Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1)

by Sever Bronny

  The bodies of Sir Gallows, Sir Castor, the Nightsword, and the brother knights lay motionless around one of the wolf-things, still pierced with Augum’s blade. He wondered if he had killed it or someone else had; his memories of what had happened were murky.

  He ran up to each of the knights and stuffed an oxy shoot into their mouths, followed by a splash of fountain water from his waterskin. With his hands firmly around their jaws, he made each of them chew the herb. The entire time he could hear Ms. Grinds’ cries of warning, but he worked on, hoping the thing would not attack in the meantime.

  Sir Gallows was the first to stir when Augum heard rabid growling from somewhere below.

  The girls!

  He did not wait for the rest to come around. He stuffed the remaining oxy shoots into his belt, ripped his sword free from the dead beast, and scrambled downstairs, almost completely lucid now.

  When he reached the landing where Mya and Sir Fostian Red lay, he stopped to help them too. After administering to the burly knight, whose skin was cold to the touch, he cradled Mya’s head. He placed the oxy into her mouth and gently made her chew it, feeling a tingling flush in his cheeks. Then he poured the fountain water. He wished he could stay and hold her until she woke, but the growling urged him on. He splashed some fountain water on her wound before laying her back down onto the floor, a pang in his stomach.

  He then raced down to the second floor. His pulse quickened as he witnessed the wolf-thing he had shocked earlier square off against Fentwick. The beast was trying to get past the animated suit of armor, but Fentwick was as graceful as an old dancer, giving it a firm whack on the head with his wooden sword every time it tried to get by. With each strike, the wolf-thing would yelp and stagger back, sniffing the air.

  Augum remembered the lightning tearing out its pupils—the beast had to be blind!

  “An unworthy attempt, sir,” Fentwick said in that high nasal voice as he nimbly cuffed it on the side of the head again. The beast must have been trying to get past Fentwick for a while because its head was a bloody mess.

  Augum crept forward, waiting for the right moment. When the creature took another blow from Fentwick’s stick, he raised his sword and charged. The beast turned just in time for the blade to slice off its head.

  “Wouldst thou care for a duel, mine lord?” Fentwick asked as Augum ran past to where Bridget and Leera waited.

  “Augum—!” Leera said when she saw him, her lip quivering. “I don’t think she’s breathing—”

  His heart squeezed as he saw how pale Bridget was. He raced to her side, stuffed an oxy shoot in her mouth, and poured some fountain water in. He handed the waterskin over to Leera and grabbed Bridget’s jaw, forcing her to chew.

  “Pour some of it on her wound.”

  Leera scrambled to unwrap Bridget’s bandaged arm before pouring the water on the gash.

  “Is this fountain water—?”

  “Yes.”

  Leera gasped. “The wound! But … but healing water is the stuff of legend …!”

  He could not care less how legendary or rare it was, all that mattered was that it worked. Color began to return to Bridget’s face. When she stirred, they both breathed an immense sigh of relief, Augum slumping against a wall, Leera plopping into a chair.

  “I’m going to go and check on the others,” he said after catching his breath. “You’ve got a great guard though, so you’ll be fine.”

  Leera smiled. “Aug—”

  “Yes —?”

  “You did great.”

  He smiled. “Thanks,” and ran upstairs to see to Mya and the others.

  The Nightsword

  Stars twinkled through the arched dining room windows by the time everybody sat down to a second supper. Everybody but Sir Fostian Red that is, for Augum had been unable to rouse him.

  “The bite was too severe, young man,” Sir Gallows had said upon finding him kneeling beside the red-haired knight. He rested a gauntleted hand on Augum’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done.”

  Augum remembered Mya, who had recovered enough to examine the fallen knight, nodding in solemn agreement, her breath labored.

  That’s not entirely true, Augum thought, staring at his food—he could have run faster, taken less time at the fountain, concentrated harder …

  He glanced up and down the table. He and Sir Jayson Quick—the Nightsword—were the only ones not smiling. The knights had repaired the ovens and the servants certainly made use of them—broiled duck and roast chicken were the highlights, but as hungry as Augum was, he hardly noticed.

