by A L Hardy
“And when he's done with her,” the bandit continued, “He'll give her to us! If she's still alive after that, you can have her back.”
The bandit rose again and turned his back to Jurod as he finished, “But I wouldn't be hopeful of that, half-blood; some of the men are rough, and the rest are bloodthirsty!”
The tent flaps opened to admit a purple robed wizard and Jurod caught a glimpse of the camp outside. A handful of tents surrounded a small pond, with only two other bandits to be seen, flanking the entrance of a tent.
“I see you have finally decided to awaken and join us,” the wizard snarled, “So now that you’ve shaken my spells and you’re thinking properly again, who are you?”
Jurod struggled against the Guard, wishing silently that he could hurl his Drashyre at it. As the thought crossed his mind, the wizard’s smug smile vanished.
Reaching for his magic again, Jurod realized that the Guard had indeed vanished. Before he could elaborate upon his newfound ability, Jurod felt another Guard slam into place around him. As he ‘threw’ his Drashyre against the latest Guard, another spell settled over him, forcing his limbs to fall limp.
A look of fear spread across the wizard’s face as Jurod incinerated the spell across his limbs, and parried the wizard’s oncoming spell with another blast of Drashyre. Several spells assaulted Jurod’s mind, but all burnt in Jurod’s mental Drashyre as soon as their pressure pressed to his mind.
Outwardly, there was no evidence of the mental struggle surging between the half-breed and the wizard. However, when Jurod seemingly ignored the wizard’s question and the wizard gave no indication of punishing him, the bandit leader assumed responsibility for the task and planted his boot into Jurod’s gut.
Jurod’s defenses dropped, and the wizard’s spells began to slam into place. Jurod felt the Guard and limpness in his limbs return, followed by spells that made his head feel as if it had been filled with mud and piled upon with rocks.
Jurod could no longer think clearly. The wizard visibly relaxed and knelt to stretch his hand over Jurod’s head. Memories flooded Jurod’s mind, unbidden. Jurod saw his training with Xardan and Ilays, and his time in the monastery with Lewk. Time flashed backward in Jurod’s mind, until he began to see memories that he hadn’t known he had. After several minutes of memories of education with the monks, they came to a different memory.
Jurod remembered looking down upon a Lythrain woman, with hair the deep color of blood. Jurod remembered her giving birth to her son. As Jurod remembered taking his first breath, he remembered his mother taking her last.
Having gotten the answer to his question, the wizard rose and turned to leave while Jurod sobbed openly.
The grief and sadness of seeing his own mother die seemed to bring Jurod back to his normal mental capacity. It seemed that the mage had not expected this to occur and was ignoring Jurod now on his way out of the tent.
With his back turned, the wiry, purple-robed man presented a perfect target for Jurod. Drashyre licked along the half-breed’s skin, incinerating the bonds that held him. The bandit leader stepped forward to kick again but Jurod rolled aside, summoning a blade composed entirely of Drashyre.
Jurod slashed at the oncoming foot as he rose, severing the bandit leader’s leg at the hip. Summoning a second Drashyre blade into his other hand, Jurod decapitated the leader before his shouts could rise and warn the camp.
Panic took a moment to settle in over the other gathered bandits, and Jurod took the opportunity to slam both of his blades into the back of the wizard. Shouts began to rise from the bandits, but Jurod made quick work of the group.
Jurod did not bother to count the lives he took, nor did he care. He simply sobbed as he killed, with each drop of blood serving as a vivid reminder of his ‘new’ memory of his mother.
Once outside the tent, Jurod threw his flaming blades at the only two bandits in sight. They rolled upon themselves, turning into great balls of blue flame. The bandits screamed as the flames smashed them into the pond.
Jurod rushed forward, charging the leader’s tent as he summoned another Drashyre blade.
*
The storm that had chased Xardan back to Riverguard wasn't disappointing as the clouds blackened the sky overhead and the pounding rain made it difficult to see beyond a few feet. The shadows were thick; the world was Xardan's arena.
