Midnight's Knight: A Fae War Chronicles Novel (The Fae War Chronicles Book 0)

by Jocelyn Fox

  One of the other Knights had engaged the garrelnost that had taken down the Vaelanbrigh. A few bold cat-creatures slunk toward the injured faehal and rider. Finn plunged his sword into one and leapt over the faehal’s side to catch another one midair, knocking it aside with his arm and dispatching it with his blade. The other Knights tightened their circle around the Vaelanbrigh, the winged creature still flying overhead and screaming, tearing apart branches in frustration as it tried to reach its prey.

  The Vaelanbrigh’s mount was dead, deep claw marks in its neck, and its body trapped the Knight. Finn took hold of the Vaelanbrigh’s shoulders and strained to pull him free. The older Knight grunted and wheezed strangely. Finn redoubled his efforts, feeling a few of the scabs on his back split at the movement, but at last he dragged the Vaelanbrigh free. The bloodstained Knight clung to consciousness, his eyes slits. He gripped Finn’s arm urgently.

  “Take…my sword,” he gasped, dark blood sluicing down his chin.

  “Not leaving you,” replied Finn.

  “No choice,” countered the Vaelanbrigh as more creatures appeared through the darkness.

  “There’s always a choice.” Finn stood over the Vaelanbrigh and shouted, “Ramel!”

  His former squire wheeled his mount closer, still fending off leaping creatures and shielding his face from a rain of splinters. With one glance, Ramel assessed the situation.

  “Sayre! Get the Vaelanbrigh up on your mount! Morcant, cover him!” Ramel roared, dispatching two more misshapen beasts. The other Knights obeyed him without hesitation. Finn helped Sayre heave the Vaelanbrigh onto his faehal’s back as Morcant and Ramel kept them from being overwhelmed by creatures. And then for a second time, Ramel offered his hand to Finn. This time, Finn took it, swinging up in front of Ramel.

  “Go! Back on the path and make all haste! We fight only if we must!” shouted Ramel. The war chargers did not need any guidance from their riders. They shot through the trees at a dizzying speed, their grace and agility outstripping the garrelnost and the flood of smaller beasts. Finn wondered dizzily if the winged creature would be able to strike at them on the path with less coverage overhead, but his thoughts scattered and he concentrated on staying astride the faehal. Ramel put a firm arm around his waist when he wavered.

  “Don’t slice me with your sword,” the younger Knight said into Finn’s ear, and with a start Finn realized that the sharp edge of his blade had been drifting toward Ramel’s leg, jolted and pushed by the motion of the galloping faehal and his weakening grip.

  That would be a fine way to thank you for saving my life, thought Finn, but he couldn’t form the words. Now, astride a faehal and bound for Darkhill, his battered body acknowledged the extent of his exhaustion and his wounds. He clung to consciousness, heard Ramel and the other Knights speaking to one another occasionally over the whistling wind of their mounts’ speed. They needed to stop to tend to the Vaelanbrigh. He should tell Ramel. Perhaps they hadn’t seen his wounds. Ramel’s grip around his waist tightened, and Finn focused on keeping his sword in a ready position. After some hours, the faehal slowed, the gray light of early dawn filtering through the trees. Finn heard the other Knights talking in low, quick voices, and then they suddenly weren’t moving, and Ramel was gone from behind him, though he still had a hand on Finn’s waist. In earlier days, the squire would have made a joke about that. No, not squire. Knight. His squire was a Knight. When had that happened?

  “Here, let me take your sword,” came Ramel’s voice, sure and steady.

  Finn obeyed without question.

  “Come down now, let’s get you on the ground,” said Ramel.

  With a supreme effort, Finn slid his leg over the charger’s back. His legs buckled when his feet hit the ground, and Ramel’s firm grip only meant that he wilted to the ground rather than collapsing.

  “The Vaelanbrigh,” he said as his vision wavered.

  “Sayre and Morcant are tending to him,” said Ramel.

  “You found me,” Finn sighed. He felt a cool breeze on his chest and glanced down to discover that Ramel had already cut away his shirt.