  “A victory feast!” Gallows said, raising a slopping tankard. “And here’s to our noble companion, Sir Fostian Red, Knight of the Royal Guard, who fell bravely in battle.”

  “Hear hear!”

  “And now a toast to Augum Stone, Savior of Souls and Slayer of Beasts!”

  “HEAR HEAR!”

  Bridget and Leera beamed at him as they raised goblets of winter cider in his honor. He forced a terse smile and a quick bow of his head. Earlier, Bridget had given him the biggest hug of his life for saving them all. He had to remind her he had failed because Sir Fostian Red died.

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Aug,” she had said. “You can’t always save everybody.”

  “I should have run faster …”

  “You did your best.”

  Tales of his so-called heroism began to circle the table. He pretended to eat, trying not to make eye contact, feeling the heat of both hearths on his back.

  “You have no idea what you did tonight, do you?” Leera asked quietly from across the table.

  “I was extremely lucky.”

  “You were extremely brave is what you were. I’m proud to be your friend.”

  That made his insides tingle, but not enough to eclipse the hollow feeling of failure. His father had taken countless lives. He had many lives to save to make up for his father’s many murders.

  He remembered Meli’s breath leaving her body as Mr. Penderson’s whip kept coming and coming. That old mule was the only thing that had gotten him through those dark days. He wondered who could no longer count on Sir Fostian Red returning home. What kind of family did he have? Would they now go hungry?

  The scars on his back began to itch, but rather than subtly scratch against the chair as he usually would, he let the gentle torment continue.

  The prince, meanwhile, took the compliments directed at Augum as some kind of personal affront. He tried to get as much attention as possible, boasting how he had saved the Nightsword with an expertly timed shout of alarm.

  As the Prince blathered on, Bridget rolled her eyes and Leera gave Augum a can you believe him look. Augum smiled half-heartedly and glanced over at the empty queen’s chair, wondering when Mrs. Stone would return.

  Everybody was sore and bruised, but due to the miraculous healing waters of the fountain, all were now able to attend this second supper, even the previously injured Sir Dollard Canes, who now occupied Sir Fostian Red’s seat. The large pudgy-cheeked fellow with short curly-brown hair talked little. His head bobbed up and down with a forced smile as the others ribbed him about his wounds. When they toasted to his health, he merely raised a glass of water, citing an upset stomach, which of course only increased the teasing.

  Despite Fostian’s death, the group was in good spirits. By far the best moment was when Mya gave Augum a kiss on the cheek and thanked him for saving her life. Augum did not know what to say, but whatever his face did must have seemed very funny because both Bridget and Leera giggled into their hands.

  When talk turned to the wolf-things, there were plenty of guesses as to what they were—werewolves, direwolves, or maybe even hellhounds.

  Before the feast, Augum and Sir Gallows had seen to the two carcasses so that Mrs. Stone could look upon them with her own eyes. Gallows insisted Augum do the honors with him as the slayer. Augum was so tired he would have preferred to have been excused, but did not want to offend the old knigh
t.

  “It is like they are one again,” Gallows had joked upon tying them together, referring to the moment he saw one beast split into two. “I had never seen anything like it before; simply disgusting. Quite strong, too, even took down the Nightsword.”

  “Sir, why is Sir Quick so quiet?” Augum had asked as they dragged the beasts downstairs.

  “There are stories, though I doubt them true. Some say he was once a mercenary, seeking battle for coin. Others say he was a vicious masked brigand who now keeps quiet so no one will recognize his voice. One story tells of Jayson Quick eating a leg of chicken near a prisoner. The prisoner had quite the tongue, rambling on about his life, oblivious to Jayson’s desire to be left in peace. When the prisoner asked one too many questions, Quick stood up, unsheathed his sword and decapitated him. He then calmly sat back down and finished his chicken leg.”

  “That doesn’t sound very knightly.”

  “No it does not, but it is only a tale.”

  “So why is he known as the Nightsword?” Augum asked as they exited the castle.

