Shard Knight (Echoes Across Time Book 1)

by Ballard, Matthew

  “Danielle, we need to secure their shards. Can you carry Alana’s?” Keely said.

  Danielle nodded. “Yes. I’ll carry it.” She scooped up Alana’s shard and held it near her staff. The staff turned liquid, opened, and surrounded the shard before sealing shut.

  “I’ll hold Maura’s. I’m not letting her keep two valuable shards,” Brendyn picked up Maura’s shard and secured it with his staff.

  “Brendyn, I’d like to remind you that conflict serves to weaken the group,” Arber said. “Danielle didn’t act alone. You voted to open the book. Remember?”

  Brendyn’s face flushed. “I’d change my vote now.”

  “And you think Danielle wouldn’t?” Arber said.

  “As the team leader, she should’ve known better,” Brendyn said.

  “It’s fine Arber. He has a right to speak his mind,” Danielle said. “I accept responsibility.”

  “I’ll hold the book.” Arber said.

  “Don’t touch it Arber.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended. “We’ll leave the book here and send a full crew for it after we return to the Heartwood,” Danielle said.

  “We need to secure Maura and Alana until we can recover them,” Arber said.

  Danielle nodded. “Yes, but we’ll not leave them surrounded by this horror. Let’s carry them into the cave.”

  Danielle and Keely picked up Alana while Arber and Brendyn carried Maura. They left the book room and carried their friends’ remains into the small cave.

  As she entered the chilly cave, Danielle froze in astonishment. Her day had taken a marked turn for the worse.

  At the cave entrance, six shard knights, surrounded by spheres of pulsing blue light, glanced toward her at the same time. Two more knights entered through the shredded lattice work of vines at the cave entrance.

  Beyond the company of knights, bright sunshine blazed through a brilliant blue sky.

  The Last Resort

  “Damn!” Tyrell said.

  A half mile away the tiny village of Winter Haven reached out a welcoming embrace. Beyond the village, on the muddy lane leading upward through the pass, a dozen tents sat arranged with military precision. The Meranthian flag flapped in the stiff breeze from the small camp’s flagpole, and several columns of smoke curled into the afternoon sky.

  Ronan’s stomach sank. “Roadblock.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Tyrell said.

  “We’ll turn back,” Ronan said.

  “No. It’s too late for that,” Tyrell said.

  Ronan whirled on Tyrell. “It’s too late? We can’t enter Winter Haven with the army stationed there.”

  “Stay calm Ronan, and keep Betty moving toward Winter Haven. I’ll explain.”

  Ronan tugged on the reigns. “Come on girl.”

  Betty, his chestnut mare, walked up the mud covered mountain road.

  Reggie, Tyrell’s stallion, pulled even with Betty snorting his satisfaction. “At least two shard knights will command that company. If we can see them, they can see us. If we turn around, we’ll draw their attention. We’ll stop at the village inn and see if Monsieur Marez has any useful information.”

  Dread and relief battled for supremacy in Ronan’s gut. Weak-kneed he gripped his saddle to keep from falling.

  Winter Haven consisted of a blacksmith’s shop, a quaint inn, and a smattering of thatch-roofed cottages.

  Ronan guided Betty to the hitching post outside the inn. He gave thanks to Elan for the crisp autumn-like day and pulled tight on his black hood. If shard knights commanded the soldiers near the pass, they’d have to come inside the inn to see his face.

  Tyrell dismounted Reggie, secured him next to Betty on the hitching post, and crossed the short distance to the inn’s entrance. The sign hanging above the door read The Last Resort.

  The aroma of hot cinnamon bread and the warmth from a crackling fire lifted Ronan’s spirits as he entered the inn.

  A short round-faced innkeeper swept the already spotless floor. His eyes went wide, and a friendly smile lit his sun-drenched skin when her recognized Tyrell. He set the broom aside and scurried across the room spreading his arms wide. “Ah, Monsieur Tyrell. It’s wonderful to see you. It’s been far too long.”

  Tyrell clasped the innkeepers extended hand, and a warm smile stretched across his face. “It’s good to see you too Monsieur Marez.” Tyrell gestured toward Ronan. “I’d like to introduce you to my apprentice, Ronan.”

