The first room he checked was just off the kitchen. As promised by the notes written on the map in his hand, it was empty. He moved through the larger room in the center of the house and came upon another smaller room. This had to be the bedroom he was looking for.
It was separated from the adjoining room by a simple white sheet hung in the doorway. With a gentle hand, the assassin pulled the sheet aside and stepped into the room.
The window set in the outside wall was bare and moonlight bathed the room with a soft, incandescent glow, as if the light of Mishakal herself were shining down on the room’s sole occupant.
He moved closer to the bed for a better look.
There was a half-elven female lying there. She was attractive for a half-elf. In fact, she was attractive by any standard of measure.
As with the bard, there could be no mistaking this woman’s identity. She was indeed the one he sought. Her name was Alsin Felgaard, and she was a milkmaid working on one of the many farms that surrounded Villand.
He moved still closer, then recoiled slightly. Even though he knew what to expect, the features of the half-elf’s face were strikingly similar to those of Argol Birdsong. In fact, if the creature lying on the bed hadn’t been half-elven, he would have sworn that they were full brother and sister.
The assassin pondered that thought for a moment, then did his best to dismiss it from his mind. His task was not to think, only to do as he’d been told. If he thought about it for too long, his loyalty might waver, and he couldn’t afford to have that happen.
If it ever did, he’d be a dead man.
After taking a deep breath to calm himself, he drew back his cloak once more. This time he removed the battle-axe from where it hung on his belt and gripped it firmly in both of his gloved hands.
Slowly, he raised the axe over his head.…
And hesitated.
The half-elf was far too young and beautiful a flower to be cut down so early in what would be a long, long life.
He inhaled a ragged breath, his shaking hands causing the battle-axe to tremble. He let a shiver run its course, then closed his eyes and let out a sigh. As he slowly reopened them, he shook his head.
He’d foolishly allowed himself to think again.
He took another breath, this time making sure his mind and body were hardened by resolve to complete his mission, a resolve stronger and colder than any steel could ever be.
This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed, he told himself. Nor would it be the last.
He raised the battle-axe over his head again, and quickly brought it down with a mighty stroke, cutting through the body of the sleeping maiden and splintering the hard wooden boards of the bed she lay upon.
Her eyes opened in horror, but no sound escaped her lips.
If she’d been lucky, she hadn’t suffered.
The assassin turned from the ruined and bloodied corpse, and left the house as quietly as he’d entered.
When he stepped outside, the sweat soaking his body cooled like ice upon his skin.
It chilled him.
To the bone.
He silently slipped from shadow to shadow to a spot just outside the village where there was a fresh horse tethered to a tree waiting for him. He mounted it easily and in seconds both horse and rider were off, riding west across the plain toward Dargaard Keep.
He stopped only once during his ride.
When he came upon a small creek, one of the dozens of tributaries feeding the Vingaard River, he brought his horse to a stop at the water’s edge. Unlike the waters of the Vingaard River itself, the water here was shallow and slow moving. However, the creek’s bottom was quite muddy and the water murky, making it another desirable spot in which to rid himself of the murder weapon.
As he did earlier that night with the warhammer, he tossed the battle-axe into the creek. After it smacked the surface it was almost immediately gone from view.
And now, for the first time that night, he let out a long, deep sigh of something resembling relief.
The deeds had been done.
He remounted and allowed his horse to walk slowly for several minutes as both horse and rider tried to catch their breath. Then, at the call of its rider, the horse suddenly charged forward in a gallop.
After several hours, as the first rays of dawning sunlight just began to creep over the horizon, he came upon a small and simple cottage at the northernmost foot of the Dargaard Mountains. There was light inside the cottage and, judging from the smoke rising out of the chimney, a roaring fire in its hearth.
He pulled back on the reins and the horse gratefully slowed to a walk. He guided the horse into the stable, covered it with a blanket, provided it with small amounts of food and water, and then headed for the cottage.
He knocked three times and waited for someone to answer the door.
Two men sat by the fire in the small wooden cottage, one rocking in his chair, the other still and silent, as if in deep meditation. The cottage was small, perhaps even cramped, but because they were using it for just this one clandestine meeting, it was more than adequate for their purpose.
Although the flickering light of the fire was dim, the physical similarities between the two were obvious. Both were big men, tall and heavy-boned, suggesting they were formidable fighters. Their facial features were almost identical, and judging from the square jaw, the prominent brow and high cheekbones, the only real distinction between the two was the passage of time.
The older man had salt and pepper hair—somewhat thinned up top and around the edges—and a full beard which had been blanched white by years of worry. By contrast the younger man’s hair was a thick dark shock hanging down over his shoulders in curls, and his pitch black mustache was stylishly long and tapered. He appeared as yet untouched by life’s more weighty burdens.
Beside their ages, the only other difference between the two men could be found in their eyes. The elder’s eyes seemed old and tired, the color of dead embers the morning after a fire. In comparison, the younger man’s steel-gray eyes were sharp and piercing despite their being set deeply into the dark sockets under his brow. And even though his eyes were slightly obscured in shadow, they still had the appearance of being mysteriously alight from within—some might even say, blazing.
