The Silent Shield (The Kingfountain Series Book 5)

by Jeff Wheeler

  Spears sailed over Trynne’s head, some cracking stone with the violence of their impact. Knights cowered behind shields as the storm shook and raged. The frozen sleet stung Trynne’s cheeks, but her armor protected her.

  Drew was flat against the stone wall, his eyes wide with terror as the colossal magic battered against Dundrennan’s walls. Bodies dressed in the armor of the Pierced Lion began to plummet into the bailey, and Trynne gaped in horror as she realized Rucrius’s spell was destroying Fallon’s soldiers up on the ridge. He’d invoked a storm cloud, a whirling vortex of death. Trynne cowered from it, wishing her mother were there to counter it. Wishing Myrddin was there.

  “Keraunos!”

  It was a woman’s voice. Morwenna’s voice. It came from the middle of the bailey, where the poisoner was standing with arms splayed wide, hair whipping in the wind. Suddenly lightning began to streak across the sky from the enormous black cyclone roiling over the palace. The glittering forks of light were heading toward Gahalatine’s army. No—they were striking repeatedly at Rucrius. They blasted into the ranks of the Chandigarli soldiers, leaving cries of panic in their wake.

  The hail of spears subsided and the cloud began to dissolve and break apart.

  “My lord, to the keep!” Trynne said, scuttling closer to the king. A chunk of rock whipped by her, barely missing her nose.

  Trynne sensed Morwenna and Rucrius were locked in a duel of wills. Morwenna had an angry, defiant frown on her face, and her fingers were splayed as if she were digging them into something tangible. More lightning rained down on the enemy army, blast after blast of blinding fire. Trynne felt Morwenna’s reserves decreasing by the moment. She could not sustain the attack, not against the combined might of so many Wizrs.

  “She’s right,” Fallon said, rising to his knees. “This is our chance to hasten to the inner wall. We cannot survive this storm long if we stay outside.”

  Blood trickled from a laceration on the king’s cheek. He nodded in agreement and gave the order to fall back. The brilliance of the lightning rippling through the disintegrating storm revealed the scene around them in flashes. Everywhere Trynne looked, there were fallen knights on the battlement. Her heart grieved at the losses, but she saw even more dead scattered in the field below. Gahalatine was taking heavy casualties as well.

  A surge of power slammed into Morwenna—Trynne could sense the Wizrs had pooled their powers together—and the magic gushed from her like a punctured bladder. Her command of the lightning began to fail and the blasts became erratic.

  “Flee to the keep!” the king shouted. As they reached the bottom steps, he turned to where Severn had rallied his soldiers. “Hold that gap until we’ve made it through the doors, then fall back and join us.”

  “I’ll hold them,” Severn promised. His voice full of fury, he yelled, “Men of Glosstyr! To me!”

  Trynne hurried alongside the king as they crossed the rubble of spears and stone and dead men on the way to the hall. Morwenna’s shoulders were slumped, her elbows pressed into her sides as she tried to fight off the combined will of the Wizrs. She dropped to one knee, her power nearly spent. Trynne ached for her, amazed that she was fighting for their side, wondering how she had broken free from her cell.

  An angry voice carried on the wind. Trynne couldn’t make out the words, only the sepulchral tones, and then Morwenna collapsed onto the cobblestones, unconscious.

  “Here they come!” Severn shouted. “Stand fast! Stand fast!”

  Trynne turned and saw the Chandigarli soldiers carrying the pine trunks toward the gap. Some of the logs were already in position. The men of Glosstyr rushed forward and shoved on the poles, successfully tipping some of them into the breach. The weight of the logs made them fall. But there were too many men behind each one, and soon Severn’s men were outmatched and the gaps began to close. Leaf-armored warriors came swooping down into the bailey and began falling on Severn’s men.

  “For Kingfountain!” Severn roared in fury, leaping into the fray. Trynne felt tears prick her eyes as she watched him strike at the enemy. Warriors rushed over the makeshift bridge and began pouring into the bailey.

  “We’ve lost it,” Drew whispered, aghast, as he recognized that Severn’s men were cut off.

