suddenly weak. But then strength filled him again. The ceremony was done, and he was one with the blade and one with his ancestors.

  Sheathing the sword, he sat back down on the High Chair.

  “A strange magic,” Kareste said. “But ancient. The dead are free for a time, but not just in the blade. Nor were all summoned by you.”

  What she meant, Asana did not know. But her staff was in her hand, and she gripped it tightly. She was ready to fight.

  Outside, he heard a fell cry tear apart the night. It came from a great distance, perhaps high in the sky. But it was no natural bird or animal that he had ever heard before.

  25. The Seventh Knight

  Faran paused. There was movement at the entrance to the underground halls.

  A moment later, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Asana, and beside him was Kareste.

  Kubodin went in first, and then Faran and Ferla close behind.

  “Elù-draks,” Faran warned.

  Asana did not look surprised, but there was a grim cast to his face.

  “We know,” the master replied. For some reason there was a slight cut on his left palm, and a trace of blood on his trousers. He was normally so neat that Faran found it disturbing.

  “How do they keep finding us?” Ferla asked.

  Kareste peered out of the entrance, but did not step outside.

  “It was inevitable. Your enemies will never give up. That, you already know. But how exactly they did it, there’s just no way to know. Lòhrens aren’t the only ones who have foretellings and visions. Sorcerers do too. Perhaps the stone sensed us somehow. Perhaps the king used some spell. But magic is unreliable for this. Most likely, it was just bad luck. If you look long enough, you’ll find what you seek.”

  It seemed like more than bad luck to Faran. It was the worst luck possible. Then again, they had been here a long time. It just seemed so short looking back on it.

  “The question,” Kareste continued, “is this. Now that we are found, what are we going to do?”

  Faran glanced at Asana and Kubodin. “I’m sorry that we’ve brought this on you.”

  Kubodin laughed. “Sorry? Why should that be? I’m looking forward to this! It’s going to be the best fight ever!”

  At that, Asana smiled. “Do not fear, Faran. I wouldn’t change anything. Remember that. I have taught you that in the lands of the Cheng a warrior is also a sage, and that a sage accept
s the shifting tides of fate as a matter of course. Destiny is neither sought out nor run from. It’s taken.” He glanced at Ferla as he said those last words, and it seemed at that moment that he would say more. But just then another cry came from the dark sky.

  When it ended, Ferla spoke. “Kareste is right. What do we do now? Flee or fight?”

  There was a long silence. Ferla looked at him, and he thought he read her intentions.

  “Is fleeing an option?” he asked.

  Kareste leaned on her staff. “It might be possible. But we’re on a mountain here, and there is no escape but down the slopes. They’ll be watched by elù-draks, and even magic will struggle to deceive their eyes. Any fighting we do if discovered, will also be out in the open.”

  “Better to fight here,” Kubodin said. “This tunnel is the only way in, and it’s narrow. We can defend ourselves here better than anywhere else.”

  Faran looked at Ferla again. “I think it’s time to make a stand. I’m done being hunted. It makes me sick. For good or ill, I want to carry the fight back to our enemies. But we all have to agree to that. We have to stay together because that’s our best chance of surviving. So I’ll stay here, or try to flee, if that’s what we decide to do as a group.”

  “It’s time, Faran,” Ferla said. “I too am done running. Live or die, I’m ready to stand against evil.”

  Faran looked at the others. “What do you all say?”

  “Stay and fight,” Asana answered.

  “Stay and fight,” Kareste agreed.

  Kubodin grinned. “Kill them all, I say,” and he drew his axe out and shook it.

  So it was that they stayed, and Faran knew that it would be the longest night of his life and that the world would be changed by the next morning. If he saw it.

  There was no need for an elaborate plan. They would defend the narrow tunnel, and if necessary fall back. If they came to the central hall below, they would make their last stand there.

  Faran thought about fetching his bow. He had not practiced much with it since coming to the mountain, but he had not neglected it either. Yet the tunnel was narrow, and the opportunities to use it would be limited. What was coming was a job for swords.

  They ate a subdued meal, waiting for the enemy. At least they all seemed subdued, except for Kubodin who ate his food with relish.

  It was in the middle reaches of the night that the enemy came. It was not what Faran was expecting.

  Lindercroft led the enemy, which he had anticipated. He had perhaps twenty men with him also. Some carried smoking torches, and this Faran had expected. But there were other creatures with them, dimly seen in the flickering light, and all dark things of legend. Elugs, which some called goblins, marched in a group by themselves. There were Lethrin too, which were often called trolls. There was a lumbering creature as well, seemingly part lizard and part serpent, but as large as a bull. It was not a dragon, that much Faran knew. But he had no name for it.

  Nor was that all that was surprising. Apart from Lindercroft and the men, the other creatures were dead. They were rotting, their flesh hanging in strips and the battle wounds that had killed them obvious. Faran nearly vomited.

  Lindercroft came close to the narrow entrance, walking ahead of his force. Asana stood there, calm and poised. He had possession of the hall, so it was fitting that he was their first spokesperson.

  “You, I do not know,” Lindercroft said. “But I see those I seek behind you. Give them up to me, or die. That is your choice. If you do so, I have no quarrel with you, and you will suffer no harm.”

  It seemed to Faran that he meant it, but there was no telling with Lindercroft.

  “They are my friends, all of them,” Asana replied. “You have no business here. If you attempt to take them, I will stand in your way and you will die.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Lindercroft replied. “And I care less that you carry a sword. But you will not kill me. You don’t have the skill. No one does.”

