by Mark Shane
Jorgen laughed harder and slapped Michael on the shoulder.
Michael watched her walk to the archer’s range and start shooting arrows at a steady pace. She was full of surprises. What else did he not know about her?
“Your turn Jorgen,” Garen said, offering him the kasmata.
Jorgen grinned, a glint in his eye, as he took the ironwood sticks. Jorgen’s hand to hand combat style meshed well with the kasmata, drawing praise from Dalan and Darela. When he pointed at Michael and Garen, challenging them both at the same time, the twins started taking bets like bookies with the small crowd of warriors that had gathered. Michael and Garen got in some good strikes but when the bout ended they were bruised and disarmed.
Dalan stepped past Michael, collecting his winnings from fellow Seran’tu.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Michael quipped.
“You fight well, son of A’lan, but not that well,” Dalan said, dropping a stack of gold coins into Darela’s open hand.
They practiced until sunset, each of them picking up the basics. Jorgen added his own spin by teaching them more of his own hand to hand techniques. Michael and Garen absorbed it all. Their strikes became quick and decisive while maintaining a constant defense. It was clear, though, that a lifetime could be spent mastering the kasmata.
Michael and Garen were sore the next day, but they refused to let it show. After a quick breakfast of flatbread, spicy boar, vegetables, and peppers served with sauces—always with sauces—they were eager to set out.
Emerging from the forest, the world seemed to open up in a sea of rolling hills with the Shalan Mountains bordering to the West. The open space was a stark contrast to the massive trees of the forest. Michael felt exposed. Funny how a place feared by the world now felt far safer than his home.
His horse frisked, wanting to run, but Michael kept a firm grip on the reigns as he patted the roan’s neck. Looking back at the tall trees of the Nistmara forest, he pondered their journey. Behind them lay a breakneck run from Whitewater’s Forge, harrowing battles with nightmarish beasts, a dragon, and magic hating zealots. Ahead of him lay the Rang Shalan and a warlock bent on destroying the world. Could an adventure truly be more insane?
Michael wished again they could teleport all the way to Dalarhan, but Namish had shuddered when he suggested it back at Serat Gar. Calar had explained it was far too dangerous. Teleporting could be imprecise when the guide did not know the destination. The way Calar said “imprecise” made Michael cringe.
“This is where I must leave you,” Jorgen said.
“What?” Michael replied, shaken from his thoughts. “Why?”
“I must return to Stallingar and rally the Paladins in your name.”
“No, I need you.” Michael looked at the others. How could he succeed without Jorgen?
“I feel Meshema Donai beckoning me to return home. If you fall, the Paladins must rally at Dalarhan and stop this madman.”
Blunt and straightforward, a soldier’s strategic analysis of the situation. Jorgen simply stated the stark reality, but his words stabbed at Michael. That voice of doubt lurking in the back of his mind needled at him.
Jorgen clasped wrists with Garen. “You will make a fine leader someday, but greatness doesn’t come from simply leading; it comes from guiding. And inspiring.”
“My lady,” he said, giving Falon a slight bow from his saddle, “always a pleasure to see you. Meshema Donai made you as He wanted you. Seek Him and He will show you how to use even what you despise for his purposes.”
“Master Xan’thorne, it has been an honor seeing you again. I am indebted to you for saving my sorry hide.”
Max laughed. “You saved mine first, Jorgen.”
“Perhaps then you will allow me to say one thing that someone of my stature should not to someone of yours. The burden you carry is not your fault. It was not your failure. Meshema Donai knows the hearts of man and He finds you far more worthy than you find yourself.”
Jorgen nodded to Dalan and Darela, which they returned. Respect between warriors.
“Walk with me a bit?” he said to Michael.
Michael guided his mare, falling in step with Caballus.
Jorgen’s face tightening slightly as he studied Michael. “I may not possess the gift of prophecy, but I believe in you.”
