by Kris A Hiatt
As the second blade connected, Treace went flying. All of the air in his lungs exited in one big gush as he felt Disdane’s massive boot compress his chest and lungs.
He crashed hard against the ground and went tumbling through the dirt. He felt the fingers in his right hand loosen on his sword as he landed hard on his wrist. His wrist was pinned under him and he tumbled over, nearly certain he broke it. Pain shot through his wrist, up his arm, and up into his brain. He reflexively let go of the sword as he finished his tumble. He knew he was lucky he wasn’t stabbed by his own blade as he rolled over it.
He pulled himself to his feet as fast as he could, trying to regain his balance. He ignored the scream of agony coming from his wrist and tried to find his opponent. He didn’t have to look very long to find him. Disdane stalked in toward him. He could see blood dripping from Disdane’s right elbow. There was a large gash near the middle of his bicep and a smaller one just above the elbow.
Disdane stopped his advance then and inspected his own wounds.
The massive man brought his right bicep up to his lips and licked the wound. Blood dribbled all over his chin and chest as he did so.
“You’ll die slowly for that,” Disdane informed him, resuming his advance.
Treace quickly weighed his options and surveyed the area. Off to his right Moff and Kiril were climbing onto the horses. To his left Kint was moving from the porch toward the tree that had the burned handprint in it. He had no idea what the old man thought he could do to help, and even thought about yelling at him to stop, but Treace decided his own predicament warranted his full attention.
Disdane swung his sword back behind him and brought it up over his head. It reminded Treace of how the lumberjacks would split wood in the summer getting ready for their long winter in Lake City.
The sword came down hard and fast, but Treace was still quick enough to dodge to his right and out of the way. He drove in as hard and fast as he could with his only remaining sword, coming from that side and hoping to hit Disdane in his exposed flank. But the big man showed that he was also nimble and jumped back out of the way, practically using the sword as a pivot point.
He spared a look toward Moffred and Kiril and wasn’t happy to find they were sitting there on top of their horses watching the fight. “Go!” he yelled as loudly as he could.
That single word was all he could say before he had to dodge out of the way of another of Disdane’s powerful attacks.
“They’re staying to watch you die,” Disdane told him.
Treace didn’t bother with a verbal reply, instead he drove in, stabbing hard with his left sword.
Disdane parried the attack, sweeping his sword vertically from his left to right. Treace was getting ready to dive to his right to get out of the way of the backhand strike he knew would follow.
Instead, Disdane let go with his left hand as the sword parried Treace’s own and snapped it into his face. Treace could see the massive fist coming at him impossibly fast. He knew he wouldn’t get out of the way in time. He tried to lower his head to force the man’s hand to hit the harder part of his skull, but he only managed to get hit directly in the forehead.
He felt his neck whip backward under the force of the blow and he was knocked off of his feet. He landed hard on his back and he wondered if the blow had cracked his skull.
He shook his head quickly, which now ached miserably, and scrambled to his feet. He brought his sword up, hoping to parry any attack that might be coming.
His wrist was wrenched to the right as the massive sword came in from his left, but somehow he managed to stop the blow.
When he refocused on Disdane he knew it was only luck that had saved him. Disdane was swinging his massive sword one-handed. His left hand hung limp at his side, apparently broken from the strike on Treace’s skull. Had the sword been swung with the force and speed of both limbs, he would be dead.
He didn’t have time to think about his good fortune, however, as Disdane came in again.
He slipped to his right, knowing the sword could only come from his left with any strength. The sword fell short and Treace saw a glimmer of hope as he realized the powerful man was finally starting to tire.
That plan didn’t work as Disdane brilliantly used his damaged hand as a club and Treace was again sent flying under the weight of the man’s attack. His right ear rung from the blow as he tumbled to the ground.
He was lying on his left side and he could see Disdane swing from on high. He knew he couldn’t roll out of the way of the attack in time, so he rolled forward instead, closer to Disdane.
Pain erupted in his right shoulder and back as he felt the massive sword bite into his flesh. He felt the blade bounce off his shoulder blade and wondered briefly if it was shattered under the weight of the blow.
His eyes opened long enough to see Disdane’s large boot come crashing into his head. His head snapped back and he saw the darkness of unconsciousness close in on him.
From somewhere that sounded like miles away, he thought he heard Moffred yelling his name. He cursed his friend for not leaving already. Now Moffred was going to die alongside him. Now he was going to die for nothing.
Just before his eyes closed he saw Disdane’s massive sword fall to the ground in front of his him. With his last thoughts before darkness enveloped him, Treace guessed the man wanted to kill him with his bare hands.
Chapter 8
For the most part, Brental thought reading the journals of the former Archmagisters was quite a boring task. He had flipped through a few pages of some, putting them aside knowing they weren’t penned by either Nimbril or Truntil, but one of their predecessors. The one he currently held in his hand was the one he had been seeking. This particular tome was penned by Truntil. Most of it anyway. It started in Truntil’s hand and ended with Nimbril’s. Brental had seen enough entries to know which Archmagister had written the entry simply by their handwriting. Of course it helped that most of them were also dated.
