The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck

by Jason McWhirter

  Kiln’s sword emanated a bright green light and the room lit up in a jade-like glow. The man before him was small and shrouded all in black. Even his head was hooded in black, and a black cloth covered his mouth and nose. The only thing that Kiln could see was the man’s eyes, and they were eyes he recognized, oval in shape and slanted at the corners with cold black pupils. The man standing before him was a Sharneen assassin.

  Kiln knew this killer probably had a plethora of weapons to use against him, some probably poisoned, and he did not want to give the assassin time to use them, so he attacked without hesitation.

  He spun his sword left and right, attacking and lunging at the intruder hoping that his relentless pressure would catch the warrior off guard. It didn’t. The Sharneen met his attacks with his two short swords and his perfect balance and movement kept him out of harm’s way.

  The two warriors danced and spun across the room, their blades continuously connecting, the loud clanging of steel on steel echoing in the still night. Neither gained an advantage as they fought furiously for an opening. They were both experts and their skills mirrored each other. Each movement and attack was met by a counter and followed by another attack and counter. They seemed to know what the other was going to do ahead of time, as if their weapons were attracted to each other, clashing in a deadly dance, neither opponent doing harm to the other.

  Kiln’s bare torso was glistening with sweat as he pushed his skills to the limit. This man that threatened him was a master swordsman, and probably much younger than he, for his movements had that grace that one expected from the young who had been well trained. Yet he fought like a veteran, recognizing every attack and strike that Kiln directed at him.

  Uthgil’s blood pulsed with adrenaline as he realized that the confrontation of his life had finally arrived, that the warrior that represented the ultimate challenge was standing in front of him.

  But he also realized that the sound of their battle was echoing down the hallways and help was sure to arrive soon. He had to either end this fight quickly, something he was not sure was possible, or flee and hope to meet him again.

  He could try again to kill him with poison, but now that he had tasted the man’s skill, he would not sully his chance to fight him again evenly, blade to blade, by using poison. He didn’t have to use poison; he had other options.

  Uthgil had made up his mind. He spun away from the swordsman toward the door to the balcony, bringing his right blade up and catching it under his arm pit. Faster than the eye could follow he continued his free hand’s movement across the bandolier on his chest, gripped a throwing dart, and flung the bolt side armed at the fast approaching swordsman.

  Kiln caught the movement as he closed the distance that was purposefully created by the Sharneen warrior. He was so close, but in the state of Ty’erm, everything seemed slower and his movements were more precise, so he was able to redirect his attack, stepping aside and swiping his blade across his body, the entire time focusing on the small dart flying at him. Kiln’s blade hit the dart with a clang, sending it banging against the stone wall.

  So focused was he on the first dart, that he missed the second one. A small bolt hit him in the shoulder, spinning him to the side. Though the dart was tiny and it only entered his flesh a few inches, he immediately knew that it was coated with poison. It stung fiercely and Kiln gritted his teeth, looking up to see the Sharneen pick up his crossbow and flee out the door to the balcony.

  Uthgil had prepared for his escape prior to his attack and it took him mere moments to set it up. Strapped to his dark leather belt was a thin black rope rolled up perfectly in a small bundle. The rope was very thin, and would have been too thin to hold his weight. But it had been enchanted and it would actually hold twice that. Not only was it much stronger than its appearance, but with a mere magic word the end would take the shape of a hook, stronger than metal and capable of returning back to its rope-like shape and suppleness with another magic word. It had cost him a fortune to have a wizard make it, but it had saved his life many times and was well worth the cost.

  “Talvar,” Uthgil whispered to the rope, pulling the end free from the belt after sheathing his twin blades. Immediately the tip formed a strong hook and Uthgil placed it on the rail. Then he threw the rope over the edge, looked back as Kiln stumbled through the balcony door, and bounded over the rail with the rope held tightly in his gloved hands.

  Normally the rope would have burned his hands as he slid down, but not this rope. His gloves had been made with the rope and their magic partnered each other. The magical gloves not only protected his hands, but they created an unnatural friction, which slowed the assassin’s descent to a controllable pace.