  The bald innkeeper’s eyes went wide with delight. He opened his arms and embraced Ronan in a bear hug. “Please call me Jacques. Welcome to my inn Ronan.” He released Ronan and glanced toward Tyrell. “This is the boy you mentioned during your last trip through Winter Haven? You found him?” Marez said with a heavy Ayralen accent.

  Tyrell’s smile broadened to include the creases around his eyes. “Yes Jacques. I found him.”

  Ronan pulled back his hood and relaxed. “Thank you for the warm welcome. It’s good to see a friendly face.”

  Monsieur Marez’s mouth dropped open, and he gasped. “Monsieur Tyrell, you didn’t tell me the boy was Ayralen! But, he sounds like you!” He turned wide eyes on Ronan. “I so miss the Heartwood. Tell me, have the leaves changed color yet?”

  “I’ve heard that I look Ayralen Monsieur Ma-, I mean, Jacques, but I’m Meranthian. I grew up here,” Ronan said.

  Bewilderment speckled Monsieur Marez’s expression. “You must excuse me Monsieur. I see so few Ayralens, and I miss the Heartwood. I thought…well…never mind.” He motioned toward a smooth round table near the hearth. “Please, come in and relax. Let me bring you some food.” Monsieur Marez rushed off and disappeared through a swinging door behind a polished bar made from a stunning redwood streaked with traces of gold and silver.

  Tyrell caught Ronan staring at the bar. “It’s heartwood. It’s native to Ayralen. The warden’s council must grant permission before the smallest piece can leave their country. Monsieur Marez has important friends back in the Heartwood.”

  “Rika’s told me stories about the Heartwood.”

  Monsieur Marez backed through the swinging door carrying a tray laden with food enough to feed the entire company of soldiers stationed up the hill. As if reading their expressions he said, “You look hungry, and you never know when you’ll eat again.”

  Ronan’s mouth watered, and his stomach growled as Monsieur Marez arrayed the feast on the table near the hearth.

  Monsieur Marez unloaded roast beef, warm buttered rolls, goat cheese, and baked cinnamon apples. He spread the dishes across the polished round table. “Eat. Don’t be shy.” He placed the empty tray on a nearby table and sat with Ronan and Tyrell.

  “Jacques, what do you know about the king’s soldiers camped near the pass?” Tyrell said as he dug into the stew.

  Monsieur Marez grimaced. “Please, don’t get me started with those soldiers. They come in here and eat and drink, and they don’t pay me a single copper penny.”

  “Why don’t they leave?” Ronan said between bites of bread.

  “They tell me nothing, but they’re searching for someone I think. I see them searching wagons and talking to every person traveling the pass.”

  “Have you seen the officers? Who’s in charge?” Tyrell said.

  Monsieur Marez’s brow furrowed, and he stared upward with a look of concentration. “I don’t know which soldier’s in charge. He’s a big blond brute and wears strange armor. A second soldier wears the same armor, but he takes orders from the blond man.”

  “Did they give their names?” Tyrell said.

  “I don’t remember their names. They’ve come inside my inn a few times. They use mean words,” Monsieur Marez said.

  On cue, the door swung inward, and a pair of shard knights stepped inside. Strapped to the battle knight’s shoulders the jeweled pommel of a shard blade glittered in the inn’s warm glow. A shield knight came in behind but carried no weapon and wore a thin layer of chain mail. Emblazoned on the knights’ brea
stplates, the tell-tale crest of the Order gave notice of their station.

  The battle knight’s spiked blond hair and smug smile gave him away.

  Ronan’s stomach sank as he laid eyes on Bryson Slater. He didn’t know how Bryson managed to find a shard during the last few weeks, but he could hazard a guess. Ronan shifted his chair angling his back to the knights.

  Bryson staggered toward the heartwood bar and plopped onto a barstool. The second knight gave Ronan and Tyrell a sideways glance as he took measured steps across the inn before settling onto the stool beside Bryson.

  “Barkeep! We needs ale now.” Bryson glared at Monsieur Marez from behind a pair of bleary blood-shot eyes, and he swayed on the stool.

  Monsieur Marez jumped from his seat and scurried behind the bar to fill the order.