  “That is another story, and an absolutely true one. On a moonless cloudy night, back when he was a part of the town watch, Quick went on a raid against a bandit camp. He became separated from his group and found himself surrounded by ten brigands. He killed the two torchbearers and then cut down the rest—all in pitch-darkness. He took one prisoner, who happened to tell the tale. King Ridian knighted Quick for it and offered him a place on the royal guard.”

  Augum now peered down the table at the Nightsword, who just happened to be chewing on a leg of chicken. His pale face turned in his direction. Augum quickly looked away. Something about the man made him nervous. He wondered if the chicken leg story was true.

  “I think we can skip the sword training tonight, eh brave warrior?” Sir Castor said from beside him, taking a swig of wine.

  Augum nodded. He did not want to train with a bunch of drunken sword-wielders anyway, and the sour smell of wine on Castor’s breath reminded him of Mr. Penderson. He looked past and saw the Nightsword slurping his third tankard of ale. The more the man drank the more he leered at Mya. She kept her eyes on the floor, her usual delicate smile absent. It made Augum clench his fists under the table.

  The crowd became rowdier with every refill.

  “Let’s study the blue book after supper,” Bridget said amidst the loud talk, slicing up a baked potato.

  “What? Aren’t you tired?” Leera asked.

  “Exhausted, but Mrs. Stone told me working through exhaustion makes a good warlock great.”

  Leera snorted. “Then we should be invincible by now.” She stabbed a boiled carrot with her fork and twirled it around a bit. “Fine, but we were supposed to sword train first, so why not with Fentwick?”

  “That might work,” Bridget replied, salting and buttering the potato. “We’ll need more wooden swords though. What do you think, Aug?”

  “Huh? Oh, why not just use my sword? The prince did.”

  “Yes but that pea brain set Fentwick on the highest difficulty,” Leera said. “At a lower difficulty your sword would chop Fentwick’s in half. I’m with Bridget—let’s find more practice swords.”

  “We can probably get them where we found Fentwick in the first place,” Bridget said.

  Augum speared a wrinkly mushroom as the conversation from the other end of the table caught up to them.

  “Young slayer!” called one of the red-cheeked Brack brothers. “Where is that fine blade of yours? Bring it forth and let us have a gander.”

  “Yes, let us see the blade that pierced and beheaded the beasts,” Sir Castor said, eyes shiny.

  Prince Sydo quickly stood and smoothed his red hair. “No need, noble Sirs—you may gander at my fine blade.” He leaned near Lord Boron. “Lord Moron, where is my sword?”

  “I had it placed in Your Highness’ room.”

  “Well, get —it —then,” Sydo said through gritted teeth.

  Lord Boron flushed and mopped his brow, eyes flicking about. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He stood as gracefully as the situation allowed and strode out.

  “Well then, get your sword too, Augum,” Gallows said, pink from the ale. “Let us compare!”

  All the knights save for one added their voices in agreement, until a chant arose. Augum finally relented just to silence them.

  He passed Lord Boron in the hall. The man stood on the lowest step, idly rubbing one of his large chins.

  Augum retrieved his sword from his room, but on the way back, Boron still had not moved. His heart softened. “Lord Boron, why do you let the prince speak to you like that?”

  Lord Boron’s face reddened. He wordlessly set off, abruptly stopping halfway up the stairs. “I swore an oath. I swore to King Ridian the Wise that I would do whatever his son asked of me. He was a good king. I am the boy’s minder. It is … my duty.” He sighed. “Not all of us have your courage, young man,” and resumed climbing before Augum could say anything else.

  “Ah, there it is—” Gallows said upon Augum’s return, standing to take the blade. The moment he grasped the hilt the sword ceased shooting sparks. The knight did not notice. He stepped back and took a few practice swings. The blade hissed neatly as it sliced the air.

  “Why, it is quite light, even for a short sword. Wait a moment …” He inspected the blade, the hilt and the crossguard. “Edrian, have a gander—”

  Castor stopped laughing at one of the Brack brothers’ jokes and took the blade from Gallows.