The soldier helping Xardan don his armor was young, though he handled the black plates and straps with a tragic familiarity. The tabard he wore bore the crest of an officer cadet, an unofficial rank announcing that he shows promise over the other cadets.
“What is your name?” Xardan asked.
“Jaysin.” the cadet replied.
“Do you have a family, Jaysin?”
Jaysin finished tightening the last strap on Xardan’s armor, as he replied, “Not anymore.”
Xardan couldn't help but hang his head in sorrow. This foolhardy war had claimed too many lives.
“I am sorry for your loss.” Xardan admitted as Jaysin finished with the last buckle, “I understand your pain.”
Jaysin stopped just before stepping out into the rain.
“No you’re not. And no you don’t,” Jaysin spat.
When Xardan didn't respond, Jaysin continued, “They were Illyrian mages. You killed them.”
Without another word, Jaysin left the tent.
So much death. Xardan thought as he buckled on his sword belt, so many lives I’ve taken.
Xardan lifted his helm off the only table in the tent. Pausing for a moment to look at the cold, passionless visor; Xardan felt the torment of the thousands of lives he had taken.
Pulling the helmet over his head, Xardan dropped the visor and raised the hood of his cloak. The Knight of the Black Era walked coldly out of his tent and through the camp.
Lord Brath of the Dragon Lords was being kept under heavy guard near the King's tent. The guards were dispatched easily in the dark night and the Knight of the Black Era walked unchallenged into Brath's tent.
Lord Brath rose slowly when the Knight of the Black Era entered. His clothes and appearance were filthy as he was unwashed and unshaven for the last two weeks.
“The mighty Sir Xardan Ta'Caran, Knight of the Black Era!” Brath mocked, giving an exaggerated bow with too much flourish, “To what do I owe this great honor?”
The Knight of the Black Era's blade flashed to Brath's throat with the speed to rival the fastest gryphons of Urthendril.
“King Tennlka wants to know your decision.” The Knight of the Black Era announced.
A small, cocky smile split Brath's thin, frail face.
“My city will never again fly Faelhart banners!” Brath roared.
“So be it!” the Knight coldly stated, “Let's go.”
Shadows throughout the tent wrapped around the Knight as he stepped forward and took Brath by the collar of his shirt. The shadows darkened until neither could see at all.
When the shadow’s dissipated, Brath found himself standing in the middle of the center square of Riverguard. No one walked the black streets at this hour of the night save the guard patrols, and there unfortunately weren't any in sight.
The Knight of the Black Era bound Brath in shadows and walked him up the stairs that materialized as they climbed them. When they got up onto the platform, the Knight took the hangman's noose out of the air and wrapped it around his neck.
“If I thought you could escape, I'd order you not to move!” he announced.
Stepping down off the platform, the Knight of the Black Era disappeared into the shadows and returned a moment later leading Brath's military adviser.
The Knight of the Black Era walked Brath's General up onto another platform and turned to leave again.
“I'm sorry,” was all that Brath could say.
“It was my decision.” the General replied, “He asked me if I would surrender the city to save my own life. I refused.”
The Knight of the Black Era worked through the night,
thankful for the dark clouds that made his power less exhausting. The sun slowly began to rise, but it failed to pierce the thick clouds with its warming light.
By dawn, the Knight had collected Brath's highest advisers onto four identical hangman's platforms.
People rose with the sun, and gathered quickly in the square as word spread that something was happening. When the square was nearly full to bursting, he shouted over the crowd.
“Let this be a lesson to all of Riverguard and the Dragon Lords!” the Knight of the Black Era announced, “I am the Knight of the Black Era! As of this moment, I declare Riverguard to once again be a Faelhart city! The soldiers here are Faelhart soldiers! The shops and merchants here pay Faelhart taxes!”
The shadowy floors supporting Brath and his advisers disappeared, letting the victims fall to their ends.
The Knight of the Black Era's cold, passionless whisper echoed loudly around the city square.
