The Jake Thomas Trilogy: Book 02 - Sword of Light

by Steven A. Tolle

  Keria came into the hall through the doors near the dais. She nodded and spoke with the nobles as she made her way to her chair. When she sat down, she looked over at Marcus, smiling broadly. He returned the smile, giving her a nod of his head.

  “You should be more subtle.” Jonas said quietly, his eyes knowing. He made a slight gesture towards the assembled nobles. “You will set the tongues wagging with this lot. Remember to be patient. All things come in the One’s time.”

  Before Marcus could reply, the king’s herald came into the hall and banged his staff three times. The crowd quieted. “The king comes!” He called out.

  Marcus watched as the king entered the hall, followed by his father. The king climbed the dais and sat on his throne, Marcus’ father standing next to him. Marcus noticed that the king seemed rather pale, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his face. He glanced over a Jonas, who was looking on with concern in his eyes.

  When the king spoke, however, his voice sounded strong, carrying throughout the hall. “I have called you together to make a happy announcement. Recent events have prompted me to consider the need for my daughter to marry and produce an heir. As a father, I had hoped to delay that day for a while longer. But as king, I cannot risk putting the realm in jeopardy.”

  “So, I have had a series of discussions with Lord Marcelas. We have agreed that the best way to serve the realm is to join our houses.” The king announced. “Therefore, my daughter, Keria, Princess of the Realm, is to be married.”

  The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Marcus, not quite believing what he was hearing, looked over at Keria, catching her eye, seeing joy there and exchanging smiles.

  When the crowd quieted, the king continued. “In ten days time, the Princess Keria will marry Rolas, Lord Marcelas’ eldest son.”

  Marcus, stunned as if he had been punched in the stomach, looked over and saw Rolas staring at him, a cruel smile on his face.

  …

  Jonas kept his face neutral, though he was shocked by the announcement. He caught movement next to him and reached over to stop Marcus, but was too late.

  “NO!” Marcus shouted, rage and disbelief on his face, as he stepped into the center of the hall. “I will not allow it!”

  “Control yourself, Sir Marcus!” The king said sternly, rising from his throne. “It is not your place to disallow anything.”

  “Why, Father?” Keria cried out, rising from her chair, dismay on her face. “You did not even consult me!”

  “Father, how can you do this to me?!” Marcus said at the same time, ignoring the king. “You know of my feelings for Keria.”

  “Marcus!” His father replied, stepping forward. “You shame yourself. This is a great honor for the family and your brother. Do not allow your jealousy to ruin it!”

  “Jealousy?!” Marcus retorted. “I feel nothing but betrayal!”

  “ENOUGH!” The king shouted, slamming his fist down on the arm of the throne. The hall went silent as the king beckoned to the Royal Guard standing nearby.

  “Sir Marcus, you will remove yourself from the hall without another word.” The king stated in a more normal voice, though his body shook. “You are sworn to obey me, so honor your oath.”

  “Please, Your Majesty.” Marcus began, but the king cut him off.

  “Sir Marcus, you are banished from the palace until after the wedding.” The king ordered curtly. “Speak again and I will banish you from the city.”

  Jonas had moved next to Marcus, putting an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder. He could feel him shake from his repressed rage. “I will make sure he obeys you, Your Majesty.” Jonas said calmly. “Please forgive him. He is still young.”

  “Leave, Marcus.” Jonas whispered to him. “Go to the Temple. I will find a place for you to stay until this can be resolved.”

  Marcus nodded sharply, stepping away. He made a bow to the king, his eyes still on Keria, then spun on his heel and strode from the room, the Royal Guard trailing him.

  The king sat back down, wiping his forehead, his body still shaking. Jonas approached, concerned. “You look unwell, Majesty.” He said cautiously, his body shining as he called up his power. “May I examine you?”

  The king looked down, seeing Jonas approach, then held up his hand. “No, Brother Jonas.” The king said. “I am simply tired. I will be fine with some rest.”

  “It would be best if I made sure.” Jonas pressed. “Some illnesses can be confused with weariness.”