  “Yes,” said Ramel. Finn heard him draw in his breath as he began revealing the ugliness of the sorcerer’s work. Then his squire gripped his shoulder with gentle firmness.

  “Finnead,” said Ramel, “did anyone else survive?”

  Finn let out a shuddering sigh. He wished he didn’t have to tell him. “No.”

  Ramel closed his eyes for a moment and then bent over Finn again, his hands moving quickly.

  “Can I…sleep now?” Finn asked. His voice emerged a whisper. His vision was fading but he still felt Ramel grip his hand briefly.

  “So long as you come back to us,” his squire ordered.

  Finn nodded slightly and with a blessed feeling of release, he let his eyes slide closed, darkness finally overtaking him.

  Chapter 37

  Ramel sat beside Finn and stared at the long, still body covered by a cloak. They’d fought hard to save the life of the Vaelanbrigh. Sayre had managed to bind the worst of his wounds as they galloped through the forest, staunching the flow of blood from the terrible slashes inflicted by the beast’s jaws and claws. When they halted, Sayre and Morcant worked over the Vaelanbrigh while Ramel tended to Finnead. After he’d ensured that Finnead was in no immediate danger, Ramel had shifted to help with the Vaelanbrigh. Even between the three of them and even with the strength of the Queen, the Vaelanbrigh never regained consciousness.

  The sky had darkened when the Vaelanbrigh drew his last breath. Ramel and Morcant had hastily put up one of their tents over Finnead and the body of the Vaelanbrigh. Sayre washed the Vaelanbrigh as best he could and dressed him in a clean shirt. He wordlessly spread a cloak over the dead Knight. Thunder rumbled in the distance: a storm from the direction of Darkhill. It took a few hours to travel the distance, but now rain poured down around them. Morcant wordlessly took the first watch. Sayre had gone to unsaddle their mounts, and Ramel had stayed in the tent with unconscious Finn and the corpse of the Vaelanbrigh.

  He lit a lantern and rolled out his healing kit. Finn didn’t stir as he pulled away the blanket covering his torso. Ramel busied himself with mixing different herbs, applying a paste to help with the bruising on Finn’s ribs and concocting a poultice to help clean the lashes on his back and speed their healing. He could see every one of Finn’s ribs, though his former master had somehow still retained some of his strength and muscle. Deep shadows darkened beneath Finn’s eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. He’d have to make sure that Finn ate something when he woke. He finished applying his healing herbs and tucked the blanket about Finnead again, just as Sayre ducked through the entrance to the tent.

  “How is he?” asked the older Knight, shaking water from his cloak.

  “Still sleeping,” replied Ramel, “though it’s a bit deeper than sleep, I think.”

  Sayre grabbed one of his bags and sat down by Ramel. He offered the younger Knight a piece of dried meat. Ramel took it, and the saltiness of the cured meat tasted better to him after the battle.

  “What about the Princess?” Sayre said quietly.

  Ramel shook his head. “Finnead said that there were no other survivors.”

  Sayre cursed softly under his breath. “How could we let this happen?”

  “I’ve asked myself that every minute of every day since that night in the clearing,” Ramel replied in a low voice.

  “I meant…as a whole. All of us. Guards and Knights.”

  “It’s easy to look past evil when you don’t want to believe it exists,” said Ramel.

  “Do you think the Queen will believe it exists now?” Sayre’s words held a sharp, bitter edge.

  “I can’t rightly say,” replied Ramel.

  Sayre shook his head. “You heard the rumors before we left?”

  “Which ones?” Ramel raised an eyebrow.

  “That the Queen was considering a more permanent kind of oath. For everyone.”

&nbs
p; He watched Finnead’s chest rise and fall beneath the blanket. “What kind of oath?”

  Sayre shrugged. “I’ve heard perhaps a blood oath.”

  Ramel looked at him sharply. “Those are no idle words.”

  “A blood oath is a serious matter,” the other Knight agreed.

  Rye’s words, uttered so long ago on the hill outside the western gate, echoed suddenly in Ramel’s mind.

  You wear your chains willingly, but someday you may notice their weight. Someday you may want to run free. And here, we are not truly free. Your freedom is an illusion, young knight-to-be.