His steely eyes took on an intense appearance Michael could not turn away from.
“You were not created to fail, Michael, but doubt will kill you. There is no room for doubt in serving Meshema Donai. You are far more than you believe.” Jorgen extended his arm out and Michael clasped it wrist to wrist. “Embrace Meshema Donai’s plan; embrace the man He created you to be. You are His champion and your path is just and right. Surrender to Him. Then you will be able to wield the Eye with holy conviction.” Jorgen leaned in close to Michael. “Against such a weapon no evil can stand.”
Michael nodded and watched Jorgen crest the nearest hill and disappear down the backside. How could he possibly live up to the man’s belief?
CHAPTER 42
Moving Up the Ranks
Captain Jackson was not pleased. Six weeks of being on the march had done nothing to squelch his annoyance. True he was finally in command of a full company but he was being sent to the southern border. Nothing of interest was on the southern border.
For the hundredth time, he mulled over who had actually issued the order to send him away. In Dalarhan, he had moved up quickly in rank and became the youngest captain in the history of the King’s Guard. The hard work was paying off, he was meeting influential people. His ascent to military glory was assured until he had been given this command.
Looking back on his quick rise, he traced the steps, saw where he had made mistakes, and saw where he had let impatience get the better of him. Any other captain may have been grateful to command a company of troops anywhere, but he saw through the commission. He had risen too fast and someone considered him a threat—and rightly so. He had been too openly ambitious and now the wrong person was aware of him. Now he was scraping muck off his fine black boots and growling over the snow falling on him.
He spotted two men talking with each other beside their tent and his mood turned from sour to acid. There was no need for two magichae to escort his company. They never usurped his command, but they did not take orders from him either. The matter galled him to no end. He was not some wet-behind-the-ears cadet who needed a pair of wet-nurses to make sure he did not get himself hurt.
Around him, three hundred men worked to cross the Alsek River. The bridge was sturdy but not wide. The wheelbase of the first catapult was almost as wide as the bridge, often scraping the stone walls, causing the engineers to have conniption fits. Why six catapults were needed at a minor fort on a border where nothing happened was beyond him. Perhaps they were sent along simply to make his journey all the longer. He would reason out who had sent the order down.
It was an hour past dawn and half the company was across the river. The engineers were almost across the bridge with the first catapult. Not bad for a morning. He had friends in Dalarhan. When he reported to Fort Kilenstad a full two days ahead of schedule, it would be noticed.
A disturbance in the ranks across the river caught his attention. Twelve riders galloped eastward up the slope for some reason.
“Jennings!” A man broke from his discussion with another and saluted Captain Jackson. “Find out what is going on across the river.”
Jennings looked across the river then back at Captain Jackson. “Sir, the catapult is taking up the whole bridge.”
“I have no need of excuses, Jennings. I have need to know why a squad of my men are charging up that slope for no apparent reason.”
Jennings saluted and marched toward the bridge. Other soldiers stepped aside when they saw the glower on his face.
Jennings had to climb up on the stone railing of the bridge to get past the catapult. Walking a slippery stone railing over a frigid river frothed with rapids added t
o his agitation.
Jennings returned to report a band of criminals were on the run and a squad was giving chase. Apparently the band had crested the hill and turned east when they spotted the company. Their behavior warranted investigation so Sergeant Anders sent a squad after them.
Captain Jackson gritted his teeth. Anders was a good soldier but too independent for his liking. Jackson swung into his saddle and galloped up to the bridge before the engineers could get the second catapult in place.
“Get this bloody thing out of my way!” he bellowed at the engineers moving the first catapult across the bridge.
Five minutes later he reigned in beside Sergeant Anders.
“Report, Sergeant.”
“Ah, yes sir. There appears to be a band of criminals—”
“Yes, I know that much, Sergeant. Are they in custody and what is their business?”
“I don’t know the answer to either, sir. The squad has not returned.”