  Uthgil landed lightly on his feet in seconds, whispered the triggering word to release the hook, and caught the rope as it fell from above him. He wrapped up the rope, shoved it into his tunic, and raced off into the night, disappearing into the shadows like breath in the wind.

  Kiln stumbled through the balcony door, falling to his knees. His vision swam as he reached up, yanking the dart from his shoulder. He shook his head, trying to push away the blackness that was encroaching on his mind. He tried to move forward but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Am I dying, Kiln thought, as he struggled to stand. His mind was drifting like a rudderless ship and he couldn’t seem to remember what had happened, or why he was on the floor. Then he found himself lying on his stomach, where he finally succumbed to the blackness.

  Jormell was standing at his post outside Captain Lathrin’s barracks when he had heard the commotion. He turned his head toward the courtyard where he heard the noise. Listening intently, he wondered if his tired mind was playing tricks on him.

  Jormell was young, just over twenty winters, and he had recently earned the honor of knighthood. His round face still had the pimpled skin of youth, but it lit up like the sun when he smiled.

  Then he heard it again. The sound was unmistakable, steel on steel as blades met in combat, and it was coming from the courtyard.

  He hesitated, wondering what he should do. If he went to investigate the sound then he would be leaving his post, but if he didn’t, then whoever was in trouble might end up dead. He knew he should raise the alarm, but maybe he should tell the standing officer first.

  He ran into the barracks and went directly to Fourth Lance Dagrinal, who was sleeping near the main door. Third Lance Lathrin did not sleep in the barracks and the officer in charge was Dagrinal. It was dark, but enough ambient light from the moon shown through the windows to guide him to the lieutenant’s bed.

  “Sir!” Jormell hissed, shaking the sleeping form.

  Dagrinal was a light sleeper and he bolted up immediately at the disturbance. Jormell jumped back, startled by his sudden reaction. “Fourth Lance, something is happening in the courtyard.”

  “What? What do you mean, Jormell?” asked Dagrinal, now alert and wide eyed.

  “It sounds like fighting, sir, coming from the courtyard!”

  “Why didn’t you sound the alarm?” cried Dagrinal, leaping from his bed and grabbing his sword that was leaning against the wall.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I thought to inform you first before I woke the entire compound.”

  “Are you sure its fighting?” Dagrinal drew his sword from its scabbard.

  “Yes, sir, the sound is unmistakable.”

  “Then sound the alarm!” Dagrinal yelled, running toward the door. The sound of the alarm horn bellowing in the night followed Dagrinal as he leaped out into the darkness and ran toward the courtyard.

  Uthgil heard the horn, swearing softly under his breath. He had to get to the south wall where he had placed his rope to scale the inner wall. Once over the inner wall of the king’s compound he could easily disappear into the dark city streets of Finarth. But he had to move fast, for the grounds would soon be swarming with knights.

  The moon was bright and it pierced the darkness like a cat’s eye. But the shadows of the barrack and stable walls p
rovided enough cover for him to move quickly, unnoticed.

  Uthgil’s mind drifted back to his fight with the warrior as he moved from shadow to shadow. It seemed that the man’s reputation had been well earned. His quickness and skill sent a shiver down Uthgil’s spine as he thought about their brief encounter. Where most men sought ecstasy in the pleasures of the flesh, Uthgil found it in combat, and the recent skirmish with this battle legend left him excited and eager for more. He would face him again and then they would know who was best.

  The Sharneen smiled at the thought of his victory. He was still smiling as he rounded the corner of a large stable, when he suddenly came face to face with a warrior running at him with a long sword held easily at his side. The man was tall and lean, wearing only gray leggings. He wasn’t even wearing his boots, and it was probably his shoe-less feet that enabled him to get so close to the assassin without being heard. The warrior’s features were dark and shadowed and his muscled chest was covered in thick black hair.

  The assassin’s smile disappeared as he cursed himself for being so careless. It was not like him to make such stupid mistakes, and it unnerved him that the warrior general had that effect on him, allowing his mind to drift with thoughts of their next encounter when, instead, he should have been paying attention to his surroundings and his escape.