  He shut his eyes briefly against the piercing knowledge that Rye was dead, and then he said quietly, “Someone once told me that our freedom was an illusion, that we wore our chains willingly but that didn’t make us free.”

  “Aye,” said Sayre, “but I wouldn’t repeat that, if I were you. There were other rumors about traitors and rebels, last I heard before we left.”

  “Traitors and rebels?” Ramel tried to think of any scraps of gossip that had mentioned such serious accusations.

  Sayre glanced at the covered body of the Vaelanbrigh, as though talking of such matters was disrespectful even though the Knight was dead. “I suppose you didn’t frequent the Knight’s Hall much this past year.”

  Ramel grimaced slightly. “No. I seemed to think that shutting everything out was the best way to deal with everything that had happened.”

  “And I probably would have been the same, or worse,” said Sayre. “Stars, I probably would’ve shut myself away and put off my gauntlet.”

  “I knew Finnead would’ve wanted me to finish my training and earn my sword,” Ramel said.

  Sayre nodded. “And now you had a part in his rescue.”

  “I think he did most of that himself, though I’m glad to be here to care for him. We trust each other.”

  “That makes it all the better.” Sayre adjusted the lantern slightly. “Do you want me to watch him for a while so you can sleep?”

  Ramel shook his head. “I’ll keep watch here for a while longer. If you’d like to sleep, by all means.”

  Sayre tugged a blanket out from under his saddlebags and staked out a place on the tent floor. “Morcant might even stand watch all night. I swear, the silent bastard likes being out there all alone.”

  Ramel chuckled. “I might be able to understand that.”

  “Not me. I’ll take sleep when I can get it.” And with that, Sayre cocooned himself in the blanket and fell silent. The lantern flickered and the storm still raged outside, rain pelting the sides of the tent and seeping in a few places on the ground. Ramel checked his inventory of herbs and thought that when Finnead awoke, he’d use a needle and thread on the worst of the cuts on Finn’s back…though he didn’t know if any of the wounds were poisoned, and he didn’t want to seal that under the skin if that was the case.

  After preparing the next healing mixtures, he set his kit aside. The storm lashing the forest made their humble tent seem cozy simply by virtue of its shelter from the driving rain. His mind turned to the Princess’s enchanted tent, and rather than pushing the memory aside, he let it blossom in his mind’s eye. He remembered the Princess’s smile as she invited Finn and the Guards into the tent for an evening drink. Rose and Guinna had moved gracefully about the lushly furnished interior, setting out delicate plates and putting the kettle over the fire that had no chimney and no smoke. Ramel wished achingly that he’d sat in that tent, just once, to watch Rye fetch the kettle from over the fire, to listen to Rose and Guinna bicker in their sisterly way, to see the Princess’s smile that she reserved only for Finnead.

  Why had he and Guinna escaped that night, and the others had not? Why had Finnead survived, and the others had not? The unfairness and finality of it closed his throat with grief. Now he knew that Rye was dead, he found that he wanted to know exactly how she’d died. The knowledge of her death only sharpened the pain of her loss. He felt tears pressing behind his eyes and cursed silently.

  “You’re thinking of Rye,” said Finn in a soft, hoarse voice.

  Ramel started and looked at Finn, his vision fractured by the tears balancing on his lower lids. He swallowed and waited for the other Knight to go on.

  “She told me to tell you,” Finn said with effort, each word costing him strength, “that she wished with all her heart for you to be happy.”

  Ramel felt the first hot tears slip down his cheeks.

  Finn swallowed and continued. “And she told me…not to weep for her. She said, ‘I go singing my song fiercely.’”

  “How did she die?” Ramel whispered.

  “Like a warrior,” said Finn, tears gathering in his own eyes. “She was braver than any Knight I’ve ever known.”

  Ramel nodded and let the tears spill down his cheeks. Finnead freed one hand from beneath the blanket and reached out to him; Ramel clasped his hand, and, while the rain poured down the sides of the tent, they wept for Rye and all they had lost.

  Finally, Ramel drew a shuddering breath and pressed Finnead’s hand between his own. “How are you feeling?”