Most of the former Archmagisters had kept strictly to the facts and left all emotion out of their accounts. They weren’t personal journals, but rather journals of record for the Archmagister to refer back to. Just simple facts regarding the day to day operations, what members had attained a new rank, the number of students in the newest class, the number of dropouts and the like. He wasn’t surprised to see most of those facts lacked emotion in their recounting. But a few of them had the Archmagister’s thoughts included. In one journal from Ilian, Truntil’s predecessor, added personal insight seemed to be a common theme. In a different journal, one that was penned by Nimbril, he had found one entry that said the newest class was one of the better ones in recent years, given the new selection process. Brental knew what the new selection process was referring to. It was Nimbril choosing those applicants whose parents donated more money over those applicants with higher test scores. That entry helped to confirm Brental’s suspicions in that regard.
He skimmed through to find the point that Truntil’s hand ended and Nimbril’s began. He found the page quickly and read the first entry from Nimbril. It made him smile and his skin crawl, both at the same time.
“It is with mixed emotions that I, Nimbril, take over this journal and all other responsibilities as Archmagister. Archmagister Truntil has become stone-faced. I place the blame for that act squarely upon my own shoulders,” Brental said, reading the entry aloud.
He made note of the page and snapped the journal closed. He didn’t believe it, but the crazy old men were right. Nimbril did kill Truntil. Actually, he stone-faced him, but Brental knew it was one and the same. No one had ever survived after being stone-faced, nor had anyone ever recovered from the condition. The question was how did he do it? Brental had never heard of such magic. If Nimbril knew how to do it, Brental doubted it would be in the journals. Nimbril wasn’t the Archmagister when he figured out how to do it. But, he may have shown someone after the fact. There was only one person that he would have trusted enough to te
ach it to. The same man that Nimbril originally named as Archmagister. He had to tell Shamir.
“Guard!” Brental yelled.
He waited for a few seconds, which seemed far longer to him. There wasn’t an answer.
“Guard!” Brental yelled again, this time with even more force than before.
“Sir!” the guard said, saluting as he ran into the room.
While Brental could appreciate the man accepting that he was his superior, he wished Shamir’s men would stop saluting him every time he talked to them. It was annoying. “Go inform the King that I require an audience.”
The guard baulked at his words momentarily before saying, “Sir, I’ll request an audience and will let you know when he’s available.”
Brental didn’t have time to wait. He was very fortunate to have found that journal and that particular passage so quickly. Disdane hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when Brental began looking through the journals. While he wasn’t certain of the exact time Disdane left, he knew he had been reading for at least an hour. That meant the captain would most likely be back soon and he wanted to be there when he brought Kint’s daughter in. He wanted to question her himself. That meant he didn’t have time to play the courtly games. “I’ll go myself,” Brental told him.
“Sir, if you just wait,” the guard bade him.
“I will not. And go back to your post.”
“Sir,” the guard said stiffly and left without bowing, which Brental was glad to see.
He hadn’t yet taken the journals back to his makeshift home at the old slaughterhouse and actually hadn’t planned on doing so. The comfortable room that Joran and Destin were previously being held in had become available. He intended on working from there for as long as he could. Since he was already in the palace it wouldn’t take him long to get to the King.
As he walked he went over what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. It wasn’t fully fleshed out, but he had a plan. If he played it right, he could come out of this in a much better position than he was in now.
“The King is in a meeting,” the guard standing to the right of the door said as Brental approached.
“Inform him that I have urgent news,” Brental instructed.
The guard nodded to the other and he opened the door only wide enough for him to slip through. He entered quietly and was gone for only a short amount of time before returning.
“The King will see you,” the man said, opening the door.
Brental entered the room and immediately recognized the man speaking with the King. “My King,” Brental said, bowing before turning to the other man. “Archbishop Vrindel, good to see you.”
“The Archbishop was just telling me something I think you’ll find interesting,” Shamir told him.
“Is that so?” Brental asked, looking directly at Vrindel. He knew the man didn’t like him. He fully blamed Brental for his current situation. Vrindel used to be quite happy presiding over his flock in Haven. Then Brental’s plan made all of that change. He didn’t appreciate being forced to pick a side, and hated Brental for being the cause of it. Normally that wouldn’t bother him in the least. Except in this case, Vrindel never missed an opportunity to be a thorn in his side. Brental knew the man blamed him for his current situation, so he assumed he was taking it out on him.
“Indeed,” Vrindel said to him before looking toward the King.
“Well, come on Vrindel, tell him,” the King commanded.
“Some of my old flock has just arrived from Haven. According to reports, your former Archmagister has taken up residence in the priory there,” Vrindel explained, looking rather annoyed.
“He was never my Archmagister,” Brental told him.
“And yet he was,” Vrindel replied. “I know it as surely as you do. I was in the same room as you, don’t you remember?”
“We were in the same room,” Brental agreed. “Nimbril said Drevic would be the Archmagister once the meeting was concluded. It was not concluded until Nimbril then named me the Archmagister. So you see, he was never my leader.”