  Prince Sydo made a show of stretching on the throne. “It is probably cheap southern steel, Sirs. I would not give it much thought.”

  “I have never seen anything like it,” Castor said, ignoring the prince. He took a long look at the crossguard. “It is quite impossible to forge something like this in a traditional smithy.”

  The brother knights leaned in for a closer look. “Castor is right, this is superb work,” said one.

  “I too have never laid eyes upon such a blade,” said the other.

  “Let me see it,” said a deep voice Augum did not recognize. He looked around to find the source only to find everyone staring at the Nightsword.

  “Well give it here now, stop dawdling—” the knight said, eyes gleaming. Sir Castor, wearing the same blank look as everyone else, yielded the blade. The room went silent. It was the first time Augum heard the Nightsword speak.

  He turned the sword over in his hands and inspected it closely from top to bottom, then brushed his mustache with his thumb.

  Gallows sat back down. “What do you think there, Jayson—?”

  “A Dreadnought blade.”

  Gasps and murmurs circled the table. Augum looked over at Leera and Bridget, but they both shrugged. The Nightsword stood and swung the blade in a vicious arc, almost taking off one of the Brack brothers’ heads.

  The brother raised a hand in defense and laughed nervously. “Whoa there, Jayson, perhaps you have had too much of the drink—”

  The Nightsword spun the blade with such velocity it blurred and made a sharp whistling sound. He then swung it in a figure eight to his left and right, before roaring a mighty war cry and slicing clean through one of the massive marble fireplaces, causing a shower of sparks. With hardly a pause, he then tossed the blade up, letting it cartwheel in the air three times, before gracefully catching it in his left hand—and in one smooth motion presented it hilt-first back to Augum.

  For a moment, no one moved.

  “What’s a Dreadnought blade—?” Augum finally managed to ask, accepting the sword.

  “Arcanely-forged steel from long ago, made by a lost race known as the Dreadnoughts. They forged steel using ancient arcane ways unknown to us … ordinary men.”

  “That is just legend, Jayson,” Gallows said, waving dismissively. “Stop filling the boy’s head with stories. Sure the blade is old, but a Dreadnought blade?”

  The table plowed into animated discussion.

  “What is the name of the
blade?” the Nightsword asked amid the roar of conversation.

  “Name? Oh, um, I don’t know.”

  “All Dreadnought blades have names. It is unbecoming of a warrior to not know the name of such a sword.” He gave Augum one last cold look before sitting back down, leaving him standing and gaping at the sword in his hand, the blade once again sparking. What was its name?

  Lord Boron suddenly came huffing back inside, holding a jewel-encrusted long sword in a finely decorated scabbard.

  “Your Highness—” he wheezed, mopping his brow, “I have your sword here—”

  “Oh stuff it, Lord Moron.”

  The Map

  After supper, Augum arcanely repaired the mantel the Nightsword had sliced, hoping Mya would notice, but she was too busy attending to the knights.

  “Peasant showoff,” Sydo muttered to Lord Boron.

  Leera overheard the remark and opened her mouth to speak, but Bridget interrupted by standing. “Would everyone excuse us?”

  The knights immediately stood in response. Bridget reddened like a summer apple.

  “My young lady, you certainly may be excused,” Gallows said, raising his glass to the trio. Augum and Leera stood and gave a kind of half-bow that generated a snort from Sydo. The trio ignored him and exited into the dark hallway, where they lit up their palms.

  “So, up to Fentwick’s battlement?” Bridget asked.

  “Right, the practice swords,” Augum said. “Let’s go then.”

  “Wait, let me see it,” Leera said. Augum handed her the sword. She examined it carefully, nodding to herself like a sage. “I see what they were on about. This is unlike any sword I’ve ever seen.” She gave it back to him.

  Bridget kept a smile at bay. “Oh please, Lee, as if you know anything about swords.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You know that I—”

  “—once wanted to be a knight,” Bridget said, dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  Leera pursed her lips, smiled, and punched Bridget in the shoulder. “All’s forgiven, Bridgey-poo.”