Fellowship Fantastic

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Perched atop a white pinnacle that loomed above the fort, the Eye was made of a metal that looked like rose gold, but was as hard as Rumassene steel. It stood more than three hundred feet tall, a tapering spire capped with a massive white crystal with a crimson stain in its center. Runes were etched at its base, in a language no man knew—but though their meaning was unclear, the letters were not. The sages had learned how to pronounce them, and that was the key to the Eye’s power . . . for when they were spoken aloud, the Eye came to life and glowed with silver fire that shot high into the sky. When it shone, the light was visible as far south as the capital, more than a week’s ride away.

  And so Kettigar and Torl had brought word to the men of Car Bandoth: as soon as the Veyarrim moved, the Eye must be lit. If the enemy mounted an attack before Mallos’ soldiers were ready, the queen must know. There were plans, if an early invasion must be repelled, but Torl didn’t know what they were. Even Kettigar, who shared more with him than most knights did with their squires, had been close-mouthed about what the queen would do if Veyarre’s armies came before the defenses were ready. Torl hadn’t pressed him: it probably involved sorcery, so it was better not to know.

  Lord Norral had welcomed Kettigar as if he were distant kin and even Torl got a room to sleep in, rather than having to scrounge a spot in the hayloft with the servants. The plan had been for them to stay three days, long enough for a feast befitting the arrival of one of Her Majesty’s own knights, then to embark on the return journey.

  Instead, it all went wrong.

  The first night of the feast was marvelous. There were five courses of more than twenty different dishes, ranging from red eels stuffed with crabmeat to roasted sea-goose to bacon-and-oyster pies. And wine, of course—enough to make the dourest of Car Bandoth’s men flushed and merry. Torl was happy, listening while Kettigar told the same war stories he always told at such affairs. But that night, on his way back across the courtyard to his quarters in the small hours before dawn, he saw something terrible.

  Even now, he remembered the creature vividly. It had been pitch-black, the size of a ten-year-old child, but far too scrawny and spindly, with clawed fingers and huge yellow eyes that shone like lanterns in the moonlight. He spotted it over by the castle’s well, and it hissed like a feral cat . . . and melted away into the darkness. He stood alone in the windy night, shaking, a dagger in his hand . . . but the creature didn’t reappear, and finally he convinced himself he’d only been seeing things, that too much wine and rich food had blurred his mind. He’d gone to bed and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

  The next day, he woke up sick. Fever had taken him. He remembered nothing but flashes: raging red flames, faces distorted into leering corpse-grins, and frightening colors that had no name. He slipped toward death, and did it quickly—and then he lingered there, at its doorstep, for two long days.

  Then his fever broke, and he found himself sweat-soaked and shivering in his bed. Kettigar slept in the corner, not far from his side.

  Later, he learned that the old knight had stayed with him the whole while, even as the rest of Car Bandoth’s garrison sickened and died. He’d prayed over Torl, given him water, tried to calm his raving. By the time Torl learned of this, though, Kettigar had caught the sickness too, one of the last in the fort to succumb.

  Torl had fought off the plague, with his master’s help. But he was the only one.

  He had been there when his master breathed his last. One moment, Kettigar was curled into a ball in his bed, babbling to another knight named Harrikos—a man who’d died before Torl was even born. The next, he was cold and still, his glassy eyes empty. Torl sat beside the old knight for the better part of a day, too weak and shocked and lost to do anything but stare at the motionless body and wonder if he was going mad.

  Then Kettigar spoke to him, and drove away any doubt.

  “It’s over, lad,” his master whispered, just behind him. “They’re all gone. No one left here but you . . . and me.”

  It was cold in the fort, but not frigid. Suddenly, though, Torl could see his breath. His stomach clenching, he turned. Kettigar was standing there, in the open doorway. Torl rubbed his eyes, too shocked to speak.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” Kettigar asked, eyes blazing. “You act as though you’ve never seen a ghost before.”

  Torl blinked. “I—I haven’t . . .”

