Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  She decided honesty would be wasted, or worse, get too many killed in this moment. “I swear, Commander, he told me nothing.” The entire force of the Dragør Marines wouldn’t be able to stop Balavad from doing whatever it was he intended. Better they not be involved. “I know as much about what may be happening right now as you. A Verity not from this world is bent on wrenching Ivoryss from the hands of Arch Keeper Beatte, and—”

  “Pah! A Verity? Don’t spin a myth just to hold my attention, or I’ll spin your eyes from their sockets. Verities are an old story, no more likely to show up now than they ever were. The Knights Corporealis keep these fairy tales alive in order to dupe and control simpler minds. It’s your Order that plotted this takeover, and your accomplice and Stallari have taken the Arch Keeper hostage. Now”—her sword’s point pressed harder into the hollow of Mylla’s throat—“tell me what Aldinhuus is planning and where they’re taking Beatte.”

  To the fissures of Vaka Aster’s ass if you don’t start using your brain. With an effort, she kept the desire to speak that thought aloud in check. Brun was clearly too jaded by her fears and prejudices to see the faults in her own theory—such as why Mylla would be standing among a squad of Marines on this side of the chamber door if some conspiracy involving the Knights was at hand on the other—and time was too short to introduce reason.

  “Commander, allow me to step aside so you and your soldiers can force open the door. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  Brun eyed her, then motioned with her chin. “Furthsom, restrain her.”

  Mylla backed a pace away and extended her left hand, palm out, as if to clasp hands with the approaching Marine and say, We’re all allies here. Except—

  With a twitch of her wrist, three finger-like nine-sided crystals, one for each century she’d served, tumbled from her leather vambrace into her palm. Whip-fast, she flung them outward, mentally channeling them to strike the sword-wielding hands of the three closest Marines, pulled them back, and then hammered the rest. The soldiers cried out in pain as they lost their grips, their hands badly bruised but not broken. At least not intentionally.

  “Stay back,” she warned. The crystals all aglow with hearts of deep cerulean were now hovering at the tips of her outstretched fingers.

  “Flank and charge!” Brun directed.

  Reason remained in short supply, and four of the least cowed Marines rushed her in unison. Remarkably good tactics and training, she thought. But poor estimation of the threat, unfortunately.

  In movements akin to a dance, she waved her crystal arm, sending the projectiles to strike the soldiers on the arms, the ankles, the shins. Their cries were as much from surprise as pain and seemed to serve as an invitation to the remaining Marines, who quickly retrieved their weapons, clumsily in their nondominant hands in many cases, and joined the melee. Mylla continued to dance, now wielding Furthsom’s dropped sword defensively with one hand, parrying blows and thrusts by the few Marines who managed to penetrate the wall of swirling, abusive crystal menaces. Each time a sword clashed with hers, a projectile found the attacker instantly and dealt another blow to his or her fighting arm, rendering them once again weaponless. In less time than it takes a wave to break over a stranded boulder, the fighters ceased their fruitless and frankly humiliating onslaught and regrouped at a distance.

  Mylla wasn’t even winded. “So sorry, friends.” She began sidestepping toward the stairway, leaving the klinkí stones hovering readily between her and the stunned Marines. “But I have a world to save.”

  Brun remained near the door. “I knew I was right about you.” She spit in disgust on the antechamber floor.

  It struck Mylla then how similar her own suspended klinkí stones were to the whirlwind of shattered glass and destruction the Verity had created within the council chamber. Nothing she could do about that now though. The heel of her boot struck the bottom of the stairway leading up to the keep’s courtyard. “Brun, rally the Marines and prepare to defend Ivoryss. You may not believe our foe is a Verity, but your duty is the same.” And because she couldn’t think of any meaningful parting words, she said, “Mind the sparkly,” and dashed a flashfire petard, pulled from where it was hidden in the leather wrap holding back her hair, against the floor. Should slow them down a bit.

  Chapter 7

  If the fight hadn’t winded her, the several sets of stairs nearly did. Brun and her Marines were only moments behind, but she had managed to bar the door at the top of the final flight of steps to hinder them, giving her a few moments to put together a plan. Of sorts.

