Over the months that followed, Arn grew taller, with wiry muscles that gave his slender body unnatural strength and quickness. While he became proficient with sword and staff, expertise with a bow completely eluded him. But put a foot-long knife in his hand and Arn seemed to dance with the gods themselves. Although his trainers continued to press him, their attitudes toward him gradually improved. Gaar took notice, on occasion inviting Rafel to observe the teen’s training sessions.
With the recognition of Arn’s growing prowess came greater privileges, including the right to accompany the high lord on mounted hunts. Over time, the lord’s interest in his young protégé changed to fondness, and then to a love that mirrored that which Rafel lavished upon Carol and her younger brother, Alan. Rafel took Arn into his house and made him family.
As Carol moved into her teens, she came to think of Arn as her older brother, and then as something more. But at the age of seventeen, when she told Arn of her feelings, he gently rejected her. Carol’s reaction was one of distance and rigid detachment, and Arn soon chose to leave Rafel’s Keep for Hannington Castle to enter King Rodan’s service.
That had been five years ago. And during those years, she learned from her father that Arn had become the assassin known as Blade. As much as she had regretted withdrawing from Arn, she had waited too long to undo her actions. And as much as her father also loved Arn, the weight of Blade’s dark legend would not let him return to Rafel’s Keep, even if King Gilbert would allow the departure of his top assassin.
Seeing Carol’s change in expression, her father frowned. “I’m sorry, darling. I miss him, too.”
He changed the subject. “I came to tell you that I must leave in the morning. Gilbert has summoned all the nobility to Hannington Castle.”
Something about that statement triggered an alarm in Carol’s head. “Did he say what this is about?”
“No, but he’s desperate to show the lords that he can rule the kingdom as well as his father. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be back in two weeks.”
She knew the warning was unnecessary, but said it anyway. “Be careful.”
Her father smiled at her, nodded, and then turned and walked from the room.
Carol lowered the chandelier, extinguished the candles, and crossed the room to her bed. Climbing under the covers, she pulled her thick blankets up to her neck. The fire cast dancing lights and shadows across the room. The sight no longer inspired the security and coziness it had only moments before.
3
Rafel’s Keep
YOR 412, Late Winter
Blade stared down at the body that still spasmed at his feet, spewing its life-blood onto the moonlit ground. He was not surprised that the king would put another assassin on his tail to ensure he completed his mission. To Dagon’s credit, he probably would have succeeded against someone who lacked Blade’s intuitive sense.
He sheathed his knife and turned away. The night air was cold, and the snow had stopped falling. A thin sliver of moon clung to the horizon in a vain attempt to cast its light through the thinning clouds before being swallowed by the night. In ten minutes, the light would be gone, unleashing Blade into darkness.
Rafel’s Keep occupied the crest of a hill, surrounded on three sides by the community it protected. On the eastern side, the mighty fortress walls topped a two-hundred-foot cliff that plunged into the valley below. Difficult to attack from any side, military leaders considered this wall impregnable. Blade would test that notion.
As the horizon swallowed the last moon sliver, the black-clad figure stepped from a thicket. He paused at the base of the cliff and began climbing, guided by feel and intuition, his fingers and toes wedging into tiny crevices in the vertical rock face. A hundred feet up, he paused beneath an overhanging ledge, considered going around, and rejected the notion. This was the spot he’d studied from his hiding place, a difficult stretch protecting an easy climb to the fortress wall.
Pulling himself up into a tight ball, Blade wedged the toe of his left foot into the same crack that supported his left hand. Releasing his right, he contorted his body outward, feeling along the lower surface of the overhang until he found what he sought. A narrow crack ran vertically up into the rough surface. Sliding his right palm inside the crevice, Blade balled his fist, wedging it tight, and released his left hand and foot, allowing his body to dangle freely.
Tensing the muscles in his right arm and shoulder, Blade lifted his body and swung onto the ledge above.