  “I know that, lad. Just a small joke. I never was any good at it, I suppose.” The old knight walked toward him . . . or wafted, to be closer to the truth. His body shifted like mist as he moved, only seeming solid when he stayed still. The air grew bitter as he drew alongside his squire and gazed down at his own body. “Ardai’s teeth. Did I really look that old?”

  “M-master,” Torl stammered. “How . . . how—”

  Kettigar shrugged, his shoulders dissolving into fog as they rose and fell. Torl could see through the knight, make out the peeling plaster on the wall behind him.

  “You swear when you’re dubbed, lad,” he said. “Kathos bir galan, in the Old Tongue. True beyond death. Those aren’t just words, you know. Her Majesty bade me light the Eye if the enemy appeared before I left this place.”

  “And . . . can you leave?” Torl asked.

  “No,” the old knight said, and frowned. “A bit of a problem, there. I’ll only be released if I fulfill my duty.”

  “Oh.”

  “It gets worse. Only the living can light the Eye. Its magic won’t respond to ghosts.”

  Torl thought about that. “But that’s not fair!” he protested. “If you can’t leave, and you can’t fulfill your duty—”

  “Then I’ll stay here, and haunt this keep, until the book of the world is closed,” Kettigar agreed. “Yes, a terrible fate—but not unheard of. I knew the dangers when I took my oath of service, lad. I’m hardly the first knight to remain in the world like this.”

  All at once, Torl began to wonder whether he wanted to be a knight anymore. Years of training, a lifetime of servitude . . . and now the danger of being caught in the world forever, rather than moving on, because of the vows he took?

  “Preposterous, isn’t it?” Kettigar agreed.

  Torl blinked. “You can hear my thoughts?”

  “No,” Kettigar said. “But you were frowning like you wanted to grab Ardai by his blessed raiment and throttle him.”

  Torl sat quietly, glancing from his master’s body to his spirit, then back again. Outside, rain pattered against Car Bondath’s walls.

  “I’ll be rotting soon,” Kettigar said. “Faster than you’d think, in this wet weather. Some of the others already are. You’d best be going, lad, before the stink gets too bad.”

  “And leave you behind?” Torl asked.

  “It will have to happen, sooner or later,” Kettigar replied. “Best you do it before you see what happens when you leave thirty dead men out in the rain.”

  Torl thought about that. He’d seen dead bodies before, and smelled decay—but the old knight was right. The thought of all of the fort’s garrison moldering around him was . . . unpleasant.

  But . . .

  “I can’t just abandon you,” he said.

  “This is a bad time for sentiment, lad.”

  “Maybe.” Torl got up and walked toward the door. “But someone has to stay here anyway, to light the Eye if it’s needed.”

  Kettigar drifted after him. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To find a shovel.”

  The rain stopped, maddeningly, almost the moment the last man was in the ground. Muttering a few unpleasant suggestions to the god, Torl slogged through the muck, found his bunk, and was asleep before he could even pull the blankets over himself.

  He awoke to his master’s voice.

  “—best come see for yourself. Quickly now, lad,” Kettigar was saying. There was a moment’s silence. “Boy, are you listening to me?”

  Torl snorted, lifting his head. “Whuh?”

  Kettigar loomed
over him, imposing and stern. The sight of the knight so impatient and angry filled him with the same guilt and terror he’d felt when the old man was alive.

  “Have you not heard a word I said?” Kettigar demanded. “Get up! You’ve got a duty to see to, and little time to do it!”

  Duty? Torl wondered. But I already buried you all.

  Then it came to him.

  “The Veyarrim,” he said. “They’re coming, aren’t they?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you!” snapped the knight. “I spotted them at sunrise. Now get your sorry bones out of bed!”

  Torl’s sorry bones hurt like nothing he’d ever felt in his life—not even after his first real turn at jousting, when he’d caught a blunted lance dead in his gorget and hit the ground so hard they’d summoned a priest to pray over him. For a moment, he literally couldn’t move; every time he did, it felt like lightning was shooting up his spine.

  “My . . . back,” he grunted.