  Uthgil had to get through this man quickly or risk being surrounded by more men as they flooded out of the barracks. He launched himself forward so quickly that the warrior barely had time to register surprise, let alone the attack.

  But Dagrinal was a seasoned warrior, one of the best swordsmen in Finarth, and his quick reactions saved his life. He whipped his sword out frantically, jumping back from the man in black. The assassin’s onslaught was ruthless, however, and Dagrinal’s breath caught in his throat as he frantically tried to counter his attacker’s moves. The Sharneen fought with two identical short swords, using them independently of each other, as if each had a mind of its own. Pivoting and lunging, his blades sought openings in Dagrinal’s defenses. The Finarthian warrior was skilled, exceptionally so, but Uthgil fought with all his talent, and the necessity of ending the fight quickly fueled every strike and move. Dagrinal attempted an offensive move by flicking his sword toward the assassin’s neck. Uthgil spun by the sword in a blur, slashing the bladed guard that covered his hand across the warrior’s thigh.

  Each of Uthgil’s knives had a unique design. The long blade curved back and over the assassin’s fist, shooting back another six inches beyond the pommel, protecting his fingers from attack and giving him another weapon. He could punch or use the second blade with deadly effect as he had just done.

  Dagrinal flinched, pulling his injured leg back from the deadly fighter and fending off a second and third attack from the warrior. The cut was deep and Dagrinal could feel his blood drench his leg.

  But he had no time to worry about his wound for the assassin came at him again. Twice more the dark warrior’s blades slipped in and cut Dagrinal. The wounds were shallow, but they bled heavily, and the cut on his thigh was beginning to take its toll as Dagrinal stumbled back, trying to create some space between him and the assassin, as he heard behind him the distant pounding of booted feet. His men must have been awakened by the alarm. But would they get to him in time? Dagrinal had never fought anyone this skilled, except perhaps Master Borum, and the helpless feeling of being outmatched was not something to which he was accustomed. The feeling unnerved him and his heart beat with an uncharacteristic fear. This was not a practice yard. This fight was for real.

  Uthgil cringed as he too heard the sounds of approaching men. There was no more time. He had to finish this swordsman, and quickly, as he was the only thing standing in the way of his escape. But the man was evidently less vulnerable than he had anticipated, and it was taking longer than normal to dispatch him. So instead of pressing the attack, he spun his blades into their resting places at his thighs, and for the second time that night, reached up to his chest, grabbed a dart, and flung it at the warrior.

  Dagrinal stopped his retreat as the warrior changed tactics. He was bleeding from several wounds and he was starting to feel lightheaded. But he didn’t have a second to worry about that as the warrior sheathed his blades and flicked his hand in a casual motion. It all happened so quickly that Dagrinal barely registered the movement before a sharp pain bit him in the chest.

  Instantly his chest flared with fire and he dropped his sword to the ground. He reached up, gripping the dart in his chest, barely having the strength to pull the poisoned weapon from his flesh. An intense pain gripped his heart in a deadly embrace. His eyes opened wide in surprise and disbelief as his breathing rapidly became hindered, and then ceased altogether as his heart simply stopped beating. Then he fell, face first to the ground, as the blanket of death enshrouded him.

  ***

  “I will crush him!” stormed Graggis as the enraged man slammed his fist into the stone wall. His eyes were red and fresh tears streaked his face as he fought for control of his emotions. Dagrinal, his friend, was dead, killed by a poisoned dart, and the fearsome pain of the loss was almost unbearable.

  They were in Kiln’s room and the general was lying in his bed. He had just awoken from his poisoned sleep, leaving his mind groggy and his body weak.

  The king was there, as was Androg, high priest to Ulren, who was inspecting the warrior general’s wound in his shoulder. Sitting at the table, in thought, was Gandarin, a second rank general and confidant to King Baylin. Gandarin’s face was covered with a thick beard and bushy mustache and the heavy set man was wearing nothing but a night robe and cotton breeches. They were all similarly outfitted due to the suddenness of the late night attack.

