The Black Knife

by Christopher Nuttall

  But where could he go? He couldn’t trust any of the Greater Lords, not when any one of them might see advantage in handing Eric over to Herod, or using him as a bargaining chip to gain higher status for themselves, perhaps even a chance at the Golden Throne for their family. The only places he could really hope to find safety were the Academy and Larkrise, his ancestral kingdom. Going to the Academy had its own dangers. The Grandmaster was supposed to be neutral and, if Eric arrived, he might find himself interred. Herod smiled in a moment of genuine amusement. That might change, he reflected, if the Grandmaster had known about the zombies. It would change if the Grandmaster knew about the zombies.

  “Go find the General,” Herod ordered. “Inform him that I want him to prepare the army for an invasion of Garstang.”

  Reginald looked as if he wanted to question his orders, but didn’t quite dare. That was lucky for him, Herod knew, for he had no intention of tolerating any questions. “Tell him that I want scouts headed towards Garstang at once, with orders to locate the Prince and kill him before he escapes again. He may decide to double-back on us so have the scouts sweep wide.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Reginald said, with a bow. “Do you wish the General to report to you personally?”

  Herod shook his head. He needed time to heal and mean his wards, not more conversation. “No,” he said. “Pass on the orders and then go off and do whatever you like. I shall summon you when I need you.”

  As soon as Reginald was out of the Lesser Hall, Herod pulled the wards over, making it impossible for anyone to enter or eavesdrop without his permission. It was so hard to focus his mind now, but slowly – very slowly – he slipped into a healing trance. He couldn’t hold it for anything like long enough – he still had to deal with the hold-outs among the Lords and Ladies – but it would allow him a chance to recover. Darkness fell over his mind and he relaxed, gathering his power. The hold-outs would find themselves infested with his dark magic and, when they returned home, they would serve as his slaves.

  Just a few minutes of sleep…

  ***

  Reginald found the General, passed on Herod’s orders and left the General spluttering about how the orders couldn’t be carried out easily. Garstang was not an easy place to invade and, even if it had been a kingdom as naked and defenceless as a virgin on her wedding night, invading the kingdom would have dangerous repercussions. The other Lords and Ladies would wonder if they were next on the list and start banding together to protect themselves. Given time, they would almost certainly revolt against Herod and shatter his empire…

  It was hard to care, for Reginald was still shaking, the afterimage of so much power seemingly burned into his eyes. He stumbled into his quarters, undressed and washed himself down frantically, marvelling that he hadn’t lost control of his bowels. If so much power had been focused on him, he would have been burned to a crisp – or worse – in seconds, wards or no wards. Seeing the strong confident Herod brought down by his own power had been terrifying, leaving him feeling as if he had shackled himself to a wild animal. The look in his eye had somehow held Reginald spellbound, utterly convinced that he was about to die.

  For the first time, Reginald wondered if he'd done the right thing in choosing Herod’s side. Sure, the Duke had offered a chance for power and wealth beyond the dreams of any living man, but he hadn’t mentioned the price. The messenger had been killed, swatted like he was nothing more than an irritating insect and Reginald had nearly gone the same way. Just for a moment, he considered running for his life, but it would be futile. There was nowhere he could go that Herod couldn’t reach him, kill him in the most agonising manner…and then reanimate his dead corpse and put it to work. There were dark legends about what necromancers had been able to do with the bodies of their enemies and, now, Reginald believed every one of them. Given time, Herod would be able to amass enough power to make him a minor god.

  He was tempted to call in one of the new slaves to help him relax, but he knew somehow that it would be futile. All of his old pleasures and diversions – ranging from the unkind to the forbidden – were available to him now, at will, yet the price was too high. If Herod took it into his head that Reginald was a threat to his power, he was dead. If Herod thought that Reginald had failed him in any way, he was dead. He was dead…yet not gone. A necromancer could bind a living soul within a dead body and force it to experience all the horrors of a decaying life, before draining the remains of the soul and using it for power.

  And I took him the Oracle, he thought, angrily. He should have killed the girl as soon as he saw her and called it an accident, even though people who killed Oracles always came to bad ends, for they were blessed by the gods. If he’d killed her, perhaps Herod wouldn't have been able to take power so comprehensively...no, that was an absurd thought. He'd taken power without any help from an Oracle. The Oracle would merely help him secure his grip on power. I took the Oracle and…

  The thought struck him, suddenly. How had he taken the Oracle?

  He turned suddenly back to the pile of clothes he had dumped on the floor. It was unusual for a magician to carry a sword – and there were dark jokes about magicians who did, claiming that they were impotent – but he hadn’t dared let the sword he’d taken from the Emperor’s body out of his sight. It had shocked him the first time he’d touched it, yet he’d drawn it – without thinking – and used it to cut through the wards surrounding the Oracle’s temple. It should have been impossible – an ordinary sword would have shattered on impact – but it had happened. Slowly, he exposed the hilt of the sword, braced himself, and wrapped his hand around it. A second later, he drew the sword and held it up in the light.

