by Garon Whited
Is it any sillier than accepting that as an answer and opening the door?
Tort let them in. There were twenty or so, all of them armed, but unarmored. They varied from eager to curious to suspicious, but held a universal air of haste. They all seemed to be in excellent physical condition. Every one of them wore a long, grey sash looped around the waist two or three times, with the loose ends hanging down to about the knee level, opposite the sword. There were no tassels, I noted.
They started to file in and the two in the lead stopped in their tracks as they saw me. This started a traffic jam. Tort nodded me back into the living room, so I went and stoked up the fireplace. She then directed traffic at the door and men filed in to fill the living room. They spread out as much as possible, which gave everyone a pretty good chance of using a large, heavy sword without seriously threatening his neighbor. And they each had a big, heavy blade, rather reminiscent of Firebrand.
Paranoids notice things like that.
“Good evening,” I offered, as they stood and stared at me. I hate that. I mean, standing in front of a hall full of freshmen is one thing; on such occasions, I’m about to give a lecture. I have something to do. Standing there to be stared at like a zoo animal is something else again.
Twenty-two. That’s how many swords there were. I know, because I suddenly had cause to count them. Twenty-two swords came out and pointed at me. Every last one of the things was enchanted, too.
About that point, three more men crowded in. Younger men, but men. I recognized Kammen, Seldar and Torvil; they seemed to be out of breath, as though recently running.
“Get out,” one of the elders said.
“No,” Torvil replied, without so much as breaking stride. The three of them shouldered their way forward, marched up to me, sketched a quick bow, and turned their backs to me. They drew steel and waited.
Things were very quiet for about sixteen heartbeats. Not mine; mine just sat there, useless lump that it is. Nighttime, you know.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “I seem to have inadvertently attracted your ire. Perhaps someone would be so kind as to explain what I’ve done to so offend you all?”
One of them spat on Tort’s floor.
“Usurper!”
Okay, so this had something to do with the kingship. Fine. But was that any reason to be disgusting in Tort’s home? They could have just asked me about it, rather than tromping mud in, waving cutlery, and spitting on the floor.
“I really don’t want to kill everyone in the room,” I said, pleasantly, “so, maybe, one of you gentlemen would explain to the Lady Tort what you are doing in her home?”
“I’m about to run a sword through a sorcerer’s guts,” replied another of the men, and he stepped forward. Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar held their ground. Kammen, the one facing his direction, adjusted his stance and prepared to attack. I put a hand on his shoulder. Tort remained in the doorway of the living room and shook her head. I got the impression she was both annoyed and amused, but not worried.
“Wait,” I said to Kammen, while I eyed the big, heavy weapon pointed at me. The enchantment seemed pretty basic; stronger steel, sharpness, a limited ability to repair itself. Nothing to worry about.
“I take it you mean me,” I said, and started to psych myself up for what was about to happen. I’ve rammed a dagger through my hand to nail it to a bartop; this was just a slightly-larger version of it.
It still hurts.
“All right.” I stepped forward and spread my arms. “I pardon you for treason on this one occasion, but that’s all the tolerance I’m going to show. So go ahead if you think you can stand the consequences.”
And he did. His thrust was excellent. The point hit exactly right to slide upward under the scale armor, force its way through the underlying chainmail, and go completely through my abdomen, just higher than and to the left of my navel. He was a strong man, and he needed to be. Even standing there and letting him do it, my armor took the brunt of the thrust. If he hadn’t given it everything he had, even with an enchanted sword, he wouldn’t have made it through. The point didn’t make it out the back. It lodged in the chainmail layer over my lower back.
He reasonably expected to have the hilt of his weapon rammed against my gut. When his sword failed to spit me like a piglet for barbeque, his eyes widened. A lot of other people’s eyes widened, too. About the only spectator unsurprised was Tort, who seemed amused.
I lashed him with a dark tendril of my spirit, reaching for his life essence, but hit a defensive spell of some sort. I had noted it earlier—everyone was wearing one—but I thought it fragile enough that I could easily break it. I was partly correct; the tendril-lash did break it, but it hurt. The backlash pain was far worse than the sword thrust and entirely unexpected.
