The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  A pallid new moon had risen above Black Combe's ancient slopes, casting a feeble light across the land. Even the stars appeared bereft of strength, as if a translucent veil had been pulled across the cloudless sky. It was that deepest and loneliest part of night, when time itself seemed to stop for a while.

  Alex settled himself beneath the apple tree and lifted his gaze to the skies in a silent prayer.

  A star fell, burning a silver trail across the heavens. It prompted his fingers to play along the sword's hilt, tracing the familiar carvings with quiet deliberation. The ancient words engraved on the guard echoed in his mind, and his turbulent thoughts subsided a little.

  Behind him, the cottage door squeaked open and footfalls trudged across the grass.

  “Alex.” Stephen settled himself at Alex's feet.

  “Aye.”

  “I have questions.”

  Alex smiled. “And you believe I have answers?”

  “Aye, but I'm not sure you're willing to share them with me.”

  Alex leaned forward, fixing Stephen with a steady gaze. “That depends.”

  Stephen frowned. “On what?”

  “Your intentions.” Alex nodded toward the cottage. “Most men would cast Emma aside now, used as she is. Do you still intend to pursue her?”

  Stephen looked him straight in the eye. “With your permission, I intend to marry her.”

  Alex felt a weight lift from his shoulders. By all the saints, this young knight had a pure heart. “I give it willingly. And what of the stone?”

  “What of it?”

  “You act for Henry. What will you tell him?”

  Stephen shrugged. “That the tale is a myth.”

  “You would lie to your king?”

  “To protect you and him, aye.”

  “So, you do not intend to speak of it to anyone?”

  “Nay, Alex, I swear with God as my witness.” Stephen sighed and pushed the hair back from his eyes. “Besides, I can truthfully tell Henry there's no ancient king with a shield of silver.”

  Alex bit back a smile, amused by Stephen's obvious disappointment. “And what, pray, has led you to that conclusion?”

  “You said it yourself. The stone lies hidden within the keep.”

  Alex chuckled. “That's not exactly what I said, but I can see how you might think so.”

  Stephen shook his head. “What do you mean? It must be there. I saw your... your light. I felt the power of it. It was...”

  “Exciting?”

  “Unlike anything I've ever felt.”

  Alex knew the connection had been made. He slid the sword from its scabbard and eyed the blade.

  “Tell me, young knight, have you heard the name 'Darius' before?”

  “Darius? Aye. Emma said it was the name of your sword. He was a king of Persia?”

  “Aye, an ancient king of Persia.” Alex presented the hilt to Stephen. “Take it.”

  Stephen looked at him sideways. “Why?”

  “Take it. Examine the guard and the pommel.” He glanced up at the moon. “If there's enough light, tell me what you see.”

  Stephen brought the hilt to his face, squinting in the gloom. He turned it, tracing the carving with his fingers.

  “There are some words engraved on the guard. I can't...” He shook his head. “Nay, I can't read them. There's not enough light.”

  “Guard the peace and keep the faith.” Alex leaned back against the tree. “The adage of the Guardians.”

  “A fine adage, indeed. Who are the Guardians?”

  Alex ignored the question. “And the pommel? What do you see?”

  Stephen's fingers traced the raised silver piping that wound itself around the egg-shaped pommel. “'Tis like a knot. But...there's no end, no beginning. An unusual design. Does it mean something?”

  Alex smiled. “Aye, lad. It does. 'Tis the knot of Gordias. Have you heard of it?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Legend tells of a knot, created by Midas, son of Gordias. It was proclaimed that whoever untied it would become the king of Asia. But, since it had no end and no beginning, it could never be undone. A king named Alexander, refusing to accept defeat, took his sword and sliced through it.”

  Stephen pondered for a moment. “You speak of Alexander, the great conqueror of Asia?”

  “I do. I'm named for him. He was the first Guardian. There have been many since.”

  “Guardian of what?”