  Reginald barely had a moment to realise what he was holding before…something reached out and forced his Third Eye open, forcing visions into his head. They weren’t visions of the future, but visions of the past, of great battles against overwhelming odds. He saw monsters ravaging the land, destroying all that they came across until they were finally stopped by human warriors, risking their lives to destroy the monsters that threatened the future of humanity. He saw dragons and griffins, vampires and werewolves, creatures out of legend and creatures so long-forgotten that they didn’t exist, even in the legends passed down through the years. The sense of overwhelming age held him rooted to the spot. The sword was old.

  Somehow, he managed to regain control, closing his Third Eye. The sword hummed in his hand, silently taunting him with the promise of power. He studied the sword carefully, feeling a great stratum of power plunging downwards into infinity, the sign of a magical artefact that was truly ancient. He’d seen some old magical artefacts at the Academy, including items so old that no one knew how they’d been created, but the sword was older than them. It was almost as old as Touched itself.

  He heard a voice whispering in his mind. The Sword chooses the person it serves, it said. It was a very old voice, dispassionate yet somehow caring. The sense of age faded, yet somehow he was sure that the sword was looking back at him. It seemed to look deep into his soul, questioning his every decision and pondering his every thought. Reginald had never felt so naked, yet he felt no fear, just a curious sense of acceptance. It was far from natural.

  The voice spoke again. Are you worthy to carry the blade?

  Reginald had no answer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “It’s nearly ready,” Hind assured the girl sitting next to her. “Give it a few more minutes and it will be ready.”

  She smiled at the girl. Ever since Hind had saved her life, the girl – whose name had turned out to be Branet, Daughter of Bran – had been a constant companion in her travels, even riding with Eric and her in their coach. Bran had been apologetic about his daughter’s sudden insistence on being with her saviour, but Hind hadn’t cared; it was hardly the worst of her problems. Some of the unattached ladies in the convoy had taken to trying to lure Eric into their beds, under the impression that he was a single man. Hind knew that he hadn’t st
rayed – that he wasn't even tempted – but it added to the frustration both of them felt. The trip would have been much easier if they’d been alone.

  “It smells funny,” Branet said, doubtfully. “Are you sure it’s working right?”

  Hind grinned at her, remembering the time she’d asked her old Potions Master the same question. He had fixed her with a look that had made her feel like a small child again and assured her that he’d been brewing potions for over sixty years and he’d never lost a pan of such a simple potion since he’d been in his own first year as an Apprentice. He’d been quite keen to explain to the class that potion brewing was far more than just mixing together herbs and boiling the water; it required the brewer to infuse magic into the potion, blending the natural plants and the magic into a single concoction. Hind recalled that he’d described it as a sensual experience, yet she’d never felt it herself. Her talents ran in a different direction.

  But like all Master Magicians, she had been obliged to know the basics and she had to admit that Kuralla had provided them with a very good cover. The women of the convoy had fussed around her, flattering her until she had agreed to produce some potions for them, ranging from simple painkillers to far more complex liquids. She’d learned how to make potions that calmed menstrual cramps at a very early age – her tutor had explained to the boys, who hadn’t been so keen to learn, that mastering it was guaranteed popularity among the girls – and brewing her own had allowed her to produce them for the women. Some of the women, including most of the unattached women, had asked her for contraceptive potions, or even one that would abort an unwanted child. Hind had nervously enquired as to the father, torn between the need to keep a low profile and her own worries about killing an unborn child, only to be assured that the woman wanted to keep it until it was needed. Hind had explained, in some relief, that the potion wouldn’t keep longer than a week.

  She reached out with a single finger and dipped it into the boiling liquid, composing her mind so that it didn’t burn her. The complex magic that she’d infused into the potion had blended nicely with the more natural ingredients, leaving it perfectly ready to drink. She checked it again to be sure – a bad potion could go disastrously wrong – and then picked the small pan off the fire. Branet eyed her carefully. The first time she’d seen Hind touch the water without pain, she’d copied her and ended up burning her hand. Hind had had to perform a covert healing spell, blaming herself for the girl’s injury, even though it risked breaking their cover. Just by incinerating the zombies, she’d shown herself more far more versatile than a simple potions mistress had any right to be. She had warned Branet not to mention the wound to her parents – there was no longer any sign that she had been burned – but she knew from experience that children talked. Branet might boast to one of the other children, who would then pass it on to their parents.

  “It’s ready,” she said, taking a final sniff before she started ladling it out into mugs. “You can go round up the people who want it.”

  Branet ran off, leaving Hind smiling after her. The first few days of travelling had been hard on all of them, apart from the seasoned travellers and the guards, who had taken to nervously pacing around, watching for more zombies. Eric had told her, in confidence, that every time the Greenwood came close to the road, he expected an attack at any time. Hind had sensed threats in the darkness, but nothing had materialised out of the shadows to pose a threat to the convoy. The creatures in the Greenwood were probably wondering if the zombies posed a threat to them as well.