  Fallon scooped up Morwenna into his arms, grimacing from the burden.

  Trynne watched as Gahalatine’s men cut down the men of the White Boar. Drew shouted, “Retreat, Severn! We’re almost through! Pull back!”

  Most of the survivors of the outer wall hastened in through the door, shielding their eyes from the bright light of torches. Warriors of Gahalatine were already starting to charge toward the position where Trynne stood with the king.

  Fallon arrived next, cradling Morwenna, whose head lolled. Her eyelids fluttered and she stared at the courtyard. “Father,” she groaned.

  Trynne saw Rucrius cross the bridge, holding his black staff and scowling in naked fury. He had the look of a man betrayed. His strange, catlike eyes glittered white from the torchlight. Then he extended his ringed hand toward Severn, who froze midstroke. He stood rigidly, a grotesque statue of a knight at arms.

  He couldn’t move.

  Trynne stared in horror as Rucrius advanced on the helpless man. Severn stood frozen in place, his face twisted with fear and hatred. He spoke, lashing out with his words.

  “Go on, slay me, you black-hearted villain! You coward! I fear you not. I fear no man. I’d rather die with my sword in my hand than cower like a pup as you do!” His Fountain magic dribbled from him, hardly grazing the Wizr, who gazed at him disdainfully.

  “So be it,” Rucrius snarled and whipped his staff around, cracking Severn’s cheekbone with it. Trynne groaned in agony, wanting to save him but knowing that her duty was to protect and safeguard the king.

  Gazing at Morwenna with hate in his eyes, Rucrius drew the sword belted at his waist and ran Severn through with it.

  For a moment, Severn hung like a man fixed on a spike. Then his sword fell from his hooked fingers and clattered on the stone. Morwenna began to shriek and wail as Fallon bustled her into the fortress.

  There was a look of open anguish on the king’s face as he watched the awful scene. As soon as Morwenna disappeared from view, the magic ended and Severn collapsed in a heap.

  Trynne felt her heart thump with agony. She knew the kind of pain that Morwenna was feeling. Knew the devastation of losing a beloved father. Grabbing the king by the shoulder, she pushed him through the gap into the doorway. Captain Staeli and the Oath Maidens were thronging the entryway, ready to fight. The last of the knights had made it through.

  Destroy the Wizr, the Fountain whispered to her. He is delivered into your hands.

  She felt a prick of fear, but it was quenched by a rush of confidence. Trynne looked Staeli in the eye. “Shut the doors,” she said in a low, angry voice.

  And then she turned and stepped back out into the courtyard, dropping the mirage from the magic ring on her finger.

  The Painted Knight emerged into the gloom of the bailey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Vengeance

  The magic of the wellspring swept around Trynne like an embracing shield. Although it was invisible to the eye, it allowed her to sense and follow the movements of everyone around her. Time seemed to quiet and still to the point that she felt every throb of her heartbeat. Holding both of her blades, she charged toward Rucrius, sensing in him an impregnable magic—except for his neck. It occurred to her that in the game of Wizr, knight pieces were often sacrificed to claim an enemy’s Wizr. Was that what the Fountain wished from her? Was that how she would best save her king?

  Trynne saw the leaf-armored warriors rushing toward her, weapons lifted. The wellspring magic surrounding her made their movements appear lethargic, as if they were fighting in a field of mud. She sliced two of them as she ducked around, marveling that her speed was greater than theirs. She’d experienced the perfect weaving of her magic with the wellspring magic before in
the training yard. It happened when she was totally focused and relentless. Nothing else mattered. Glaives swept toward her, but she had time to duck and counter, and she spun around and dispatched her attackers before they could even finish their initial strokes.

  Rucrius’s face slowly contorted with anger as he gazed at her. She saw his lips stretch and grimace as he formed words of power she couldn’t hear past the thumping noises of her heartbeat. Two more foes went down before her, splaying on the snow as they clutched their wounds. She passed through the enemy ranks, untouchable, weaving between Gahalatine’s warriors as they tried to strike at her, but none could match her speed.