  Finnead smiled weakly. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

  A snore from Sayre split the air of the tent. Ramel shook his head and Finn raised his eyebrows in silent amusement.

  “I can stitch the deeper wounds on your back, but if there’s any chance they’re poisoned, I won’t,” said Ramel.

  “Poison wasn’t the sorcerer’s style,” said Finnead quietly, his eyes distant. “Just pain.”

  Ramel clenched his jaw. This mysterious sorcerer had taken so much from them. “Right. If you’re up for it now, we can get started.”

  “No time like the present,” said Finnead tiredly, pushing himself onto his elbows with a wince and slowly levering his body into a sitting position.

  “Here,” said Ramel, handing him a packet of patrol rations. “See if you can eat something. Just don’t move too much.” He picked up his needle and thread. Finn finished the food before he’d even completed the first line of stitches. Ramel tied the final knot, pulled over his saddlebag with his food in it and set it in front of Finnead along with a water skin. He paused every so often to take a satisfied inventory of the amount that Finnead had eaten, but after four packets of food with no sign of slowing, he began to feel a nudge of concern.

  “Don’t make yourself sick,” he said quietly, trying not to feel like he was chiding a child. Finn chuckled, heedless of the needle sewing his flesh back together.

  When Finn had finished his destruction of Ramel’s rations, he said, “We should press on.”

  “We are waiting until this storm abates, at least,” replied Ramel. It went unspoken that he feared Finnead would take a fever in the rain.

  “I must speak to the Queen,” Finnead said.

  Ramel lit the little contraption that they used to heat water for tea when they didn’t have the luxury of a campfire. He poured water into the little pot. “I know. You will.” He glanced at the Vaelanbrigh. Finn followed his gaze and sadness flashed across his face before it disappeared, buried behind his impenetrable mask.

  “She will already know that he is dead,” Finn said. “She doesn’t know about Andraste.”

  “You saw her?” Ramel asked. Finn nodded gravely. Steam rose from the little pot on the heater, and Ramel tossed in the crushed herbs that he’d prepared for Finn’s tea. “Here.” He poured the tea into his copper traveling cup and held it out to Finn.

  “I haven’t had a hot drink since…” Finn let the statement trail into silence, taking the cup and wrapping his hands around its warmth. He closed his eyes and brought the cup close to his face, letting the steam waft over him.

  “There’s a bit of white shroud in it,” Ramel said.

  Finnead drank it without hesitation and handed him the empty mug. He sighed. “That was glorious.”

  Ramel smiled. “Glad you still approve of my squire’s skills.”

  Finn gave a
little chuckle. “Did I ask you to make tea that often?”

  “More often than not,” said Ramel with an answering chuckle.

  “Just preparing you,” said Finn with a yawn. He settled back onto the ground, lying on his side so as not to disturb his fresh stitches. “Remind me…to ask about your gauntlet…”

  “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about all that,” said Ramel reassuringly.

  Finn nodded and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. His eyes slid shut and within moments his breathing evened into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. Ramel tidied up his gear and placed the lantern well out of reach of any sleepers’ limbs, and curled up near Finnead’s feet, resting his head on his saddlebags. Morcant would wake one of them if he needed a watch relief. He took a deep breath and tried not to think of the monsters that could tear their tent apart in the blink of an eye. Sleep swallowed him almost immediately, too quickly for him to even be surprised.

  Morcant did indeed spend most of the night on watch, though Sayre forced him to catch a few hours of sleep near dawn. Ramel woke briefly when Sayre left the tent and a chill draft blew over him, and then again, a few minutes later when Morcant stomped in and shook himself like a wet dog. But they were small annoyances, and he used the wakeup to check on Finnead. The other Knight slept peacefully, the white shroud ensuring that no dreams bothered him.

  The storm abated sometime before dawn. Ramel woke to a tranquil silence broken only by the occasional sound of Morcant shifting in his sleep. He moved quietly about the tent and put water on the heater for tea. Outside, the forest smelled clean and wet, the leaves still dripping and the bark of the trees still soaked from the fierce storm. The ground felt spongy beneath his feet. Midnight greeted him with a flick of his tail and a snort, as if to ask where he’d been during the storm.