Everything seemed to slow down. It was like watching the playback from a high-speed camera being gradually dialed down. I switched from magical tactics to the purely physical.
Trying not to snarl, I grabbed his wrist, broke his forearm with the edge of my other hand, and kicked him in the knee. He started to fall and I had to wait for a bit while he inched his way down to the floor. I kept my grip on his wrist, even though he let go of the sword. As he got close to the floor, I pulled his wrist and planted a boot in his armpit to swing him around and send him skidding away. He started to scream through clenched teeth, but I was already moving, leaning forward, digging in with my feet.
People—mortals—were just getting into gear, while I was in overdrive and still accelerating. I moved to the next guy, swung one hand up under his sword-wrist, the other down between wrist and elbow, and dismissed him from my considerations as I continued past him. In a moment, he would realize his forearm was broken and his weapon tumbling to the floor, but I was busy moving like the only person at regular speed in a slow-motion world.
I really had to plant my feet and lean into movements to change course. I must work on a spell to lower my inertia. Cornering at the speed of dark isn’t easy.
Arms. That’s what I was after. I wasn’t trying to kill anyone, especially since I didn’t know who they were. Tort seemed to know them. In keeping with that, I moved around the room at unreasonable speed, barely under control, breaking arms or wrists as I went by, parrying anything with my forearm plates, and periodically bouncing off walls to change direction. I also used people to change course; I would grab a man, swing around him like a partner at a square dance to make a turn, and sling him into furniture, other people, or walls.
Everything happened with a frozen-motion feeling. I didn’t break any walls, but I fractured a few people and chairs. Swords fell to the floor as forearms snapped. Men bounced off walls after I bounced off them. A few flipped over furniture en passant, and one smashed through a small table. Two were either amazingly fast or very lucky, or both; I was struck by blades twice as I moved through space they already occupied. Both weapons rebounded from my armor.
While flinging myself—and others—rather carelessly around the room, I wondered who they were. They hardly looked united in their desire to do me in. Half or more seemed to be just going along with the more opinionated of their group, at least until the fighting started. And I knew they were a group. They all wore grey sashes, which at least implied that they were some order of knighthood. Was this political? It certainly wasn’t an assassination—well, not a competent one. More like a group murder attempt.
So many questions, so few answers. That’s why I didn’t want to kill anyone; I wanted those answers.
I slowed slightly in order to go once around the room and gather weapons, some of which had not yet reached the ground. Tendrils coiled everywhere, whiplashing around hilts and guiding them into my hands as I pinballed from wall to wall, stepping over broken furniture and on any unbroken people. With the blades tucked under one arm like firewood, I came up to the fireplace and the rough-hewn, wooden mantelpiece. As I came out of hyperdrive, I was sticking the swords, one by one, into the wood.
People finished falli
ng over or sliding to the floor. Screams died down to moans and groans and hisses of pain.
Okay, that’s new, I reflected. I’ve never done that before.
I was thankful to be facing away while sticking swords into the wood. I didn’t want anyone to see my face while I sorted out what I was thinking. As a nightlord, I’ve always been fast; my reflexes are inhuman. But being able to move that fast was entirely unexpected. Either I’ve developed the ability to distort the flow of time, or getting older has stepped up my abilities. Or years in an Ascension Sphere. Or the force-feeding of a half-million ghosts. Or… well, okay, it could be a lot of things, either individually or in combination.
That frightened me, but I’m easily frightened, usually of myself. We tend to fear the unknown, and of all the things I know little about, I head the list. What was it the oracle of Delphi said? Know thyself? Well, I’ve still got a long way to go, and apparently a much longer trip than I anticipated.
And it just occurred to me that the whole “know thyself” thing isn’t a journey to a fixed destination. Learning about myself changes me, forcing me to learn more. “Know thyself” isn’t a goal; it’s a road.
Well, so much for ever finishing.