Suddenly the younger of the two sat upright in his chair. As he listened carefully to the sounds of the night outside, he could just make out the hoofbeats of an approaching horse.
Slowly the elder rose from his rocker, moving to the hearth to stoke the fire.
In minutes there came three sharp knocks on the door.
The younger man hurried to the door and opened it. A man dressed in the guise of a thief stood in the doorway, his body leaning against the jamb for support.
“Well?”
“It is done.”
Hearing the words, the younger of the two men, a Knight of the Sword named Loren Soth, breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Well done, Caradoc. You have served me well. Please, come inside now and rest for a while.”
The older man, Knight Soth’s father, Aynkell Soth, busied himself with the fire to make it appear as if he were unconcerned about the other’s arrival.
Caradoc stepped into the cottage and began disrobing, tossing his cloak upon the hearth. It hissed and sizzled as his sweat evaporated from the cloth, then all at once it burst into flames. His shirt and britches followed, the blood of his victims burning in colorful shades of orange and blue.
Without another word, Caradoc began dressing himself in his more comfortable—and familiar—knightly garb. In addition to being a Knight of the Crown, Caradoc was also the younger Soth’s steward, or seneschal, serving his master with unwavering loyalty.
Knight Soth returned to his seat and watched his most loyal steward finish getting dressed.
“Any problems?” he asked. “Did anyone see you?”
“There was a drunkard behind the Rose and Thistle, but I never revealed my face to him.”
&nbs
p; Soth nodded. “And the weapons?”
“A warhammer and a battle-axe, making the deeds appear to be the work of renegade dwarves.” A pause. “Both weapons are currently resting beneath some very cold and very dark waters.”
“Excellent,” Knight Soth said. “You’ve done well.”
Aynkell Soth returned to his rocker and looked up at his son for the first time in hours. “Yes,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly devoid of emotion. “Now when you take over rule of Knightlund, you can be certain that no other heir will come forward to lay claim to it.”
Knight Soth looked at his father for several seconds before speaking to him in a voice that was dripping with contempt. “It seems to me that as a bard and a milkmaid, neither of the two products of your affairs would have been of the type inclined to claim it.”
“Perhaps not,” said Aynkell Soth. “But if they had known of their lineage, known of their birthright, then perhaps …”
“It’s of little consequence now,” Caradoc said flatly. “They are both dead.”
“Yes,” said Aynkell, nodding. “Thank you.”
“For what?” asked Caradoc, doing nothing to stop his voice from rising in anger. He was loyal to Knight Soth, not to the knight’s father, who was nothing more than a second-rate clerk and first-rate philanderer. “For the murder of your own flesh and blood, the half-kin of my master?”
If the elder Soth was surprised by the young man’s impertinence, he did not show it. “Why? For the removal of the black marks upon my soul,” Aynkell answered, his voice still strong, still confident.
“The black marks might have been removed from your soul,” said Knight Soth, “but they are not gone. They have merely been transferred. The black marks that were once upon your soul, are now upon mine. The full weight of my father’s sins are now mine alone to bear. What a lovely gift to receive scant months before my wedding day.”
Soth knew that the evil deeds were necessary to assure his ascension to the lordship of Dargaard Keep—and he would let nothing interfere with that—but he resented the fact that his father had made such murders necessary.
The sarcasm in young Soth’s words was too much for the elder Soth to bear. He turned away from his son in order to avoid having to look him in the face.
“You might not have been a Knight of Solamnia,” said Knight Soth. “But you were familiar enough with the Oath and the Measure to have at least tried to live by its code.”
“I was never suited to become a knight, nor to live like one,” Aynkell said, his voice sad and apologetic. His face appeared to have aged over the last few minutes with the realization that his son would likely never forgive him his past indiscretions.
“A poor excuse.”
“Perhaps, but it is the only one I have.”
Soth shook his head and sighed. “You may attend the wedding and take your place of honor upon the high table. But it is only at Korinne’s request that you will be there.”
Aynkell nodded.
“I want as little to do with you as possible.”
Aynkell stood motionless and impassive.
“Come, Caradoc,” said Knight Soth. “Light is dawning and we must return to the keep before we become conspicuous by our absence.”
“I’ll ready the horses,” said Caradoc, now fully dressed and looking every inch a Knight of the Crown. He left the cottage, giving Soth the chance to spend a final few minutes alone with his father.
Knight Soth turned to face the older man.
“Good-bye, father,” he said, knowing that the words were much more than just a casual farewell.
The elder Soth looked at his son for a long time and the disgrace he felt slowly disappeared. A cynical, almost mocking, smile appeared on his face.
“Don’t be so quick to condemn me, my son,” Aynkell said. “You are of my flesh and of my blood. You always will be. There’s too much of me in you for you to be so critical of my life.”
For a moment Knight Soth was speechless.
In the intervening silence, Aynkell began to laugh.