“This city is now MY domain!”
All four platforms moved toward the Knight of the Black Era, dropping the corpses of their victims and carrying him back to his tent in Tennlka's camp.
Throwing back his hood, the Knight of the Black Era removed his helmet and gauntlets and pulled his hood back up against the rain. Exhausted from the use of his power in the city, Xardan stumbled to the entrance of the tent and straightened to walk casually with a conscious effort.
Thankfully, Tennlka's tent was not far from Xardan's and the Knight was able to maintain the facade long enough for the guards at the tent to announce him and wave him in.
Tennlka didn't look up from his maps when Xardan entered.
“Good morning, Xardan.” Tennlka said, “I take it you are almost ready to take Riverguard?”
Exhaustion drove words from Xardan and when he didn't respond the King looked up and saw him leaning against the tent post.
“What's wrong?” Tennlka asked, “You seem exhausted!”
Xardan nodded slowly in response to the King's statement.
“Lord Brath is dead.” Xardan announced breathlessly, “As well as his military, economic, and financial advisers.”
“When!?” the King roared, obviously enraged, “What happened?”
“I took Brath into Riverguard during the night and executed him at dawn.” Xardan announced, “Along with his advisers.”
“What!?” the King continued, “You disobeyed direct orders Xardan! I told you to attack that city at mid-day and to kill as many soldiers and civilians as you could! How many did you kill?”
“Four.”
“Without Brath and his advisers?”
“None.” Xardan told the King.
The tent was silent.
“I cannot accept this, Xardan.” Moving around Xardan to the entrance of the tent, Tennlka waved in the soldiers standing guard.
“Xardan Ta'Caran,” the King announced formally, “On charges of treason and dereliction of orders. I hereby strip you of your rank as a Knight of Faelhart, pending military court at the earliest opportunity. You are to come peacefully or forever be branded as a traitor to the crown!”
The two guards moved to tie Xardan's hands, confiscate his sword, and force vile flavored water down his throat. Exhausted as he was, Xardan was unable to fight off the guards that arrested him and escorted him into the prison tent.
Shortly after arriving in the same tent Brath had been in that morning, Officer Cadet Jaysin and two other soldiers, cadets by rank, came in with another mug of water.
Jaysin and one of the cadets immediately started stripping Xardan of his armor while the third started forcing the water down his throat.
“The drug in the water will stop him from using his power,” Jaysin explained to the other cadets, “That way he can be safely transported to Learth for the military court.”
The drug took affect shortly thereafter and Xardan wasn't able to concentrate enough to listen to the rest of their conversation. Within minutes, Xardan was fighting off the sleep forced by the drug in the water.
Chapter 13
Altavar's prisons were imperfect. While Toug and Rylvia were trapped, they were both able to release their Generals. Toug's, twisted by their presence in Neth'yc, took rule over the ethereal Plane and established themselves as Demon Lords. Rylvia's, changed by the prolonged pressure of stone and magic, became the Titans and established themselves as Gods over the Kin.
*
It took too long for Ilays to process the tent that she was in. She was lying in the center of the floor, facing the tent flaps and watching the boots of the two guards outside.
Raising her head was a struggle, and unproductive once completed. There was nothing in the tent save her blades, leathers, quiver and bow thrown into a corner where they would be out of the way when the ‘boss’ arrived to have his way with her.
Ilays laid her head back; the strain of raising it was too great for the condition that the wizard's magic left her in. Her conversation with the wizard had required all her concentration and now her mind was cloudy and exhausted. Between the physical and mental fatigue, her body ached to drift into merciful sleep; but she knew she had to remain awake or risk the "boss" having finished before she awoke.
The mumble of voices outside drew her attention back the guards’ boots. The two that had been present before had been joined by a third, but they had stomped off before Ilays could even begin to make out the words being said. The third set of boots stepped forward, alone. For the first time since she awoke to the wizard, Ilays had clarity of thought that belied the magical effects she was under; the ‘boss’ had arrived.