  Alex sighed. “Young knight, take heed. You're holding a sword named for an ancient king and the hilt is made from pure silver. But it's more than a hilt and it's more than a sword. The pommel guards that which I must guard with my life, for I am one of the chosen. I am the present Guardian of Alexander's stone, Lapis Exilis.” He glanced up at the stars. “The priest didn't lie. The stone rests with Darius, an ancient king, and is protected by a shield of silver. 'Tis what you hold in your hand.”

  He waited, watching the array of expressions flitting across Stephen's face. The young man had yet to blink or take in a lungful of air.

  “Breathe, lad,” Alex urged with a chuckle. “I swear I can hear your poor heart cursing in your chest.”

  “But, I can't believe....” Stephen stared at the sword's pommel, turning it over in his hand and running his fingers across it. He lifted wide eyes to Alex. “Nay, you jest. If the stone is truly resting in my hand, then how come I can't feel it? Like I did at the keep?”

  “A jest, is it?” Alex leaned forward. “You felt the power at the keep because I allowed you to feel it. I wanted to see your reaction. Still, if it's further proof you need....”

  A sudden gust of wind lifted the grass around them and shook the old branches of the apple tree. At the same time, the pommel of the sword began to perspire tiny, brilliant, pin-pricks of light. They swarmed over the hilt like a thousand luminescent ants, blending and merging together until they covered it completely. The sword glowed and pulsed with a strong, steady rhythm. Alex knew that each luminous beat coincided with the throb of Stephen's heart.

  “Sweet Christ.” Stephen's voice trembled with emotion.

  Alex smiled and sat back. The light pulsed once more, then disappeared.

  “Do you still have doubts, young knight? Or would you like to see it light up Black Combe as well?”

  Stephen pulled in a deep breath. “So 'tis you who controls it?”

  “Aye. At least, enough to keep it from doing harm.” Alex held out his hand. “The sword, if you please.”

  “But how?” Stephen leaned forward and placed the hilt in Alex's hand. “And what harm can it do?”

  “'Tis controlled with a quiet, clear mind. That's partly why I choose to live as I do, away from the loud pretensions of men. In the wrong hands, the stone becomes an evil, malignant force, eventually destroying even he who holds it.”

  “Does Emma know of it?”

  Alex nodded. “Aye, although she doesn't know everything. I'll have your word, lad, that you'll say nothing of our conversation to her or anyone else.”

  Stephen frowned. “I already gave you my word.”

  Alex could almost hear the thoughts tumbling through Stephen's mind. The young knight had not been told everything either, nor would he be. Not yet. Not before the Circle had been consulted. The others had to be informed, investigations carried out. A decision would be made only after any trace of doubt had been removed.

  Alex had no doubt. None at all. The certainty of who Stephen was - would be - burned in him like a sacred flame.

  “I have more questions.” Stephen's voice pulled Alex from his musings.

  “Aye, I'm sure you do, but they'll have to wait.” Alex got to his feet and glanced over at the thin silver filament gleaming on the eastern horizon. “'Twill be light soon, and we have a killing to do.”

  By the time they reined in their horses at the keep the night had retreated, leaving behind a frail new-born light. The entrance yawned at them from the grey walls, dark and forbidding, darin
g them to step into the blackness beyond.

  They didn't hesitate. Alex once again appeared as an apparition, his soft glow thrusting the shadows aside. The stench assailed his nostrils as soon as he reached the staircase.

  Stephen stole Alex's thought and spoke it out loud. “I smell burning.”

  Alex didn't reply. He drew his sword and headed down the stairs.

  The smell grew stronger as he descended the damp, narrow steps. A grey wisp rose up to greet him, wrapping itself around him like a misty cloak. It was no mist, he realized, but smoke, curling around him as he stepped onto the floor of the cavern. He paused, his narrowed eyes stinging, his mind searching for an answer.

  A terrible understanding crept into his thoughts and his heart missed a beat. He groaned inwardly, cursing his lack of foresight, his weakness, and his desire for revenge.

  “Sweet Mother of God.”

  “What?” The scrape of Stephen's sword leaving the scabbard accompanied his voice. “Alex, what is it?”