“And yet it angers you so much that you vehemently protest it even today,” Vrindel argued.
“Gentlemen,” the King interrupted. “Let the past be the past. What matters now is how you’ll help me crush Liernin. Put your petty differences aside and shed Archmagister Drevic from your thoughts.”
Shamir very well may have said that he wanted them to stop arguing, but the large smile on his face told Brental the man was enjoying the exchange. And he knew that calling Drevic the Archmagister was also a slight aimed at him, but one he was wise enough to ignore.
“King,” Vrindel said, offering a curt bow.
“And yet my news is regarding Drevic, so unfortunately we’ll need to discuss him a while longer,” Brental told them. A thought occurred to him then. If Drevic took over the Priory, Vrindel had to be upset about it. That may turn out to work in his favor. He wouldn’t even need to modify his plan. In fact, it might just solidify it.
“I’ll take my leave then,” Vrindel informed them.
“No, Archbishop,” Brental said. “I’m afraid you’ll want to hear this too. Considering who is now living amongst your flock and most likely sleeping in your old bed.”
“My flock,” the Archbishop began. “Has unanimously decided to travel here to be with their leader.”
“Let’s be honest,” the King told them. “Not every brother has followed you, Brental. Just as every acolyte has not followed you, Vrindel. Your continued unwillingness to accept that makes the two of you look like idiots. Just accept it for the truth. If you don’t like that truth, then change it. Though you’ll have to wait until after Liernin is disposed of to do so.”
“And yet I offer both of you a chance to do both at the same time,” Brental said. He was quite glad Shamir spoke up when he did. It led perfectly into what he wanted to say. The annoyed look on Shamir’s face was also a sight he wished to see more of. He guessed the King wanted his words to come off as some sort of revelation. Brental was glad to disappoint.
“Out with it,” Vrindel instructed.
“The journals I recovered from the former College include some tales of horrendous events,” Brental began. “Including a tale of how one of our former leaders murdered another.” He lifted the journal as he spoke. He wanted to ensure Shamir knew he was referring to the same journals that he was so adamant that he personally return for. He intended to take every opportunity that he could to point out his successes.
“The tragedies of the College are not my concern,” Vrindel stated.
“I thought God cared for all of his children?” Brental asked.
“He does. I don’t.”
“Go on, Brental,” Shamir intoned.
“You both are familiar with the reference ‘stone-faced’, correct?”
“You mean when one of your members tries to play God and loses his mind?” Vrindel asked.
“We know of it,” the King assured him.
“Nimbril knew how to stone-face others on command,” Brental said, ignoring Vrindel’s attempt at an insult. He hadn’t found that particular entry stating that the man was actually able to do so, but he didn’t doubt the truth of it.
“And you can’t?” Vrindel asked.
“You’re still alive aren’t you?”
“My patience is starting to run thin,” Shamir warned.
“Yes, my King. Bear with me a few more moments?” Brental asked cautiously. He was still the King. He reminded himself to be more careful with his words around the man.
“Just be on with it.”
“The list of magisters that you graciously provided first led me to find the truth,” Brental explained. He knew his reasoning for the list was not to find out about Nimbril and Truntil, but they didn’t need to know that. “The old men that used to teach were terrified of Nimbril. He told them if they ever taught again or told anyone of what they could do then he would stone-face them.”
“I didn’t know Nimbril was so devious,” Shamir said, now showing some genuine interest into the story.
“He murdered his best friend and fired all of the best instructors at the College to ensure no one else would be powerful enough to challenge him,” Brental stated.
“Until you came to me,” Shamir said matter-of-factly.
Brental knew he should have worded that differently. By saying it that way he could easily see where he painted himself as a much weaker magic user than Nimbril. While it may be true, it wasn’t something he wanted to admit or even for others to know. And it allowed Shamir to think he had something over him. “Until he realized I was able to challenge him,” Brental corrected. “Then he decided his only option was to name another as his successor in hopes I just went along with it.”
“Why wouldn’t he just kill you instead?” Shamir asked.
Brental didn’t actually have a good reason for that. If Nimbril did kill Truntil, why didn’t he just kill him too? Perhaps he softened as he aged. “He wasn’t aging well,” Brental said at last. “I think he realized he could no longer defeat me, so he trained someone younger. Someone that he hoped could stand up to me.”
“So he picked Drevic,” Vrindel reasoned.
“Yes. And I think he taught Drevic how to use that power. Other than myself, he’s the only other one strong enough to be able to use it.”
“So what does this have to do with the Church?” Vrindel asked.
“Archbishop,” Brental explained. “If the man living in your church was trained by a murderer and is surely capable of doing the same, wouldn’t you want to know?”
“But he’s in Haven,” Vrindel argued.
“Quite brilliant,” Shamir said. “Tell the people the truth and let them rally against our enemies.”
“Exactly,” Brental confirmed. He was surprised Shamir caught on so quickly. The man might be smarter than Brental gave him credit for.
“And,” Vrindel said, obviously now catching on. “My King, if you knew of a baron that supported that murderer, wouldn’t the people deserve to know that as well?”