When he reached the base of the fortress wall, Blade paused, letting his heart rate and breathing slow to normal. Atop the wall, another fifty feet above him, two guards moved back and forth between watchtowers, their footsteps slow and regular. They were only there because Rafel demanded that all walls be guarded, even though this section was believed to be unassailable. Boring duty, but not shirked. Gaar saw to that, and Rafel’s top soldier was not one to trifle with.
The castle wall was old but solid, and presented no more of a challenge than the cliff. Blade scaled it rapidly and paused just below the top, waiting for the footsteps to fade away toward the far tower. Lifting himself so that he could observe the widely spaced torches, Blade watched the nearest guard move away from him.
Blade had arrived at one of the darkest spots on the wall, a place of flickering light and shadow, where the shroud lay thick enough to hide his black form from the guards’ torch-blinded night vision. Blade launched himself up and over the top, then down into the courtyard below. At this time, a couple of hours after midnight, the courtyard was unlit. Blade moved rapidly across the area and cut behind the stables into a series of alleys behind Rafel’s towering residence. Reaching the chosen spot, he paused to listen. Silence.
To his left, a sheer wall rose forty feet, leading up to Rafel’s bedroom balcony. Running his hand over the tower’s rough exterior wall, Blade let the sensations from his fingertips build a mental vision. He knew the old keep inside and out. Of granite block-and-mortar construction, it had occupied this spot for more than three centuries.
Blade reached up, found a fingerhold, and began pulling himself up the wall. Darkness did not slow him; his touch told his body everything it needed to know.
The balcony presented itself to him, and he grasped its lip with his left hand, once again letting himself dangle freely as he waited for his pulse and breathing to slow. He lifted himself up to peer across the railing and into the bedroom beyond. As Blade expected, the balcony doors stood open, outlined against the bedroom’s yawning gloom. The high lord, his bed piled high with fur blankets, had always loved a cold sleeping chamber. Since his wife had died giving birth to their son, he had nobody to defer to on the matter of open balcony doors and chilly bedrooms.
From the room beyond, Rafel’s quiet snores were the only sounds to reach Blade’s ears. He waited a full minute before climbing silently over the railing and onto the balcony landing. The breeze ruffled his hair as he glided across the threshold. Drawing the black knife from its sheath, Blade moved toward the bed, hands and feet checking for unseen obstacles.
Rafel’s breathing told him he had reached the bed. Blade moved without pause, clamping his left hand over the high lord’s mouth as the black knife touched the older man’s throat. He felt the warlord stiffen, then relax, moving immediately from sleep to complete wakefulness. Blade expected no less.
Leaning over until his lips almost touched Rafel’s ear, Blade whispered, “You recognize me.”
Rafel nodded his head slightly.
“Then you know why I’ve come.”
The statement required no answer.
“The king has marked you and your family as enemies of the throne. He instructed me to bring your head, along with those of Lorness Carol and Lord Alan, back to Hannington Castle in a sack.”
Blade took a slow breath. “Long ago, you saved me and gave me a new life. Tonight, I repay that debt.”
He lifted his hand from Rafel’s mouth and stepped back from the
bed.
Rafel struggled to a sitting position. “Blade, wait . . .”
The high lord reached for the tinderbox on his bed stand, quickly striking flint to steel. As tinder and candle sputtered to life, Blade was out the window and gone.
Carol jumped as a rough hand awakened her. Opening her eyes, she looked up into her father’s grim face.
“Get up, Carol,” he said. “I’ve called a meeting in the grand hall.”
Before she could ask what was happening, he was gone. She jumped out of bed. The fire had died down to coals, and the stone floor was cold. Carol swiftly dressed, putting on a comfortable gown and slippers. After tying her long brown hair back, she opened the heavy wooden door and made her way rapidly down the corridor, passing candles burning in their wall mounts.
She took the winding stairway at the end of the hall down to the castle’s main floor. Bypassing the huge foyer, she turned left into the study and walked directly to the door on the opposite wall. A short set of stairs brought her down into a room lined with standing suits of armor. Double doors led to the grand hall.
The last to arrive, Carol entered quietly and took a seat at Rafel’s right. Her eighteen-year-old brother sat to his left. Although Alan stood only six feet tall, he had a barrel chest and thick form, weighing more than two of Carol and reminding her more of a bear than a man. There were those who would call Alan ruggedly handsome, but when her brother smiled or laughed in that self-assured way of his, beauty shined.