  Asana grinned in the dim light of the lanterns in the tunnel.

  “I did not say that I would be the one to kill you. As to skill, we will see what you think of that by the end.”

  Lindercroft gave a curt nod, but did not reply. Instead, he walked back to his forces.

  Faran glanced at Kareste. “Are the creatures with him illusion?”

  She did not take her gaze off the enemy. “No. They’re real. Lindercroft has summoned dead from the battlefields near here, and his power is great to do so. And greater still to summon so many. But not so great that he could properly restore their bodies, even for a short time. The stone has lent him great power, but he is not invincible.”

  “And the dead creatures?” Asana asked.

  “Steel can destroy the sorcery just as it can destroy life.”

  The first attack came soon after. Lindercroft did not fight, himself. His tactic would be to send his forces in first, and perhaps lend them sorcerous aid. Against this, Kareste held herself back. She was best positioned to counter magic.

  Asana held the narrow entrance. There was room enough only for one to fight here, and he had charge of these halls and the first duty to protect them.

  The master barely seemed to move. His sword arced and curved gracefully, and his strokes appeared unhurried. Yet the elugs which Lindercroft sent first fell before him like leaves blown in the wind.

  But there were many of them, and as soon as one fell another took its place. The stench of rotting flesh was nauseating, and the moans of the creatures disturbing. It seemed that they could not speak, and Faran guessed that while sorcery commanded their bodies, the spirits that once gave them life were not present. That meant that Lindercroft controlled and sustained them. If so, he would have little capacity to attack.

  The dead piled up before Asana, and as steel severed the magic that bound them to Lindercroft they turned back to the dust and fragments of bone that they had long since been on the battlefield below the mountain.

  Unexpectedly, Asana stumbled. At last a sword of the enemy endangered him, and falling backward from the narrow entrance two elugs forced their way in.

  Kubodin leaped forward with his axe. That had been arranged. He and Asana knew each other well, and fought in harmony together. They would do so, and when they needed rest Faran and Ferla would take their places.

  The wicked axe of Kubodin smashed into the chest of the elug pressing forward against Asana, and this gave the master time to catch his footing again. A moment later Asana’s blade sliced through the creature’s leg, toppling it.

  The enemy pressed hard, driven from behind by Lindercroft. But the two men held their ground, the axe heaving and swiping and the thin blade both flashing death in different ways.

  They fought differently too. Kubodin battled like a crazy man, grunting and laughing, even at times taunting his opponents. This he soon stopped when they did not answer back. Instead, he yelled over their heads and called Lindercroft a coward for not fighting himself, and insulted the soldiers with Lindercroft in language that seemed startling even in the midst of battle. But for all that, his axe was deadly.

  Asana barely seemed to move, just flowing silently with sublime grace from one technique to the next, executing them as though he were in no hurry at all. Yet his blade flashed quicker than the eye could properly follow, and the heads of long-dead elugs toppled to the floor. Hands fell as well, for the master was disadvantaged by a lighter blade so he used it to its strength. It was sharper than any razor and he sought the most vulnerable points of the enemy – the neck where a gap existed between helmet and chainmail coat, and the hand that held the weapon.

  Faran could not imagine two fighters who were more different, yet they both dealt out destruction equally. It seemed that Kubodin only fought at his best in real battle, and now he revealed himself a master of the axe as much as Asana was a master of the blade.

  But they were not gods of war, and as good as they were they began to tire for there seemed no end to the
enemy. Gradually, they were pushed back.

  Faran looked at Ferla. It was their turn, and fear ran through his veins and turned his bones cold. But this was what he had trained for.

  “Fall back, Kubodin,” he cried.

  The little man swung a vicious sideways strike at an elug, smashing its helm away and shattering the skull under it, which was half white bone and half decomposing flesh. Even as it fell he retreated and Faran leaped into the gap.

  He faced his first enemy. It was an elug. It had no helm or armor, but it carried a massive mace, pitted and rusted on the surface. This it swung at Faran.

  A moment he froze, fear seizing up his limbs. Then he dodged, and felt a rush of air above his face. He moved into The Swallow Dips Low, his sword slicing into the enemy’s knee.

  The elug staggered and fell, but it was not done fighting. Moaning, it swung its mace again, this time at Faran’s own legs.

  Faran nimbly jumped the attack, and from his position of height brought down the tip of his sword in Hawk Folds its Wings. The point of the blade penetrated the skull and killed the creature instantly. It spasmed and lurched, then collapsed to the floor. But Faran’s blade was stuck in the bone and did not come free when he pulled at it.

  Another elug leaped at him, small but fast, and it swung a sickle-shaped blade at his neck. Faran waited until the last moment, then ducked low beneath the attack and pressed forward bringing his left knee up into the creature’s groin.

  The elug fell back, and the skull in which Faran’s sword was stuck crumbled into fragments as the magic that had gathered the corpse together and animated it unraveled.

  He darted forward, slashing the elug before him several times until it burst apart in a spray of ancient dust and scattered bones.

  Beside him he glimpsed Ferla, neatly killing an elug herself. She was not as strong as him, but she fought with agility and ease, reminding him of Asana. If she felt the fear that Faran had, it did not show.

  Two fresh opponents lumbered forward, but they were not elugs. They were Lethrin, towering above him and massive. In their mighty hands were axes, and though he knew techniques that pitted a sword against an axe, he had never faced an opponent before that dwarfed him in size.