  Rucrius finished uttering the word of power and a blast of lightning struck at her from the wintry storm clouds. But Trynne was just ahead of it. Her skin tingled as if a hand were about to graze her neck, but the energy of the blast could not envelop her. Instead, several of Gahalatine’s warriors were charred from their proximity to the strike.

  A glaive blade came toward her middle as a knight squinted his eyes against the light while trying to strike at her. Trynne crossed her blades in front of her, catching the weapon, and it shattered on the impact. She buffeted the soldier with her elbow and he spun twice before collapsing.

  Rucrius’s eyes flashed with panic as she cut her way through the soldiers standing between them. Holding his staff and bloodstained blade, he positioned himself into a defensive stance.

  Most of the soldiers were still blinded by the lightning, many of them covering their faces reflexively. She struck at several more Chandigarli warriors as she closed the gap, stopping only when she had reached the fallen body of Duke Severn, his eyes open, a gob of blood pooled by his mouth. Indignation filled her with new purpose.

  Her magic was shrinking, drawing back into her. She had to conserve it. The strange becalming magic ended as she reached the Wizr Rucrius. The sounds and smells around her filtered back in—she heard the clattering of dropped weapons, the groans of agony from the injured and dying, smelled the singed, metallic odor of burnt stone. But she drove everything from her mind as she launched herself at the Wizr.

  “I know who you are!” Rucrius gibbered with terror, swinging his staff toward her head. “And if you kill me, your father will die! It is not too late to save him!”

  One of Trynne’s swords deflected the arc of the staff’s blow. She swung the other at his side, but he blocked it.

  “I swear to you, he will live! Don’t throw away your last chance to save him!”

  She refused to speak to him. He was consumed with revenge. The only thing he feared was his own death. She swung at him again and again, but he blocked and parried, countering with attacks of his own. The warriors around them couldn’t assist him; the blast had damaged their eyes.

  Rucrius was full of life and power, and she sensed that he was resistant to aging, that he was one of the Wizrs of old who had lived for generations. Perhaps he was like Myrddin. But he knew he was vulnerable to her. She saw it in his pale cheeks, in his quivering lips as he sought to control his terror. When he decided to flee, she sensed his intention immediately.

  Dundrennan was a nexus for the ley lines. It had appeared as such on every map Trynne had ever seen. The ley lines that passed through it went to Ploemeur, Kingfountain, and Edonburick. It seemed that his Tay al-Ard was not functional from overusing it, but he could still flee another way.

  She couldn’t let it happen.

  As he was uttering the word of power that would launch him through the ley lines, she joined her mind to his. Dropping one of her swords, she gripped his tunic, and suddenly it felt as if she’d stepped into a rushing waterfall. She clung to the Wizr, feeling his thoughts buck and weave as he panicked. He kept changing destinations, trying to shake her loose. Images of fountains flickered through her mind, the noise of babbling waters of an endless variety mixed with the rush and roar of mighty waterfalls. They were passing swiftly, zigzagging across the continents, her insides wrenching with spasms, but still she held on to him. She sensed his weakness, his mounting desperation to survive. His magic was beginning to fail, and he was forced to carry her weight as well, which was only tiring him faster.

  They finally appeared in a small alcove in a damp-smelling chapel. It was well past midnight and the waters of the fountain had been stilled. Trynne fell to her knees with exhaustion, her fingers still digging into Rucrius’s robes. He fell as well, dropping his sword in the water with a loud splash and catching himself on his staff. His legs trembled violently. It was a familiar chapel—one she had been to recently. On her last visit, the twisting snakes carved into the walls had been illuminated by the orange light of torches. She recognized the old smell, a mildewy scent of waterways and damp corners. This was the poisoner school in Pisan, the same fountain she and Morwenna had traveled to before going to Chandigarl.

  “Don’t,” Rucrius said, his voice quavering. “Don’t!”

  It was considered the height of sacrilege to murder someone in a fountain. But she felt the murmur of the Fountain’s voice.

  Slay him.

  Rucrius’s eyes widened, as if he too had heard the command. His face twisted with grief and fear. Trynne slowly rose to her feet, her limbs feeling weak, her stomach roiling with nausea.