*
Tristan rode back into camp alone, having left behind any of the thugs that would have acted as guards at the negotiation with the leader of the other small clan in the area. He did not fear that leader and had therefore felt no need for the guards. If Tristan wanted the bloodshed, he would simply have killed the leader and gone on to slaughter the entire clan. They had no wizard and only poor, rusted weapons and armor. Even if they had been armed to the teeth, they would not be able to defend against a Knight.
His thugs rose as they saw him, and the slimy wizard that he had coerced into serving him stepped forward.
“She is ready my Lord.” The wizard reported, bowing at the waist just low enough that Tristan had no reason to reprimand him.
“Yes.” Tristan replied, still pondering how to get the half-breed male out of the clutches of his own men.
I can’t simply kill my own men, Tristan thought, and we need that wizard too much if we’re to survive against the larger clans.
Tristan dismounted lightly, stepping up to his tent and handing his horse over to the guards.
“I do not wish to be disturbed,” Tristan announced to the hoots and hollers of the collected bandits, “And only I will decide when I’m finished with her.”
His thugs continued to cheer at him as he stepped, disgusted, into his tent. Tristan almost wished he could return to Faelhart, but even these foul creatures were better than that foolhardy war.
The Lythrain maiden was on the floor, stripped of her weapons and armor and bound at the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles. He knelt in front of her, scooping her gently in his arms and carried her past the table behind her and over to the bed on the far edge of the tent. He felt her entire body racking with sobs as he carried her.
After setting her gently on the somewhat comfortable bed, he pulled his belt knife and carefully cut the bonds that held her. While Tristan admired the handiwork of the wizard, he also loathed the difficulty it was to remove the effects of his magic once they had taken place.
He moved to the end of the bed and opened his trunk. Digging to the bottom of the chest and removing the section of false bottom and pulling out the small pouch of healing herbs. After pouring a few swallows of wine into a small glass, Tristan added a pinch of the herbs and dropped the pouch on the table.
Gently pushing the Lythrain’s hair from her face, Tristan held the cup to her li
ps and encouraged her to drink.
“This wine contains healing herbs,” Tristan explained when Ilays fought the swallows, “It will help remove the effects of the wizard’s magic, but it will take time still.”
“The… wizard…” Ilays began.
“…Is a slimy, pathetic man that is overly obsessed with his own carnal desires!” Tristan finished, “You are safe so long as you are here with me.”
Tristan poured a larger cup of wine and added a significant dose of the healing herbs before replacing the pouch and pouring a second cup of wine for himself. He helped Ilays into a sitting position and held her there, assisting her in drinking the concoction.
Shouts outside drew Tristan’s attention, and he turned to retrieve his short-swords and axe from the table. Thinking the other clan had been foolish enough to attack after all, Tristan moved toward the entrance of the tent.
Two steps toward the entrance, the half-breed male burst into the tent wielding a blade of blue flame. The axe slipped from Tristan’s fingers as memories overwhelmed him of another Knight, the Prince of Faelhart, conjuring a sword of blue flame; Drashyre. Tristan called a flaming sword and parried the half-breed’s lunge before launching into a series of defensive blocks.
“Who are you?” Tristan asked between blocks.
Ignoring the question, the half-breed swung wildly in his rage, trying to move between Tristan and the Lythrain; the Knight did not stop him. The half-breed did not relent once he was between Tristan and the Lythrain, and Tristan willingly stepped back. After several steps of giving ground, Tristan shifted his elbow forward and into the half-breed’s face, then kicked him onto the ground.
“You lack the skill to fight a Knight!” Tristan barked, “I could have killed you a dozen times over had I wished, but I truly wish to see you and your maiden disappear into the night.
“Now,” Tristan continued, “Who are you?”
The half-breed shifted to rise and Tristan raised his flaming blade warningly.
A blast of Drashyre shot forward, narrowly missing Tristan as he dove out of the way. The half-breed jumped to his feet, catching the blast as it shifted back into his blade.