“No matter. Remain here and see the catapults cross the river without incident. Marshall, Telvor, Gillispie! Follow me.”
Twelve men galloped away leaving Anders gritting his teeth.
Jackson and his men reigned in on a hilltop overlooking the ruins of a castle. The original squad of men sat on their horses watching the castle along with other soldiers he did not recognize.
“Who’s in charge?” Jackson asked.
“I am,” replied two men who had been conversing. Both men gave one another a surprised look.
Jackson ignored the man lacking the Twelfth Company insignia. “Report, Corporal,” he snapped.
The leader of the squad glanced at the stranger then spoke as he saluted. “A band of outlaws has been cornered in those ruins, sir.”
“So why are you standing here?”
The corporal glanced at the other man for a moment unclear how to answer.
“Do you have information my corporal does not?” Jackson asked the stranger sharply.
“Yes, sir.” The man replied, saluting. “Private Thomas, sir. We were chasing a fugitive and her companions. They were headed for the bridge but turned east when they saw your men. We chased them until they ran into the ruins.”
“Fugitive?”
“Yes, sir, Falon Deshar. She was spotted at Riga. We don’t know who is with her.”
“I see,” Jackson said, internally seething with hope. Perhaps this trip wasn’t a waste of time after all. “And why are you standing here instead of taking her into custody?”
“Sir, the ruins...that’s Castle Desid.”
“Desid? Are you telling me thirty-five grown men are standing here because you’re afraid of a ghost story?” Jackson looked over his shoulder. “Marshall! Take your men and arrest Falon Deshar. I don’t care what you do to her companions.”
Marshall slammed his fist to his chest then spurred his horse to action followed by his squad. Jackson looked at both his corporal and Private Thomas with contempt.
Marshall was almost to the dry moat when the ground beneath him erupted, throwing him off his horse. His men reigned in shaken. A wall of fire erupted from the ground forcing them to retreat back up the hill.
Jackson glared at the castle ruins as his squad galloped back, Marshall on foot, chasing his own horse.
“Gillespie! Head back to the bridge. I want those catapults here now. And get those two magichae up here. It’s time they earned their keep. I want that place leveled by sundown.
CHAPTER 43
The Ruins of Desid
“How did they find us?” Michael exclaimed, reining his horse to a stop in the castle courtyard. “And where did that army come from?”
He turned and looked at the entrance. All that remained of the portcullis were scraps of rusted metal strewn on the ground. At least the gatehouse still stood. “No way to bar the entrance,” Michael assessed, “and the moat’s dry.”
“Dry!” Garen complained. “It’s nothing more than a grassy ravine! How are we supposed to defend this place?”
“You both whine like children,” Dalan said flatly.
“Perhaps they need a honey rag to suck on,” Darela added, grinning.
“Ha, ha,” Garen replied sarcastically, with a grimace. “At least they’re not following us.”
The soldiers had stopped at the crest of a hill several hundred paces away. The leader of the band that had pursued them looked to be conferring with the leader of the army squad.
“Jezel take my shorts,” Max said. “They’re actually afraid to come in here.”
Michael frowned. “Why? Where are we?”
“Desid,” Max said.
“Desid! This is Desid?” Falon shrieked, looking in all directions like she expected something to reach out and grab her.
Everyone but Max looked at her questioningly.
“Dalan, Darela, can you assist me,” Max said, dismounting from his horse.
“What about those soldiers?” Michael asked.
“If they muster enough courage to charge in drop the gatehouse on them,” Max replied like such an idea should have been obvious.
“Who is Jezel?” Dalan asked, following Max toward the remains of the keep.
“And why would she take your shortclothes?” Darela added.
“Umm, what is Desid?” Garen asked.