  She sprinted across the shrub-dotted greens, then burst from the massive arched main gate into an awaiting squad of Marines, formed up in ranks and headed by a soldier whose uniform’s insignia declared him to be in charge.

  Skidding to a stop, she quickly palmed her klinkí stones. “Sergeant”—gasp—“the usurper’s forces attacked. I’m the first to escape”—huff—“tell your troops to get ready! They’re coming.”

  “Where are Commander Brun and the Arch Keeper?” The soldier hadn’t yet pulled his sword, but his hand gripped the hilt tightly.

  “I told you, under attack. Send reinforcements before it’s too late!”

  A good soldier takes less time to react to a threat than to take a breath, and these were Ivoryssian Dragør Marines—always ready. Still, their downfall was their discipline, and they would only take a breath when ordered. To Mylla, it felt like days passed before the sergeant made up his mind and gave the command. Of course, reacting without a full debrief of the situation was a bad idea, but Mylla didn’t feel the need to point that out before they were on the run toward the inner keep.

  She looked to the edges of the rampart. Thank fate’s whimsy. The Dragør Wing fighter squadron had not been released from their post, and she rushed to Lock’s side. If anyone could aid her in this moment of need, he could.

  His hands landed on her shoulders as she planted herself, still panting, in front of him. “What in the name of Vaka Aster is going on, Mylla?” he asked.

  Before she could respond, from behind her came: “Knight Evernal, where is Stallari Aldinhuus?”

  She spun and beheld Symvalline with Isemay beside her, just approaching from the top of the rampart stairs. Unlike an average commoner, Knights, as members of the royal house, still moved mostly freely within the keep. At the moment, Mylla’s stomach flipped from relief to distress. How can I explain to her what I don’t understand myself?

  Paralyzed, she merely stared as Symvalline closed the gap. “Mylla, tell me what’s happened to Ulfric,” her mentor demanded. “What is the foreign Verity’s purpose here?” And the unspoken, frantic plea Mylla could almost hear: For the honor of the Order, tell me Ulfric hasn’t been harmed.

  The train of Symvalline’s formal sky-blue cloak snapped crisply in a sudden gust, bringing Mylla back to the now. “He’s in danger. There isn’t time to fully explain, but he and the Arch Keeper are in the hands of the Verity.” She felt Havelock’s grip on her shoulder tighten. “And I . . . I think they are using the interrealm well to travel to Mount Omina.”

  Symvalline’s lips drew into a thin line as she regarded Mylla, considering her words.

  Mylla addressed Havelock. “I need you to fly me to Omina, the largest peak in the Morn Range. I must try to help the Stallari if I can.” She turned. “Symvalline, can you get Safran and Stave and bring them to the mountain? There’s no reason to remain at Vigil Tower. Ulfric is going to need us.”

  Havelock protested, “I have to . . . Mylla, I can’t break ranks from the squadron, not without orders.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t of the absolute most importance. Of all time,” she emphasized. Desperation added its own sharpness to her voice, and she drilled him with her eyes, imploring and commanding with an ageless authority that sprang from her Verity-instilled spark.

  Symvalline hadn’t said another a word. Her speechlessness, Mylla knew, came not from confusion or a lack of surety, but from
the intentionality of a warrior and strategist, and before joining the Knights, a healer and surgeon in the Conservatum. She couldn’t be lured into a reflexive, half-baked reaction without a careful consideration of all known angles.

  Isemay, however, was still too young for that kind of restraint, and blurted in a fear-tainted squeak, “Mum, we have to help Da.”

  Mylla. Symvalline’s voice came through the Mentalios. Tell me what occurred. Tell me now.

  Balavad wants Vaka Aster’s vessel and the artifacts of Vinnr, all of them I think. He let Ulfric see into Battgjald’s Scrylle. Something in it affected him—but I don’t know what he saw. He’s— we have to get to Mount Omina before the usurper can fulfill his plans, though I don’t know what they are exactly. The Stallari made me swear to warn the Knights and sent me and the Marines away. And one more thing: the Verity killed many in attendance before Ulfric got him to stop. She carefully held back the fact that Ulfric had agreed willingly in the end to aid the Verity. Something to consider, but later. Or never. The latter was her preference.

  “Battgjald’s Scrylle,” Symvalline considered aloud.

  “Mum!” Isemay cried.