  Ronan prayed Bryson didn’t recognize him or Tyrell. He had a full beard when he’d last seen Bryson at Lord Randal’s manor, and the hood Ronan wore shadowed his face. The layers of grime from weeks spent traveling with Tyrell completed the disguise. As he chewed on a warm roll, Ronan channeled his power and listened in on the knights’ conversation.

  “What do you think Bryson?” The shield knight said. “The younger one looks Ayralen.”

  Bryson took a long drink of his ale wiping the foam from his upper lip. “I think this is some damn fine ale. I swear to Elan it’s good, but I’m afraid to know how that fat little barkeep makes it.” His words came out slurred.

  “Come on, you know what I mean,” the shield knight said tipping back his own mug.

  “The younger one is Ayralen. I can smell his tree stink a mile away.” Bryson said. “The older one looks familiar somehow. Do you recognize him?”

  Ronan’s jaw clenched. He gripped the blade at his belt and braced himself.

  “No. Let's question them. We should separate-”

  “I think I’m tired of letting Ayralens run around this village like they own the place. I’ve left the fat little innkeeper alone because the ale tastes so good, but these two are a different story. Let’s have some fun”

  Ronan held his breath and shot a glance at Tyrell seated across from him.

  With subtle shake of his head, Tyrell signaled to stay put.

  Ronan let spirit energy wash over his flesh giving it the same protection as a suit of plate armor. His skin flashed with a faint yellow glow, and the energy sank into his flesh applying its magic.

  Bryson drained the last drops from his tankard, slammed it on the bar and stood. “Come on Jeremy. Let’s show that tree-hugging bastard how it’s done Meranthian style.”

  Ronan prepared for the humiliation he’d endure to protect those living at Redkeep.

  Metallic boot steps thumped against the finely polished wooden floor as the knights approached their table.

  He channeled more shard energy and used it to deaden the nerve endings throughout his body.

  The sound of rattling armor stopped as the knights towered over Ronan’s table. “Well look here Jeremy. We’ve found ourselves a forest fungus,” Bryson said.

  Ronan steadied his breathing and faced Bryson. “Monsieur. I mean no offense to either of you. If we’ve done something to offend the king’s guard, we will leave you alone.” He pitched his voice to carry an Ayralen accent.

  Bryson carried an overpowering stench of body odor and heavy alcohol. “You being alive offends me tree boy.”

  “I’m most sorry. We will leave. We meant no trouble,” Ronan said.

  Behind Bryson, Jeremy stood with a calculated expression on his clean-shaven face. “Where did you travel from?” Jeremy said.

  “We traveled from the east. From Brighthurst,” Tyrell said. “We’re headed north to Ironbarrow. The smith in Brighthurst said they need miners.”

  “Brighthurst you say?” Jeremy said. “How’s old man Sherman doing these days?”

  Tyrell met the shield knight’s cool gaze with one more penetrating. “I’m sorry to tell you Sir Knight, Sherman died a couple of years ago, and his son took over the smithy. Do you know Codell?”

  Jeremy’s expression flattened. “I’m done with these two Bryson.”

  “We’ll leave you alone.” Ronan stood.

  Bryson pushed on Ronan’s shoulder slamming him back into his seat. “I didn’t say you could go. Sit your ass down.”

  A loud crack split the air as Ronan’s chair splintered and sent him sprawling onto the inn’s wooden floor.

  Bryson howled pointing at Ronan. “Look at him Jeremy. What’s the matter tree boy? Can’t sit in a chair?”

  Ronan turned a pleading expression toward Tyrell.

  “Gentleman, my friend meant no offense. I’ll take him, and we’ll leave,” Tyrell said.

  Bryson spun on Tyrell pointing his finger. “Shut your mouth old man. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

  Ronan started to pull himself free of the ruined chair.

  Bryson spun and kicked Ronan’s stomach with his steel plated boot. “I told you to sit down.”

  Despite the shard magic’s protection, Ronan’s stomach lurched, and his lunch threatened to spill. Bryon’s kick should’ve killed him, but he doubted Bryson had learned enough about his power to understand the inherent strength of a battle knight.

  Bryson gripped Ronan’s ankle. “Jeremy, have you ever seen a tree toad jump? I want to see this tree toad climb a tree. Come on Jeremy.”

  Ronan feigned pain from the kick, but if Bryson struck him that hard again, he wouldn’t need to fake it.