  She smiled up as the first group of women and a handful of children came over to her. Hind privately admitted that she found most of them boring beyond words, but at least she could talk to them without blowing her cover. After Eric had cut through dozens of zombies with his sword, few of the men wanted to go near his ‘sister.’ The only one who spoke openly to her was Bran and only when his wife or Eric was present. The others kept their distance. It was an unusual lesson in how sexual dynamics worked outside the Academy, or within the aristocratic families. Women without magic had few rights.

  “Come and get it,” Branet shouted. Hind laughed at the girl’s eager face. “Bumps and bruises, sickness and illness, get your cures here!”

  Hind smiled at the first woman and passed her the cup, allowing her to take a long sip and grimace at the taste. It was possible to brew potions that actually appealed to the palate, but her old tutors had warned her that such potions could be very dangerous. A decent taste encouraged drinkers to overdose and become addicted, or die when the potion tried to do its job. At least her potions worked. Most of the women in the convoy would have had to buy potions from old hedge witches or brewers who had never been through the Academy. In Hind’s experience, such people killed as often as they cured, if only through sheer inexperience and ignorance.

  “It tastes foul,” one of the women said. Hind wasn't too sympathetic; she was one of the ones who had tried to lure Eric into her bed. “Can’t you do something about the taste, young lady?”

  Hind shrugged elaborately. “I’m afraid that anything that would sweeten it would make it useless, or worse than useless,” she lied. “I don’t actually want to poison you.”

  “You should consider poisoning your swine of a brother,” the woman said. “He keeps you penned up when you should be out, showing off what you can do to the world.”

  Hind kept her face carefully blank. “It is our way,” she said, finally. She’d spent some time in such communities, but her opinion of them wasn't much better than the woman’s opinion of them. Pretending to be from one of them wasn’t easy. “I love my husband very much and I don’t want to hurt him by suggesting that something might have happened to me while I was away from him.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And is his sister doing the same for him?”

  The honest answer to that was probably no, but that would just have raised more questions. “I believe so,” Hind said, flatly. She took back the mug and passed it to Branet to wash. In a few years, the girl would enter puberty and her magical potential might flourish into life. Hind had a suspicion she knew what magical discipline Branet would try to learn first, if she was given the chance. It might not happen in an Empire led by Herod. “It is our way.”

  She watched the woman swaying off and scowled inwardly. She hated having to lie at the best of times and tried to avoid it, but there was no choice. If they’d posed as husband and wife…well, a different husband and wife…it would have been easier, yet there would be a greater chance of someone recognising them. Or so the Oracle had believed and Hind wasn’t ready to gainsay her. She shook her head slowly, picked up the small pan and headed off to wash it in the river, dispelling any remaining magic as she watched. Branet followed, keeping up a constant barrage of chatter, mainly questions about potions and potions brewing. Hind didn’t mind. It kept her mind off other topics.

  ***

  Eric leaned against the side of the coach, staring up towards the mountains in the distance. Garstang’s reputation for being hostile and extremely difficult to rule came from the mountains and the tiny isolated communities that formed the kingdom. Only superior magic and sheer determination kept the kingdom from fracturing into smaller kingdoms, yet many of the smaller nobles were practically independent of the kingdom’s ruler, providing a picture of the Empire in miniature. Eric had visited Garstang once before and had been amused to discover that half the population welcomed him and the other half had promptly started sharpening knives. Not for him, of course, but for their Lords and Ladies. It was a very difficult place to rule.

  The five days they’d spent on the road hadn’t been bad, but he’d been nervous, more nervous than he’d admitted to anyone apart from his wife. Quite apart from the dangers of encountering something dangerous from the Greenwood, it was possible – indeed, probable – that Herod had dispatched troops after them. By breaking through the zombies, they would have telegraphed their route to anyone who cared to see…and even though
he told himself that even Herod couldn’t know that it had been Prince Eric and his wife who had destroyed the zombies, he couldn’t believe that there wouldn’t be some attempt to follow them. How far would Herod go in order to drag them down and kill them?

  It was a question with an easy answer. Herod would go as far as he thought he needed to go, because as long as Eric was alive, Herod couldn’t sit in the Golden Throne and assert the authority of the Emperor. The longer the question remained unsettled, the more Lords and Ladies who would try to take advantage of the chaos, seeking to put themselves on the Throne or dictate terms to the man sitting on it. It had happened before, in the past history of the Empire, where the Emperor had been so weak that his strong subjects had dominated him, but he couldn’t see Herod tamely agreeing to be a puppet king. If he was prepared to go so far as to create zombies, he would clearly stop at nothing to gather power into his own hands.

  “Damn you,” Eric muttered, feeling Morningstar thrumming at his back. Its presence was a constant reminder of his dead father…and of the Great Sword that had been lost with him, only a few days ago. Herod had to have it now, which meant…what? Could a necromancer even use a Great Sword? There had been no time to look up the legends and, even if there had been, it was impossible to tell which ones should be taken seriously and which were just exaggerations, or outright lies. “Damn you to hell and back.”