  “Quit whining,” Kettigar growled. “During the crusade against the Sunlands, I took an arrow through my shield arm, a sword cut across the ribs, and a mace to the side of my face that knocked out seven teeth—all in one day. Even the king thought I wouldn’t live through the night . . . but when morning came, I was up and ready for battle, damn it. Now move.”

  Biting his tongue to keep from screaming, Torl sat up. Every muscle in his body tried to clench, to force him back down, but he fought it off. He reached to a pitcher beside the bed, poured himself a cup of wine, and bolted it down. Then, his back and legs and arms all shrieking in unison, he got to his feet . . . and, somehow, didn’t die from the pain. If anything, it lessened somewhat. He shot a glare at Kettigar, who stood by the door, looking sour.

  “Death hasn’t mellowed you,” he muttered.

  “I’m cursed to haunt this rainy keep forever,” the old knight said. “Forgive me if I seem ornery.”

  Several minutes and a lot of pain later, they stood on the keep’s northern wall. Torl leaned against the battlements, trying not to vomit from the effort of climbing the stairs, and looked out across the water.

  “Hang me till I dance,” he cursed.

  The storm had passed, leaving the sky angry with clouds, but also shot through with shafts of sunlight. Surf thundered against the rocks below, hurling salt-smelling spume high into the air. On the strait’s far side, the shores of Veyarre lay dark, dotted with castles. And between them, on the broad back of the water, was a fleet of red-sailed warships.

  There were at least a hundred of them, long and sleek, tacking back and forth against the wind so that the whole line undulated like a serpent. Every one was crowded with men: Torl couldn’t count them all, but he guessed there must be thousands. And they would be across the channel by nightfall.

  “They’ll make a beachhead,” growled Kettigar. “At this very fort. With that kind of foothold, the scum can bring the rest of their forces across.”

  Torl rubbed his eyes. “I don’t understand. Where did all those boats come from? We would have seen them days ago if they were massing on the coast.”

  “Look closer, lad. Mallos isn’t the only realm with sorcerers, you know.”

  Swallowing, Torl stared at the ships. There was something unnatural about them, and now it struck him: every single boat was identical, from the eagle’s head on its prow to the rigging of its sails. It was eerie. And there was a strange shimmer about them, almost invisible. The Veyarrim wizards had conjured the armada.

  “As I feared,” Kettigar muttered. “The plague wasn’t just chance—it’s too much of a coincidence. It was intentional, to empty this fort before the invasion began.”

  Torl thought of the creature he’d seen, the first—and, as it turned out, last—night of the feast. He saw its yellow eyes glaring at him across the courtyard, and how it vanished like smoke before him. It had been standing by Car Bandoth’s well. Poisoning it. More sorcery.

  He chose not to mention any of this to Kettigar. He was angry enough.

  “Enough dawdling,” the old knight said, turning away from the ships. “We’ve got a job to do—or rather, you do.”

  Torl followed his master’s gaze up and east, to the pinnacle above the fort. The Eye of Heaven gleamed red in the morning light, gulls wheeling about the glittering jewel at its tip. He regarded the stairs carved into the rock, worn smooth, dotted with bird’s nests and guano. There were hundreds of them. It would take him an hour, in his spent and broken state, to climb them all.

  “Best get started, then,” Kettigar said. “This is your trial, Torl: do this, and you’ll prove yourself worthy of Knighthood.” With that, he faded, dissolving into the air. He was still there—there was still a chill bite to the air atop the wall, and the hairs on Torl’s arms that weren’t plastered down with dried mud stood erect. But the old knight was leaving Torl alone. This was his task now, not Kettigar’s.

  Torl glanced back at the water, at the enchanted ships crossing the strait, a bit closer now than before. In them he saw the doom of Mallos. His master had taught him enough of tactics to know that it would take years of battle to get rid of the Veyarrim if they captured the northern coast. There was nothing else for it now.

  He turned toward the Eye of Heaven and started walking.