What else can I do that I couldn’t before? Do I have any more new abilities, or over-powered refinements on existing ones? Just when I thought I had a handle on the whole part-time undead thing, too! I resolved to try really hard not to react—well, over-react—to anything. I’m a walking bomb, just waiting to kill someone by accident.
This is not good. Don’t get me wrong; I’m completely at home to the idea of being dangerous. I’d just like to be able to control it. Or, at least aim it.
I haven’t been this scared of what I might do in a long time.
While my thoughts were flashing through this, everyone else was groaning, moaning, argh-ing, or unconscious. I might have swung a couple of them a little too hard when changing course.
My three knights and Tort stared at the nearly-bloodless carnage. I say “nearly,” because I broke a few of the forearms a little too enthusiastically, I’m afraid, and an occasional collision had resulted in a bloody nose or accidental gash. Well, it was my first time in hyperdrive. I promised myself I would get better. Meanwhile, blood beaded on the stone floor and rolled in little drops over to me, spattered on my boots, and crept up in little streamers to slither inside my skin.
The less wounded of the men stared at the blood with a strange fascination. I admit that it’s kind of a neat effect.
Looking down at the slithering blood reminded me to pull the sword out of my guts. During my caroming around, I had accidentally driven it the rest of the way through. It came out easily enough, though, and clean; my own blood decided to stay inside where it belonged. I stuck it in the mantelpiece with the others.
“Now,” I said, trying for a cold and level tone, “I don’t care who you are. You’ve offended me and been more than rude. I’ve been patient, reasonable, understanding, and—mark me, now—non-lethal. Get up, gather your wounded, and get out. Do it now, and don’t say one damned word.”
One of the ones standing, thanks to a handy wall to lean on, opened his mouth.
“You won’t—” he started, and I sprang to him and shoved him back against the wall, used the heel of my hand against his forehead to bounce his head off the brickwork, and let him fall to the floor. Judging by the way his internal lights sparkled, he was alive, but the concussion would keep him busy for a few days. I hit him just a wee bit harder than I intended. Mental note to self.
“The next one, I will crush,” I said, somewhat forcefully. “Get out. Do it now, and do it in silence.”
They did it now, and they did it in silence. I gestured to Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar to stay.
When Tort, smiling, closed the door behind the wounded retreat, she bolted it and limped back into the room, flanked by a walking suit of full plate armor; I recognized it. It used to belong to T’yl. Apparently, she had inherited it… Oops, again. I wondered if she summoned it, or if it just came on its own when violence started.
The suit of armor and my knights righted the intact furniture. The hollow knight took up station in a corner, while the living stood in a line, as though waiting for a scolding. Tort finally sat down and began to laugh. She was looking at the mantelpiece.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Over twenty Knights of Shadow, now awaiting the mercy of their king,” she said. “I wonder how many will come begging for their swords again?” My three looked startled, even shocked, and Kammen let out an involuntary gulp of nervous laughter.
“I don’t get it,” I admitted.
“You give a knight a sword to make him a knight,” she said, and paused.
“With you so far.”
“What happens when the king takes a sword from a knight?” she inquired.
Ah. For someone so fast, I can be awfully slow.
“Fair enough. So, someone want to tell me what that was all about? And you three! Sit down! Stop looking like you’re waiting for a spanking.” A thought struck me. “You’re my personal guard, you know. I knighted you myself! You’re my trusted advisors, not servants. Got that?”
Tort laughed at their expressions. I can’t say I blame her, but it was a little unkind.
“And you,” I said, turning to her, “can tell me what the hell that was all about, since you’re the one who let them in.”
“Of course, my angel.” She gestured at the other three, motioning them to sit. They did, carefully, as though not quite certain they should. They might have been concerned about the durability of the furniture; some of it had taken good hits without obviously breaking. I remained standing in front of the fireplace and the sword collection.