  Alex strode over to the cell door, and Stephen followed. It was still closed and bolted, yet the ancient oak now bore the charred scars of fire, which ran up the wood in flaking black lines, like the gnarled fingers of some hellish beast. The bottom edge of the door had been burnt away in the centre, the hole forming a scorched, ragged arch. Alex felt sick, unwilling to accept the likely truth.

  Nay, surely not. It's not big enough for Argante to crawl through. Besides, the smoke must have killed him, suffocated him. He could not have survived.

  “Stand back, lad.”

  “But I don't understand. How did he –?”

  “Stand back, I said.”

  Alex reached over and slid the bolt. It clattered into the cradle, the sound splitting the depressed silence of the cavern. He glanced over at Stephen in an unspoken signal. Stephen acknowledged with a nod and Alex kicked the door open, sending it crashing into the wall.

  Darkness greeted them, and something else - a vile smell, acrid and bitter. Alex could almost taste it. But nothing stirred in the blackness. Nothing leapt from the shadows or cowered in the corner. No one whimpered or cried out. Only the door creaked painfully on its hinges as it pulled away from the wall. Alex stepped into the cell, his physical glow intensifying until the light reached into every corner.

  The room was empty and Alex's gut twisted as the truth took hold. Argante had escaped.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Alex, how the hell...? Where did he get the flame?”

  “I left him with a torch and a candle.”

  “You...?” Stephen gasped. “For God's sake, why?”

  Alex sighed. “A moment of folly. I wanted him to suffer, watching the light die, leaving him alone in the darkness. God knows, I didn't think he would do this.”

  Stephen paused for a moment, as if absorbing the truth. “Well, he's gone, and your regret won't change that. We can still catch him. But what's that stench? It's vile.”

  “It smells like burnt flesh.”

  Alex pulled the door toward him, looking to see the damage on the inside. A chill ran over his skin.

  “Look at this!”

  Deep scratches, line upon line of them, had been gouged into the wood, as if a rabid animal had clawed frantically at the door. Alex reached over and pulled something from the blackened oak - a bloodied fingernail - no doubt torn from Argante's hand in sheer madness as he attempted to escape.

  Stephen crouched down at the threshold and poked at the ground. “'Tis this ash which stinks.”

  Alex bent and studied the floor. Small remnants of clothing could be seen mixed in with the fine dark ash. He gathered some on his fingertip, rubbed it between finger and thumb, and sniffed it.

  “Nay,” he whispered, the horror of it dawning on him.

  “What is it?”

  “Argante's madness. The remains of burnt hair and flesh.”

  Stephen rose to his feet. “We can do naught else here.” He stepped out of the cell. “Let's go. He must have left tracks. He's likely crawled off into the woods somewhere and died.”

  Alex threw one last glance around the room. “I hope you're right, lad, but something tells me otherwise. Madness is a formidable beast with a relentless spirit. I fear the man we seek today is far more dangerous than the one I left here yesterday.”

  Stephen paused outside the cell door and glanced over to the dark corner where Iain's body sat. The relaxed silhouette gave the impression of a man sleeping, but a faint bitter-sweet odour mixing with the smoky air told the grim truth of it.

  “Another ghost for the locals to fear.” His eyes swept around the dark cavern, Alex's eerie glow the only source of light. “I can understand why they stay away from this hellish place.”

  Alex followed his gaze. “Aye. Although 'tis not the dead who would do us harm, only the living. Come, lad. We must find Argante and finish him.”

  They stepped outside into cloying, sea-soaked air that hung in a curtain of salty drizzle, drenching them in moments.

  “God's teeth. Where did this come from?” Stephen eyed the heavy clouds above, their tendrils almost brushing the top of the keep's thick grey walls. He looked over toward Black Combe, its rugged slopes now obscured beneath a dreary, wet veil. “It was clear when we arrived.”

  “'Tis the tide. It drags the rain in with it.” Alex studied the ground and stepped around some prints in the soft earth. “Here, look.” His narrowed eyes followed the direction of the tracks, anticipation lifting his mood. “He's headed south, toward the river. And he's injured.”

  At least he's headed away from Emma.