  “Mylla?” Havelock said.

  “For all the dragørflies in Ivoryss, Havelock, get in that Wing fighter and get me to Omina. Your duty is to the Arch Keeper, and this is your chance to execute it.” She had a sudden wish she hadn’t chosen that word, execute.

  The nearest of the other pilots had begun to break ranks and sidle closer, Mylla’s disturbance and the rushing away of the officer-in-charge without any contingency directives creating a vacuum in their orders that soon only chaos could fill. “Symvalline, Brun has accused me of treason and must be moments from breaking out of the stairwell I locked her and the Marines in. If we don’t act now, we won’t be able to.” The stunned look in Havelock’s eyes made her realize she’d said this aloud.

  “Wing Rekkr,” Symvalline said, stepping closer to Havelock so that he couldn’t look past her, “I knew your great-grandfather, a man of deep courage and irrefutable honor. He served Ivoryss for decades, and every Marine knows him to be a legend. Today you have the chance to prove you are as noble as he was. If you get Knight Evernal to Mount Omina, you could be saving everything this world holds dear.” She glanced at Mylla. “Including the woman you love. For life and love, take her.”

  Mylla looked between Havelock’s uncertain face and Symvalline’s strained one, counting heartbeats until he decided. Finally, he turned to her and said, “Take the seat behind the pilot bench and strap yourself in.”

  Releasing a relieved breath, she threw a glance at Symvalline before climbing aboard. The older warrior sent: I’ll warn Stave and Safran and meet you there.

  Chapter 8

  With the Marines and Mylla clear of the chamber, Balavad pulled the dark wystic circle back to him and closed his hands together in a forceful clap. The empty sphere collapsed between his palms as if it had never been, drawing in and vanquishing the thousands of hovering shards that had filled the air. Not a single ingot of glass or crystal remained in the room, except the Mentalios lens around Ulfric’s neck.

  “Stallari . . .” The Verity swept an arm in an expectant gesture.

  Ulfric began pacing toward the chamber’s far wall, expecting to be followed. “I assume you’ve sent,” spies was the word he almost used, “representatives to Vaka Aster’s shrine and know neither the vessel or Vaka Aster’s artifacts are there.”

  “Of course. You’ve been a diligent watcher. It must have seemed wise to move the vessel. My quin chose you well.”

  “Watcher?” Ulfric mused. Oh yes, I’ve seen more than I think you know.

  He reached the chamber’s terminus. Built in the shape of an egg, the grand room tapered and ended in a narrow nook of curved space. A convex mirror that helped channel the chamber’s illumination had once been fit into it—now gone with all the rest. Behind where it had stood rose the alabaster wall, smooth and white, except for a shallow embedded circle ringed by brass. Below this, a carved series of Elder Veros runes contained the invocation to unlock the doorway, or interrealm well. Only a few existed in Vinnr. Each one and what they did was a secret the Knights had kept since Ulfric had built them, over a thousand turns ago. To use the well in Aster Keep, all Ulfric needed was his Mentalios lens.

  He turned to find Balavad no farther behind him than his arm could reach. The being moved with the soundlessness of passing eternity, though Ulfric wasn’t caught off guard. This wasn’t his first meeting with a celestial being, having served Vaka Aster for so long. Those who’d served in the Knights for close to as long as he, such as Eisa, so old she and everyone else had nearly forgotten her own ancestor now served as Vaka Aster’s vessel, and Mallich Roibeard, whom all but Ulfric called Roi, seemed to even harbor a touch of the divine themselves.

  He spoke. “The chamber beyond this wall is older than Aster Keep, though none but our Order knows of its existence. Vaka Aster’s vessel and Vinnr’s artifacts are safe inside.” Which was true, but only partly. He hadn’t realized how capable he was of such effortless and quick lies. “I need a moment to unlock the door, and the assistance of your Caster’s Fenestros.”

  Balavad smirked. “Yes, clever indeed. Rhafn.” He nodded to the Flesh Caster to step forward.

  As the Flesh Caster joined him, Ulfric spared a glance, masked beneath his thick gray-shot eyebrows, at the satchel containing the usurper’s Scrylle, still hanging from the foreign priest’s shoulder. He didn’t need the Caster to help; he just needed him close.