“Our visitors were of the Knights of Shadow,” Tort began. “They are a brother order to the Knights of Karvalen. The Knights of Karvalen is an order established by Raeth, shortly after… your departure. They are knights of the kingdom, dedicated to its protection, and wear the red sash. The Knights of Shadow were founded later, by Knights of Karvalen who believed their first duty should be to the King of Karvalen. They revere you, rather than the kingdom, and are very insistent about the difference. They wear the grey sashes. They are also the ones who send their sons to the mountain for their vigil.”
I glanced at the three knights in the room. They nodded. I think they were afraid to interrupt.
“So, why the attempt at murder?”
“I presume they believed you to be an impostor.” She turned to Kammen, Torvil, and Seldar. “Am I wrong?”
“No, my lady,” Seldar replied. “Only a few truly believed a demon wearing a sorcerer’s skin might be among us. All did agree that any who claimed to be the king returned should have that claim challenged.”
“I should think that no longer in doubt,” Tort observed.
“We never doubted,” Kammen said, quietly.
“And you were prepared to stand against the rest of your Order?” Tort asked.
“Better question,” I interrupted. “Your fathers are members of the Knights of Shadow? And you, Torvil—you have an elder brother in the Order, too? Were they here, tonight?”
They nodded, looking unhappy.
“Then I’m glad I decided to try and avoid killing anyone,” I mused. “Were any of them badly hurt?”
“No,” Seldar said. Torvil and Kammen looked doubtful, so Seldar added, “No one’s injuries were life-threatening.”
“You did well,” Tort told them, “to display such loyalty in his defense. You will find he has no need of defenders, however,” Tort assured them, smugly.
“Don’t be so sure,” I advised. “I need a personal guard, and these three are it. Bronze can’t be with me everywhere, and I don’t really know where Firebrand is. If they want to help keep me alive and advise me, I’m all for it.”
“Does that mean we’re to be trained as your personal guard?” Torvil asked, eagerly.
And it
hit me, right then, that they needed training. This world tends toward a direct and bloody method of conflict resolution. The visit by a score of armed men, all prepared to skewer me like an oversized kebab was a perfect example. These three—now my three—knights were willing to stand between me and certain death, to say nothing of their fathers and brothers.
Because they believed in me. More properly, they believed in the King, and that I was the King.
If they were going to do that sort of thing on my behalf, could I ignore them? No. They needed to have some sort of help, something that would give them at least a chance at doing… well, whatever they chose to do, despite terrible odds.
“Why, yes,” I said, slowly, still thinking. “Yes, I believe you are. You’re not going to like it, but… we’ll see how it goes. But first, there’s one more thing I need to know.”
“Name it.”
“What year is it?”
Tort was good enough to put everyone up for the remainder of the night. With the teenagers camped out upstairs—I warned them that the next day was going to be gruesomely difficult, and they seemed to believe me—Tort and I stayed up a bit longer to work on two things: My defensive spells and her foot.
She did the lion’s share of the work on my defenses, with a bit of input from me on what I wanted and the effects I was after. Before dawn, I had my variation on the Ascension Sphere—the Grounding Field?—up and running, thanks to Tort’s intimate knowledge of the thing. I just dumped a lot of raw power into it after she built the spell structure. Once the spell was active, I cleaned off the charcoal marks she used in putting the spell on me.
I did the lion’s share of the work on her foot, though, with some technique and technical advice from Tort—interspersed with a few giggles. Drawing symbols on her lower legs apparently tickles.
I’m actually kind of proud of the regrowth spell. Most of my spells are improvised, or, at least, unrefined, first-draft versions of spells. Unlike magicians, I don’t know many spells by rote; I make them up as I go. But that regrowth spell…
First, I mapped her existing foot—well, lower leg—from the knee down. I wove a three-dimensional latticework around and through it, gridding it off into tiny cubes. Then I had the spell increase its density. The lines of power in the spell split apart and doubled themselves in each direction, dividing each of the little cubes into eight smaller cubes, making the grid even more fine. Tort loaned me some power and we kept at it, dividing the open spaces into smaller and smaller portions, until even my eyes couldn’t see between them.