“Desid was the stronghold of Rhen Saint Lan, Duke of Listrim, one of the kingdoms that later became Shaladon,” Falon answered. “He was a sadistic warlock who experimented on people in unspeakable ways. Considered torture a sport. When the army of Brenmier, the neighboring country to the north, laid siege on Desid it took them two months to break the defenses. When they found the perversion that had taken place within these walls, they fled, afraid they’d be tainted by the evil. Desid has remained empty ever since. It’s cursed ground. That’s why they didn’t follow us in.”
“Sooner or later they will,” Michael grumbled, looking around. “No reason to make it easy for them.” He wanted to see what advantages the castle did offer. Perhaps there was a way to divert the river into the moat.
“Where are you going?” Garen asked.
“To look around,” Michael said over his shoulder. “Let me know if they decide to pay us a visit.”
Michael climbed the steps to the north wall. The castle was a simple square structure with crenulated walls and barrel towers at each corner. The free standing keep was crumbling, heavily damaged on the face and north side with stone strewn across the courtyard. It was four stories at one time but the roof had caved in and much of the top floor destroyed. Pieces of a slopped wood structure against the north wall were the remains of the stables and the stone structure against the south wall must have been the chapel.
The rampart of the north wall was broken in so many places it was almost unusable. Since the river snaked around the north and east sides of the castle, the south and west walls were the only ones they had to defend. He was looking down at the dry moat arching around the castle when he heard Garen’s high pitch whistle.
“We’ve got more guests!” Garen yelled, pointing at the hill. Another group of soldiers had joined the first group.
Michael picked his way back across the northern rampart quickly.
“I guess they’re over their fear,” Garen said wryly as Michael came running up to the gatehouse. Twelve soldiers on horseback charged toward them.
Anger welled up inside Michael. He was tired of running. He was tired of being chased. He was tired of playing their game. The ground in front of the soldiers erupted, large chunks shooting into the air. The leader fell from his horse when the animal reared while others stood atop their whickering horses stunned. Some simply held on as their mounts bolted back the way they had come.
“Enough, Michael!” Max said, emerging from the depths of the keep.
“If they want a fight, Max, I’ll give ‘em one!” Michael bellowed. “Look at them! They chase us like we’re criminals and we run. We run! Why? I am tired of hiding. If Aleister wants a fight then
I’ll give him one!”
“Get a hold of yourself!” Max snapped.
The leader of the soldiers stood, teetering and shaking his head while his remaining men held their horses in a disorganized cluster.
Michael’s anger seethed. He swiped his hand left to right and a wall of fire erupted in front of the soldiers. It was all the encouragement they needed to turn tail, their leader running on foot, chasing his horse.
“Michael, that’s not helping us,” Max said, lowering Michael’s outstretched hand.
Michael glared at the soldiers on the hilltop. “I’m tired of this farce! You’re the one who told me to drop the gatehouse on them.”
“Are you too dull to know sarcasm?” Max snapped. “Twelve men, Michael. You could have let them enter and easily subdued them. That would have at least concealed what powers you have. Dropping the gatehouse is a last resort. Now they know what they’re up against. When the rest of their soldier gets here—”
“All the more reason we need to fight our way out now.”
“And word will travel faster than your horse. What will you do when a force of magichae led by Aleister catches us in the open?”
“We can’t just stay here and wait,” Michael said.
“I agree,” Max said. “So listen up.”
Max explained that Dalan and Darela were searching for another way out of the ruins. The plan sounded simple but bordered on desperate since it depended on them finding the secret exit Max was certain existed. Michael had to agree that no one would have designed a single gated castle without making an alternate exit.
“So until they find the passage we need to get ready for a fight,” Max said.
Garen and Falon inspected the southern wall’s towers. They were intact, but the southeast tower bordering the river had many more fissures. It would not take much to bring it down.
Michael returned to the rubble of the northeast tower. Something had piqued his interest when Garen let out his alarm. An earthen dam sealed the river from the moat. Most likely it had been built by the invading army of Brenmier. If he could break the dam, then Desid would once again become an island.