  The climb was every bit as grueling as he’d expected. He had to stop three times to gather his strength, get his breath back, stave off the jolts of agony that shot through him. Once he slipped on the spray-slick stairs, and would have tumbled down into the churning sea if there hadn’t been an old, dried vine for him to grab before he toppled over the edge. He took the last twenty steps on his hands and knees, sobbing with pain as every part of his body rebelled against him.

  Finally, he reached the top of the pinnacle, chalk now dusting the mud that caked his body, and laid down on his back, gasping for breath beside the base of the Eye. Black spots swirled before his eyes. The sound of the pounding waves seemed to fall away.

  No, he thought, you will not pass out. Not now.

  He shook himself and pushed up to his knees. There, graven in the rose gold of the spire, was an image of the Eye itself, silver fire blossoming from crystal into the sky. The runes that must be spoken were etched to either side. He dragged himself over and ran his fingers across them. They meant nothing to him, for he could only read the Mallosi tongue—but Kettigar had told him what they said, had coached him into repeating the words exactly on the ride north from the capital.

  Torl licked his lips, tasted chalk and mud and blood: he’d bitten his tongue when he almost fell. He looked up at the crystal glittering high above against the tattered clouds. He cleared his mind, centering himself, preparing for what he was about to do.

  Then, feeling calm, he turned away from the Eye.

  He sat on the edge of the precipice, watching across the water as the Veyarri fleet writhed nearer and nearer. He stayed there for the better part of an hour, trembling, refusing to look back at the runes. It was hard to do, knowing Kettigar was watching.

  At last, the ghost appeared. He was, as Torl expected, furious. He floated in the air before his squire, with nothing between him and the jagged, surf-battered rocks but several hundred feet of wind and winging birds. His eyes flashed with anger, and his hands were clenched into fists. His braided beard trembled.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Kettigar demanded. “You’re here now. The hard part’s over. Now light the beacon and have done!”

  Torl met his gaze and shook his head. I will not be afraid, he thought. I must do this.

  “No,” he said.

  Kettigar gaped at him. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” Torl replied. “If I light the Eye, you’ll be damned. There’ll be no way for you to fulfill your oath because someone else will have done it already. You’ll be a ghost forever.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kettigar said. “I can’t fulfill my oath now. We’ve been through this. The Eye will only allow a living man to use its ma
gic.”

  “That’s true,” Torl said. “And you’ll be that living man.”

  He watched the old knight’s expression change. Anger gave way to confusion, then to slow understanding—which yielded to anger again.

  “You cannot be serious,” Kettigar said.

  Torl said nothing, only looked at his master without a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “I can’t do that,” the old knight protested. “The pain it would cause you . . .”

  “I’m already in pain,” Torl said. “What’s a little more? And you know it will work. If your spirit is inside me, if you possess me and speak through my mouth, you’ll fulfill your oath. You’ll be free.”

  Kettigar was silent a moment. “You would do this for me?”

  “You’re my master. And you’re my friend.”

  “I could refuse.”

  Torl nodded. “You could. But I will not light the Eye. The Veyarrim will come ashore, and Mallos may fall. And it will be your choice that caused it to happen as much as mine.”

  Kettigar saw the trap, saw how cleverly Torl had set it. One of his eyebrows rose—a quiet sign of approval that Torl knew well. Well played, the gesture said.

  “If that’s truly the way you want it,” Kettigar murmured, and dove into Torl’s chest.

  The cold was shocking, unreal—as if there was no warmth left in the world, and every drop of blood in Torl’s body had turned to ice. Kettigar had been right: the pain was terrible, far worse than the aches and spasms he’d been feeling since he awoke. Those, at least, came in waves; this was constant, like he was burning from inside. He could sense Kettigar’s mind mingling with his, felt a flood of unfamiliar memories flow through him. It was like he was being ripped in two. He ground his teeth, trying not to scream.

  Then, suddenly, his jaw unclenched. He stood, and turned toward the Eye. But it wasn’t him doing any of it. He felt his body move, one foot coming forward to take a step, then the other. His eyes shifted to peer at the engravings on the spire’s side. His mouth worked, opening and closing, forming silent words as Kettigar got used to it, breaking it in like a new pair of boots.