  “No, I said!” The king stated curtly. “Will no one obey me this evening?!”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Jonas said, bowing. “I did not mean to insult you.”

  “It may be best if I retire.” The king said, rising. He looked over at Marcus’ father. “Forgive me, Lord Marcelas. This is a happy night for both of us and I allowed it to be ruined.”

  “Nonsense, Your Majesty.” Marcelas said, bowing deeply. “It is I who owe you an apology for my son’s behavior.”

  “Please enjoy the rest of the night.” The king said. He left the hall, with Keria right behind him, pleading quietly.

  Jonas watched as the nobles gathered to congratulate Lord Marcelas, Lady Arelia and Rolas. He quietly moved towards the exits, troubled by what had just occurred. Something was seriously amiss, he knew, but was not sure where to begin to find out what it was.

  Letting his power go, he left the palace, hoping to calm down Marcus and prevent him from doing something even more foolish.

  …

  Near midnight, with a cool breeze blowing down from the Gray Ridges, Lieutenant Jeffreys stood on the battlements overlooking the approach to the East Gate, leaning against the stones and checking the area lit by the watch torches. Yawning, he stretched and moved around, trying to fight off sleep. He was still adjusting to the night shift. He was filling in for the regular night officer, who was gone on leave to visit family.

  Absently, he rubbed at his eyepatch over where his left eye had been, still not comfortable wearing it. He lost that eye in the battle of the city, reacting too slowly to a swing from a half-man, the tip of the sword striking the eye. By the time the battle died down and the clerics were able to reach him, the eye had been damaged too severely to save, despite their best efforts.

  That’s the risk of being a soldier. He thought sagaciously. His wife was supportive, but had been gently suggesting that perhaps it was time for another line of work. Given everything that happened, he would have been receptive to that idea, except that he was promoted after the battle. He did not see how he could turn it down, given the extra coin and increased social status. So, he was now the deputy commander of the day watch on the East Gate.

  The sound of approaching horses drew his attention back towards the city. It is a strange time for a ride, especially since the gates are closed. He thought. From the sound, it appeared to be a fairly large party. He made his way over to the stairs and headed down to the gate area.

  When he arrived, he saw a dozen men on horseback, coming to a halt near the gate. He noted that they were armed and wearing the symbol of Lord Marcelas’ house. He looked at the big man slightly out in front of the rest. He raised a hand in greeting. “A little late in the evening for a ride, isn’t it?” He asked.

  “It isn’t for pleasure, I can assure you.” The man replied. “I would rather be back in bed with my woman.” He pulled out a parchment and handed it to Jeffreys. “We are here to provide an escort for an arriving prisoner.”

  “A prisoner at this hour?” Jeffreys said incredulously. “Our standing orders are to keep the gate closed and locked until dawn.” He looked at the men more closely. “I don’t see anyone from the Royal Guard. They are in charge of the dungeons.”

  “We have been tasked by the king and Lord Marcelas to support the Royal Guard while we are here in the city. We drew the short straw and got the dungeons.” The man said with a shrug. He pointed at the parchment. “Those are my orders, signed by the king himself.”

  Jeffreys opene
d the parchment, adjusting it to catch the most light.

  The banner-men of Lord Marcelas are operating under my orders. The gate is to be opened to allow the transfer of a prisoner. Lord Marcelas’ banner-men will escort the prisoner to the dungeons. This is an important matter for the realm. Provide any aid required and follow their directions.

  The parchment was signed by the king, over the royal seal. Jeffreys shook his head. I’m not sure what these nobles are thinking at times.

  “When is the prisoner due?” Jeffreys asked, handing the parchment back.

  “I was told midnight.” The man replied. “They may be behind schedule.”

  “Riders and a wagon approaching, Lieutenant.” One of the archers called down.

  “I guess they are on time.” The man said with a smile. “Open the gates, then draw your men back.”