  Stephen announced the same thought out loud. “Thank God he's not heading toward Emma.” He crouched and studied the footprints, a puzzled expression on his face. “How can you tell he's injured?”

  “The prints are unevenly spaced. See? He's favouring his left leg.” Alex stooped to dip a fingertip into a rain-filled footprint and studied the pink-tinged fluid that stuck to his skin. “And he's bleeding. Let's go.”

  Before long, the lively rush of the river caught Alex's ears. He reined in his horse at the bank and straightened in the saddle, his back aching from stooping over his horse's neck to follow the tracks.

  “Did he cross here?” Stephen pulled up beside him, eyeing the exuberant white water gushing noisily over rocks and stones. At this point, the river was not wide, but flowed at a rate fast enough to unsettle even the most surefooted person. Even if the pull of the water did not upend a man, the slippery, jagged rocks beneath certainly would.

  Alex shifted his seat and squinted across the rapids. He saw no sign of prints or disturbance on the other side. Yet the footprints ended there, at the bank. His mind struggled to find an explanation.

  “Nay. So where the hell...?” Alex fingered the hilt of his sword and looked to the skies.

  “He must have gone into the river.” Stephen slid from his horse and examined the ground around them.

  A crow dropped out of the clouds and circled overhead, silent, watchful. It settled on a nearby branch, shook the rain from its feathers, and threw a loud caw into the air. Alex studied the bird for a few moments then looked downstream.

  “That's another thing I have questions about.” Stephen's eyes flicked from Alex to the crow.

  “Not now, lad.”

  “But what's the meaning of –”

  “Not now, I said. Mount up.” Alex turned his horse and started along the bank. “Argante is headed for the shore.”

  * * *

  “I don't understand.” Stephen reined in alongside Alex at the forest's edge, and looked out across the mist-shrouded estuary. “Why would Argante come here?”

  Alex didn't answer, although the same question had been burning in his mind for the past mile. They had found Argante's footprints again, farther along the bank. He had obviously managed to navigate the river bed, hoping, no doubt, to obscure his tracks. Or perhaps, Alex mused, to soothe his burns in the cold water. Later, the tracks had stopped again, at
a point where the river widened and calmed. Since then, there had been no sign.

  The tide ran high and fast across the estuary's dangerous sands, churning with angry currents easily capable of dragging a man out to sea, along with his horse. Drizzle still tumbled from the thick, grey swathe above them, soaking both men to the skin. Alex contemplated the violent waters. If Argante had tried to cross the estuary, he would not have survived.

  “If he tried to cross the estuary, he's a dead man,” Stephen declared, watching the waves claw at the sand.

  Alex swallowed a smile. Stephen's mind had started to reach beyond the boundaries of most men's abilities, and was linking to Alex's thoughts. Such behaviour was considered offensive among the Guardians, but Alex knew it to be an innocent intrusion, another sign of Stephen's connection to the stone. For now, it would be tolerated.

  “True, he would not have survived the crossing.” Alex twisted in the saddle and looked back along the trail. “We'll return and cross the river at the last point we saw his footprints, then head east along the other bank. If we don't see any other sign of him, we'll head back to Althena's. I don't like leaving the women alone.”

  Stephen fixed Alex with a solid stare. “Where's the crow? Can't he tell you where Argante is?”

  Alex smiled. “Young knight, 'tis surely the drizzle which addles your brain. Did no one ever tell you that crows cannot speak?”

  Chapter Twelve

  They searched all morning, battling rain and wind in what turned out to be a futile mission. No trace of Argante could be found, other than what they had discovered already.

  As Black Combe loomed out of the damp haze, the dread already nudging Alex kicked him a little harder. He knew Emma carried more than physical wounds. A poison surely festered in her mind, put there by Argante's depravity and venomous tongue. The stone reflected his fears and toyed with his emotions, heightening his pain. He suffered in silence, trying to reconcile his guilt and sense of failure, while regret leached into his heart.

  Stephen, no doubt fighting his own internal demons, had said little as they rode. Only when Althena's small white cottage appeared did he speak.