  The king’s eyes were also wet with tears over the loss of Dagrinal. He wiped his eyes in frustration, turning to Graggis. “We will find the assassin, Graggis,” he said, his tone bitter and dripping with anger. “Kiln, how do you feel?” he asked, turning his gaze to the warrior.

  “I feel fine, a bit weak from the poison, but I will live,” he said softly. He too was obviously feeling the loss of Dagrinal.

  Androg then spoke up. “The dart in his shoulder was coated with a sleeping poison called Nurag,” he said, obviously puzzled. “Why would the assassin use sleeping poison on Commander Kiln and fatal poison on Dagrinal? It makes no sense if Commander Kiln was the target.”

  “The assassin was very skilled,” said Gandarin. “He defeated Dagrinal and yet…”

  “He did not defeat him!” Graggis yelled, interrupting Gandarin. “He murdered him with poison, like a coward!”

  “I meant no disrespect, Graggis,” replied Gandarin, standing and placing his hand on the warrior’s muscled shoulder. “Dagrinal was a great man and he deserved a better death.”

  “Graggis, Gandarin is right. Dagrinal’s wounds suggest that he faced a better swordsman, regardless of how difficult that may be to accept,” the king said kindly.

  Graggis collapsed tiredly into a chair, his energy drained by the sorrow and frustration of his friend’s death. He dropped his head into his hands.

  “He was the best I’ve ever faced,” Kiln said thoughtfully. “I think he wanted me to live so he could face me again. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “But someone paid him to kill you. You think he gave that up because you represent a challenge?” asked Gandarin.

  Kiln directed his gaze toward the burly general. “I do, Gandarin. Men like him live to test their skills. And he was Sharneen. They, more than any other race I know of, deem combat as the truest test of courage and greatness. He came in to kill me, but he left with a new goal. He wants to face me on even terms. He wants to find out who is the better.”

  “Is that feeling reciprocated?” asked the king.

  “Yes, I will face him, and I will kill him,” replied Kiln coldly.

  The king looked at Kiln for a few moments before directing his gaze to Gandarin. “Gandarin, continue to patrol the city and double the guar
ds in the inner castle. Kiln needs his rest, let us leave him to it,” he ordered, moving to the door.

  “Yes, sir,” Gandarin replied.

  The king stopped, turning towards Graggis. “We will find him, Graggis, and he will face justice, one way or another,” he said firmly. His gaze flicked to Kiln for a moment, then he turned, moving into the shadows of the hallway.

  ***

  Alerion was exhausted. His tired eyes hurt from reading late into the night by candlelight. He leaned back in the solid wood chair, stretching his back before returning to the tome in front of him. He had been reading a diary written by the wife of an Ambassador from Mynos more than a thousand years ago. The pages were stiff and brittle and he had to use the utmost care in turning them. In some spots the ink had faded and blown away with the passage of time.

  He had found an interesting entry, one that further suggested a liaison between the young prince, Ullis Gavinsteal, and the Ambassador’s daughter. The entry spoke of a day when Ambassador Milfis returned from Finarth and his daughter Larrea spoke to her mother about the young Finarthian prince. The entry was brief, simply mentioning that her daughter talked of the prince continuously for some time. But that was it, nothing more.

  Alerion got to the end of the book, gently shutting it. It was very late and Xerandus had left with instructions to Alerion to leave the tomes on the table. Alerion stood up, gripping his staff. There was only one more thing to do and he had been hoping he wouldn’t need to do it, but the lack of information and the pressure of time had now made the decision for him. Time was of the essence, so much so that he did not have time to get proper permission from the Mynosian king.

  Alerion stood, walking from the library towards the cemetery.

  It was easy to find. He had seen it when he came in from the docks. The cemetery was located just inside the outer wall of the city and it was surrounded by a ten foot stone wall with only one entrance, an iron gate locked at this time of the night. The entire stone wall was lined with cherry trees that were just starting to bud as the warmer spring breeze blew in off the Algard coast. Thick green shrubs also lined the wall, offering plenty of shadows in which Alerion could work his spells.