  She had sworn an oath to obey the Fountain. She didn’t have the desire to kill him. The idea repulsed her. But the Fountain demanded it of her, and she had sworn an oath to do its bidding.

  “Please,” Rucrius babbled. “I will tell you where your father is. I will serve you and no other. All that I have, all my wealth and power will be—”

  She blocked out his words, grabbed a fistful of his tawny mane, and fulfilled the Fountain’s will while standing inside the fountain.

  Trynne knelt next to the fountain, her shoulders heaving as she cried softly. The tears kept coming for a mixture of reasons. She had killed before but had never executed someone. She did not feel guilt—no, it was more a feeling of relief. But it anguished her to think her father might truly die because of what she had done. If Rucrius had left orders for his murder, she might have unwittingly sentenced him to death. That thought was unbearable to her, but she trusted the Fountain. She knew her father did as well. And perhaps the Fountain had seen to his protection somehow.

  A noise coming from the outside corridor roused her moments later.

  The light from a lamp appeared in the corridor, and she heard two men speaking in the language of Pisan. There was no need to utter the word of power that allowed her to understand all languages; she was familiar with this one from the merchants she had met in Ploemeur.

  “I know I heard something. It came from the chapel.”

  “I heard nothing,” muttered an angry voice.

  Their footsteps drew nearer and Trynne rose, stifling the tears that were still fresh in her eyes. She stared down at the fountain water, expecting it to be clouded with blood, but the water was strangely clear. Rucrius’s body was still and silent; all evidence of his magic and power had been snuffed out.

  Then Trynne sensed something. It was an awareness, like the presence of another Fountain-blessed trying to remain concealed.

  “What did it sound like?”

  “I heard splashing.”

  There was a grunt of anger. “Maybe someone was taking a bath!”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” hissed the other man. “Do you hear anyone now? No, I know what I heard. This way.”

  The light drew closer. Trynne knew it was time to return to Dundrennan. She couldn’t be found there, and she did not want to leave the king so vulnerable.

  Rucrius had brought her many places, rejecting each one, trying to break free of her grip. Of all the choices he could have made, he had brought her to the poisoner school of Pisan. The school where Morwenna had studied.

  How long had Rucrius been involved in the affairs of the kingdoms? Had he played a role in keeping Ceredigion and Occitania and Brugia fighting each other? Was there more subtlety to the po
isoner school than she or anyone had imagined?

  But there would be time to explore her suspicions later. For now, she needed to return to the fight at Dundrennan. She straightened and invoked the word of power.

  Trynne emerged from the fountain in the midst of the castle and quickly invoked the magic of the ring, concealing the armor and streaks of woad on her face, looking just as she had before. The sound of fighting echoed in the stone hall. Trynne rushed out of the chapel and found the corridor filled with bodies, some wearing the tunic of the Pierced Lion, some the armor of Gahalatine. The corridors were lit by flickering torchlight.

  “Gather near me!” she heard Captain Staeli bark. “Hold the doors. Do not let any of the wretches past!”

  Trynne rounded the corner and saw a wall of soldiers facing off against Staeli and six Oath Maidens. They were outnumbered but defiant. The warriors of Chandigarl pressed forward and the Oath Maidens rushed to meet them, swinging blades and kicking out with booted feet. Trynne watched one of the girls fall. Then another, but for each one who fell, five or six of the enemy was killed.

  She rushed to attack the Chandigarli from behind—the enemy soldiers were boxed in, and they seemed to panic when they realized it.

  “That does it!” Staeli crooned, slashing at their foes with both hands. In moments, the rest of the attackers had fallen.

  “Lady Trynne!” one of the girls said, seeing her.

  Captain Staeli looked at her with surprise. “By the shroud, lass! Look at you!”

  “It’s Trynne!” said another girl. She had a cut on her cheek but looked hale otherwise.

  “I told you she’d be well,” Staeli grunted. She wanted to hug him, but there was too much going on.

  “What is happening?” she asked.

  “All the lads and lasses—save these, of course—are down in the dungeons and treasure rooms. The king is in the great hall. We’ve barricaded all the doors. This is the last one.”