  “As you wish.” Jeffreys replied. He went over to the gate, releasing the locks, and went into the gatehouse. He had his men open the gate. Once the gate was open, he ordered them to stay where they were. He went outside and climbed the stairs to the battlements on the wall. There he ordered the archers to move down the wall until the wagon was safely inside and had left the gate area.

  Before he climbed down, he glanced over the wall and saw the wagon approaching. It was a large wagon, pulled by six horses with a single driver, made of dark wood bound in steel. Instead of a wagon bed, there was a wooden cell, the walls and roof built of the same thick wood, without any windows. While he told himself that it was only a wagon, there was something about it that he did not like. Eight men on horseback were escorting the wagon, all wearing Lord Marcelas’ symbol.

  He went down to check the gate, then ordered his men to pull back until the wagon passed. They watched from a distance as the men and then the wagon entered the city. Jeffreys felt a chill go through his body as the wagon slowly rolled past, the wooden wheels creaking against the paving stones. It was only a couple of minutes before it was out of the courtyard and into the city.

  The large man came riding over. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.” He said with an amused smile on his face. “You may now shut the gate before something gets in.” With that, he turned and rode off after the wagon.

  Jeffreys quickly got his men to close the gate. He relocked it, double-checking his work and went into the gatehouse to get something to drink and figure out how to explain this incident in the duty officer’s log.

  …

  With the late afternoon sun sinking low in the horizon, Nathen was glad to be outside, breathing in the fresh air, taking his time heading to the Temple. He had a message for Brother Jonas, but fortunately, there had been no order to run.

  He absolutely hated working in the dungeons. Despite the Guard’s efforts to keep them clean, they were dark and dank, with the odor of unwashed men filling the place. He sniffed his clothes, sure the smell had permeated the cloth.

  Of all of the things he had seen and heard since working in the dungeons, last night had been strangest yet. It was late in the night when a group of Lord Marcelas men showed up. They had waved around an order from the king, and then had all of the Royal Guard move to the far end of the dungeons, closing the doors behind them. Then, about a half-hour later, they opened the doors and told the Royal Guard that the lowest level was off-limits to any but Lord Marcelas’ men. He did not like the lower levels anyway, so that was fine with him.

  One day, I will learn to keep my fat mouth shut. He thought. He did not think that what he said warranted the punishment, something about looking pretty enough that their enemies would be smitten and surrender to their charms, but then again, Helgrant did not seem to possess a sense of humor.

  He hoped to see Marcus while he was at the Temple. When he had gotten off shift, Daen had told him what had happened last night and of Marcus’ banishment. I’m the one who shoots off my mouth, not Marcus. He would have liked to see it, though. He could only remember a couple of times that Marcus had gotten really angry; most of the time, he was calm and collected. Marcus angry and shouting in front of the king would have been something to see.

  When he reached the Temple grounds, he found an apprentice to lead him to Jonas. Jonas was sitting in the small sanctuary off the main Temple, talking quietly with an older female cleric with gray-streaked hair.

  Nathen sketched a quick bow. “Greetings, Brother Jonas. I have been sent to request your presence at the dungeons. A new prisoner is apparently very sick. Since they are not sure what is ailing him, I was to ask for you.”

  “Of course.” Jonas replied, rising. Nathen saw him looking closely at his face. “Aren’t you one of Marcus’ friends? Nathen, I believe; the one who likes courting trouble.”

  “Yes and no, Brother.” Nathen said with a smile. “I am Nathen, but I would not say I like courting trouble. I blame it on my parents for my poor upbringing.” He finished with aplomb.

  Jonas chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Well, Nathen. Let us be off.”

  “Is Marcus here? I would like to see him, if I could.” Nathen asked.

  “I’m sorry, but he is at Mastersmith Norlan’s.” Jonas stated. “I’m sure you heard about what happened last night.”

  Just my luck. Nathen thought, shrugging. He was turning to lead Jonas away when a young male apprentice came running in.

  “Master Jonas, please come quickly!” The boy said, panting. Jonas interrupted the boy by raising a hand.

  “Wait!” Jonas said firmly. “Take a breath and speak slowly. A cleric must remain calm when others are falling apart.”