  Bryson dragged him like a tainted corpse across the floor of the inn, threw open the door, and tossed him into the muddy lane leading through village.

  Ronan suppressed the urge to strike. “Please Knight Bryson. I’m begging you to stop.”

  Bryson lifted Ronan by his collar ripping his cotton tunic. “Get up you lazy sod!” He pointed toward a fifty foot blue spruce tree next to the inn. “I want to see you scramble to the top of that tree, Tree Boy!” He shoved Ronan's back.

  Ronan pitched forward and caught himself before his face struck the ground.

  A few inches from Ronan’s nose, a steaming pile of horse dung sat in the muddy lane.

  The stink of hot dung curdled Ronan’s sore stomach, and his throat constricted as nausea swept over him.

  Bryson’s meaty palm cupped the back of Ronan’s skull like a ripe melon. “Eat shit you rotten maggot.”

  Ronan channeled shard magic and removed his sense of smell and taste a moment before Bryson shoved him eyeball deep in the stinking pile. Slimy heat from the dung seeped into Ronan’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

  Bryson roared with laughter, and several villagers gathered around the spectacle.

  “Okay Bryson, why don’t you let him go now? You’ve made your point,” Jeremy said.

  “Piss off Jeremy. I’m just getting started. Why don’t you carry your skirt back to camp if you’ve a problem?”

  Ronan pulled his face from the dung and gasped for air.

  “Why don’t you take your friend’s advice Bryson? You have several witnesses,” Tyrell motioned toward the gathering crowd.

  Bryson wheeled around noticing the villagers. “Like I give a whore’s pimpled ass about this rabble. I’m a knight of the Order.” He glared at Tyrell. “And I thought I told you to shut your damn hole anyway.”

  Ronan sat back on his haunches and wiped the excrement from his face.

  Bryson turned back to Ronan sliding his shard blade free of its sheath. “You picked the wrong day to visit Winter Haven Tree Boy.”

  A chill ran up Ronan’s spine. He had taken this charade as far as he dared. He drew his hand toward his belt knife and braced for a fight.

  Gripped in Bryson’s gloved hands, a two-handed sword radiated yellow light in an aura bright enough to blind a man. He barked out a short laugh. “You think you can run from me boy?”

  A flutter of seeds drifted through the air rustling over Bryson’s dirty blond hair before settling in place at his feet.

 
“Seeds? Are these yours Tree Boy? Do you think a few seeds will stop this blade?” He ripped the blade through the air at speeds so fast tracers of light scorched the midday sunlight.

  “Those aren’t his seeds. They’re mine,” a strange voice said from the crowd.

  A man standing at the crowd’s edge extended his left hand toward Bryson. In his other hand he tightened his grip on a thick heartwood staff. A greenish glow surrounded his outstretched palm, and a layer of glowing vines, flowers, and leaves wrapped around his body in a protective sheath. The vegetation stretched and twisted writhing into a suit of living armor.

  The seeds beneath Bryson burst open, and thorny black vines as thick as a man’s leg erupted from the ground. They curled and wrapped around Bryson locking him in a vice grip. More vines sprouted from those confining him and encased his arms while the thorns burrowed into exposed flesh.

  Bryson howled with shock and rage as the vines locked around the shard blade gripped in his trapped hand. Exposed atop a tangle of black twisted bramble, Bryson’s bloodshot eyes blazed with fury. He twisted and pulled in a futile effort to gain his freedom. “Jeremy! Cut me loose!”

  Jeremy stared in shock as the vines wrapped Bryson like a horde of hungry pythons.

  Bryson’s eyes rolled back, and his head hung to the side. Drool and the froth of white spittle oozed from his open mouth as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Ronan had never seen a warden, but Rika had described them in detail. Wardens and their shape-shifting brethren called guardians used Ayralen shard magic. He gave silent thanks to whatever God sent the warden to Winter Haven.

  The warden turned a ruthless gaze on Jeremy showing not the slightest trace of fear.

  Jeremy lifted his palm, and pure blue energy flashed around him encasing him in a glowing barrier of protective light.

  “I wouldn’t bother doing that Jeremy,” Tyrell said.

  Jeremy extended his hand toward the warden as more energy formed in his palm.

  A flash of dim light surrounded the warden encasing him in a shield intended to lock him in place.