The knight’s face darkened in a scowl as he turned abruptly away from his father and stormed out of the cottage.
As he joined Caradoc and began his homeward ride, the young knight could still hear his father’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears …
Haunting him for many, many miles.
Book One
Son’s Rise
Chapter 1
Dargaard Keep was an impressive sight, even to those who had watched it slowly being constructed and had been familiar with its commanding presence for years. It was a keep unlike any other on the face of Krynn, looking for all the world as if it had grown up out of the ground, rather than been painstakingly built stone by stone.
It was an appearance that had not happened by chance. With its unique shape, labyrinthine hallways, spires and towers, and deep multiple levels of caverns and dungeons, it had taken over a hundred of the best stone cutters, masons and smiths from the four corners of Krynn more than five years to complete. But all who set their eyes upon it agreed that the years of hard labor had been more than worth it, for now that it was finished it stood triumphantly at the northern end of the Dargaard Mountains as one of the true architectural wonders of Solamnia, perhaps even of all of Krynn.
The keep had been designed by Knight Soth himself, who’d wanted to create a fitting tribute not only to those Solamnic Knights who had so bravely fallen in battle over the ages, but to his numerous uncles and cousins, all of them knights, who had died when the great plagues swept across Solamnia in the latter years of the Age of Might. Therefore the keep had been constructed in the shape of a rose, its towers, battlements and ramparts curling out from its center like the petals of a flower under the warm light of the mid-morning sun. Closer to the ground, a long column twisted up from the earth with portholes and windows dotting the structure at various points, their intricate and decorative brickwork giving the column the appearance of having thorns. Protecting the keep was a high and thick stone wall which, ringing the structure with a solid line of defense against even the most persistent attacker, at the same time created a spacious courtyard on the grounds for the training of knights and for the conducting of ceremonies and other festivities.
And finally, surrounding the keep was a deep and dark chasm, said to be bottomless but in reality no more than a hundred or so feet deep. The only entrance to the keep was across a sturdy drawbridge which spanned the chasm and led visitors through a well guarded gatehouse. The gatehouse featured a heavy steel portcullis fashioned in the shape of interlocking swords and adorned with small crowns and large roses. The overall design of the keep made it both a wonder to behold and an impregnable fortress. As a result, plans had been made to designate the keep as the strategic headquarters of the Knights of the Rose, the highest order of the Solamnic Knights.
But despite its many wonders, the most unique of all of the keep’s features was its color. At Knight Soth’s insistence, the keep had been built from a rose-colored granite popularly referred to as “bloodstone” which had been quarried from a very rich vein in the heart of the Dargaard Mountains. When he had first hinted that the keep should be made of the crimson stone, the cutters and masons rebelled knowing all too well that bloodstone was the hardest of all building materials to work with. But now, mere months after its completion, all agreed that the additional effort and hard work had been more than worthwhile.
The keep was a thing of beauty and a source of pride to all the people of Knightlund. It was also a structure worthy of its most noble inhabitant, Knight Loren Soth, currently a Knight of the Sword and a great and noble soldier for the cause of Good.
The mood around the estate on this morning was a spirited one as a carnival-like atmosphere had pervaded all of the proceedings in and around Dargaard Keep for the past few weeks. What else could be expected as one of Solamnia’s greatest knights prepared to be wed?
And, with a higher concentration of kni
ghts and noblemen than could be found even on the greatest of battlefields, the merchants and tradesmen of Solamnia had all flocked to Dargaard Keep, setting up shop weeks in advance, trying to secure the best spots in which to sell their wares to the wedding guests they hoped would all be in a spending mood.
On the grounds just west of the keep, blacksmiths and other skilled tradesmen were selling newly forged armor and swords, all of which glinted with gold, silver and brass accents and shone blindingly bright beneath the hot morning sun. Many of them had already done great business, selling all that they had brought and taking orders for more custom-made articles. Around the back of the keep, tailors and seamstresses sold resplendent garments suitable for wearing to the wedding ceremony of a knight, while still others were busy making new clothes specifically ordered for the occasion.
The rest of the crowd was filled out by jugglers, conjurers, minstrels and bards, and an assortment of other fortune tellers, con artists and prestidigitators. Busiest of these were the herbalists who purported to be selling all varieties of love potions, the potency of which were verified nightly by some of the more amorous of the wedding’s guests.
But while the mood outside was festive, within the walls of the keep’s courtyard there was an event underway, the tone of which was somewhat more subdued.
“Knight Soth, please come forward,” said Lord Olthar Uth Wistan, High Warrior, and one of the presiding knights on the assembled Rose Knights Council. Olthar sat at one end of a group of five knights seated at the high table which was elevated atop a wooden platform positioned against one of the courtyard’s inside walls. At Olthar’s immediate left were two elderly Knights of the Rose, both of whom had long since retired from their active knightly duties. Oren Brightblade and Dag Kurrold had both been asked to sit on the Rose Knights Council out of respect for their long years of distinguished service to the knighthood. Both had accepted the honorary appointment with pleasure.
Lord Soth Page 2