  The boy flushed bright red, embarrassed. He did as he was told. After he released the breath, he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Forgive me, Master, but a young child was brought into the clinic. She ran into the roadway and was struck by a wagon. The wagon was fully loaded when it ran over her. She is near death.”

  Jonas seemed to hesitate, concern on his face, but the female cleric spoke up. “See to the child, Jonas. I will go with young Nathen here and check on this prisoner.”

  “Thank you, Silvan.” Jonas said, sounding relieved. He followed the apprentice out, moving quickly.

  “Let us go, Nathen.” Silvan said. “I would like to get back before it gets too late.”

  “Right away, Sister.” He said with a mischievous grin.

  While he led her back to the dungeons, he continued to try to get her to laugh. She smiled at his jokes, but not even a chuckle from her. I always seem to get the serious types. He thought disappointedly.

  The dungeons were situated in the Military Quarter, near the edge of the courtyard. When they arrived, Nathen led her down to the first level, where the Royal Guard was posted. Standing in the stone hallway that led to the cells, speaking with the officer in charge, was the large man who served Marcus’ father. Justian was his name, Nathen recalled. He cocked an eyebrow at the sight of Silvan.

  “You were told to bring Brother Jonas.” Justian said sharply to Nathen. “Was the order not clear enough for you?”

  Nathen gritted his teeth, biting back a reply that could inflame the situation. Before he could say something, Silvan spoke.

  “I am quite capable of determining what is troubling this prisoner.” She said directly, a frown on her face. “If it is something that I cannot handle, I will return with Brother Jonas.”

  “As you wish, Sister.” Justian said with a nod of his head. He pointed at Nathen. “You can come and hold the torch for the cleric.”

  Nathen looked over at the officer, grumbling under his breath, but the officer motioned for him to go.

  Justian led them down the stairs, grabbing a torch and shoving it into Nathen’s hand. The torchlight did not seem to penetrate very far in the ever-present darkness. There was the slow steady sound of dripping water and the temperature grew colder as they descended.

  When they reached the lowest level, Nathen saw that there were only a couple of Justian’s men standing guard outside of a heavy wooden door. Several torch
es lit the area. Nodding to the men, Justian turned to Silvan.

  “The prisoner is being kept at the far end of the hallway, in the biggest cell.” He said as he unlocked the door. “I don’t know if what he has is catching, so be careful.”

  “Why is a man being kept in such conditions?” Silvan snapped, gesturing at the area. “This is not healthy for the body or spirit.”

  “I’m only following my orders, Sister.” Justian said. “You can address it with the king if you like.”

  “I will do just that.” She replied. “Come along, Nathen. Let us see to this poor man.”

  Beyond the door was a long and wide hallway. There were only a few torches lit, so the hall was checkered with patches of light and dark. They made their way down the hallway, Nathen feeling more and more apprehensive. He was looking around, trying to get familiar with the passage. They were almost to the far end when the door closed behind them, a dull boom echoing down the hall. As the door closed, it cut off the light from the outside torches and the sound made Nathen jump.

  Suddenly, Silvan was blazing with power, the light throwing back the shadows. Directly ahead was a set of cell doors, standing open. “There is something wrong here, Nathen. Be ready.” She said.

  Nathen nodded, drawing his sword. Silvan cautiously moved forward, entering the room.

  The room was wide and empty. There was a secondary hallway in the far corner. The hallway space was pitch black, the wall shading it from Silvan’s glowing form. As they slowly approached it, a voice came from that blackness, freezing them where they stood.

  “You are not who I was expecting.” The deep voice said, the sound terrifying Nathen to his core. Out of the darkness, a tall man-shaped figure stepped into the light.

  “RUN!!” Silvan screamed at him as she unleashed a blazing streak of clerics’ fire at the figure. Nathen heard the crackling of conflicting powers and the sound of the demon laughing. He stumbled back as the demon struck at Silvan. She screamed a high-pitched scream as the dark fire burned into her. Somehow, she stayed on her feet, fighting though the pain, and attacked again.