  He turned to face him fully and noticed the Arch Keeper, who remained seated in her throne. You may not survive this, Beatte, but your life is a price I’m willing to pay for the protection of Vaka Aster, and of Ivoryss. You would thank me if you could understand.

  But he understood, all too well. If his plan worked and he could dupe the usurper long enough to ensure the vessel’s safety, he and his Order would be blamed for any retaliation that would follow. And follow it would. But his duty was to Vaka Aster, in essence, to the entire world, not to this short-lifed, short-sighted ruler of a transient kingdom.

  And what of this reunification, the Syzyckí Elementum? Why doesn’t our own Scrylle say anything about this end of our realm? Or does it, and I simply have not seen it? Will it be possible to reason with Vaka Aster, to plead with her to spare us from this fate?

  He would only find out if he survived today.

  “The Fenestros,” he demanded of the Flesh Caster. When the reluctant man handed it to him, Ulfric pressed, “Concentrate and read this with me.”

  Without removing the chain from his neck, Ulfric pressed his Mentalios into the brass circle in the wall, and he and the Caster began speaking the Elder Veros words inscribed in the runes. The surface of the Fenestros shimmered, creating an effect like water transforming into light. Slowly, the section of the wall itself, no larger than an ordinary door, took on a glittering sheen. Ulfric channeled an image of Mount Omina, though he labored to keep this hidden.

  With a sudden, quiet susurration, the glimmering wall disintegrated, revealing what could have been mistaken as a trick of the mind. It seemed to be a wavering tunnel, deep but hard to focus on, like the dark spots in the eye after staring into light. Instantly, the well passage pulled Ulfric inward. Not into a tunnel to nowhere, but into a portal that would take him to Mount Omina in the blink of an eye.

  Just before he slipped inside, he reached for the Caster, gripping him by the arm in hands as strong as iron. As he and the Caster shot through the gateway, Ulfric maintained his focus on Omina, praying to the powers of the Verities that the well would close behind them in time to keep the usurper from following.

  In less time than it took to inhale, his backplate clanked against rough stone, and the form of the Caster dropped beside him. Even before rising, Ulfric flung his elbow into the Caster’s face, stunning him. In the next instant, he lunged to his feet, facing the now-blank stone wall through which they’d b
een delivered. As soon as they stopped speaking the incantation the portal closed, but he could not know if the Verity had some wystic artifice that would allow him to follow anyway.

  Dozens of glittering dragørflies, disturbed from their rest, had taken to the air the moment he and the Caster emerged. Illumination from their glowing bodies cast enough light for Ulfric to spot a stone-working hammer leaning against the gray rock. He yanked it up and threw all the brute strength in his warrior’s frame into one, two, three swings, until he obliterated the matching sigils adorning this side of the portal. The carved runes broke like pottery beneath his blows, and the well was destroyed.

  Before he could enjoy the relief of escape, the sound of rock grating under feet caught his ear, and he spun, throwing the hammer up to ward off an oncoming strike from a head-sized stone being wielded like a club by the Caster. It struck the stout wooden handle held horizontally just a fist’s width from Ulfric’s forehead, sending a tremor into his wrists and elbows. He heaved, shoving the rock and Caster backward.

  The Caster regrouped a few paces away as frenzied dragørflies swooped around his and Ulfric’s heads. His hood had fallen back, and his eyes flickered against the pale flesh of his face as he sneered, unafraid and undaunted.

  Ulfric paid the dragørflies no mind and crouched in readiness, still gripping the sledgehammer. “You fight for the wrong Verity, Caster. I’m offering you a chance to rectify that and reclaim your honor. But this is the only time I will.”

  The foreigner maintained his gap, disciplined enough to ignore the flitting distractions, and studied Ulfric. He shifted the tote that held the Battgjald Scrylle to his back and vocalized a screeching, high-pitched buzz that was unlike any sound Ulfric had ever heard but was easily identifiable as rage. The dragørflies reacted, becoming, if anything, more discombobulated. They swooped and dove, slamming their fragile forms into the Caster. He slapped against one that had caught a leg inside the fabric of his robe, smashing it and smearing the glistering body against his clothing. “You will die for this, Knight,” he said, positioning himself to attack.