Around the table sat Gaar; Jason, the high priest; Broderick, the commander of the high lord’s rangers; Darin, the quartermaster; and Hawthorne, their wielder of magic.
Rafel pushed his chair away from the table and stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “I have bad news,” he began. “King Gilbert has sentenced me to death.”
The assemblage issued a collective gasp.
“What?” The question tumbled from Carol’s mouth before she could stop herself.
The old warrior placed his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “I’ve learned from a trusted source that our young king has dispatched Blade.”
Hearing the hiss of breath, Rafel held up a hand. “Even if assassination fails, King Gilbert will raise the army of Tal from the other nobles. Against those numbers, even this keep will eventually fall to the siege. Therefore, we will begin preparations to leave Tal immediately. Since we will not be returning, we’ll have to modify my legion’s deployment plans to accommodate our soldiers’ families and any other civilian volunteering to journey with us. Darin, you’re in charge of determining what gets put in the wagons and what gets left behind.”
“Yes, High Lord.”
Rafel paused. “How long will it take to ready the supplies and wagons we will have to take?”
“If it were only your legion, we could be ready to march within a day,” said Darin. “Readying all the civilians will probably take a week.”
“You’ve got five days,” said Rafel, frowning.
“Yes, High Lord.”
“I plan for us to journey west through the Borderland Range, then across the Mogev Desert to make a new home in the lands beyond. King Gilbert will wait for word that Blade has succeeded, but once he learns of our departure, he will use his wielder to try to find us. He’ll also send riders to alert the border garrisons. When Blalock locates us, the king will gather a large force to chase us down.”
“We have over two thousand experienced fighting men,” said Gaar. “Gathering a large enough force from the widely dispersed estates of his nobles will take time.”
With a nod to his battle master, Rafel continued. “We need to plan on at least as many women, children, and tradesmen accompanying the legion. At last report, we had five hundred twenty-three serviceable wagons. There’s enough dried food in our war stocks for a long journey, but we’ll have to replenish our food stocks and water along the way.”
The high lord turned toward his high priest. “Jason, we can expect the civilians to be traumatized. I want you and your priests to provide as much spiritual comfort as you can manage. I don’t want homesickness to turn into hopelessness or dissention.”
“On that, High Lord,” said Jason in his melodious voice, “you can rest assured.”
“We will travel directly west, crossing into the borderlands just south of where the Sul River joins the Rake. Gaar, you will deploy my legion to protect the caravan as it travels. Post your own scouts. I have another job for Broderick and his rangers.”
“As you command,” said Gaar.
“Broderick, I want you to leave as soon as you have briefed your rangers and readied them for action. Your rangers’ task is to kill anyone that tries to flee from here toward Hannington, along with any riders the king may send toward the western garrisons. Link up with us two weeks from now at the Rake River crossing. If you get there and find signs that we’ve already made the river crossing, follow our trail west.”
“And what of the farmers or shopkeepers who wish to remain behind with their families?” asked Broderick.
“Any who desire to stay are welcome to do so,” said Rafel. “But warn them that if they attempt to travel toward Hannington, they will suffer the same fate as anyone who would betray us. Also, they should know that, if they stay, King Gilbert will place them under a new lord whose rule may be quite different than mine.”
“I understand.”
“Broderick,” said Rafel, “you are dismissed.”
Broderick stood, slapped his right fist to his chest in salute, then turned and strode from the hall.
“Hawthorne,” said Rafel, “tonight you must begin to place the appropriate wards to prevent the king’s wielder from discovering that we are preparing to depart. Blalock is good, but you have the advantage of time. Keep him off our backs.”
“That I will, High Lord,” the gray-bearded wielder said.
“Lastly, if I should fall, Carol will take my place. Gaar, you’ve overseen the development of her leadership skills. Despite her lack of wartime experience, I have confidence that with you advising my daughter, she will make good decisions. If Carol also falls, Gaar will take command until he judges Alan ready to lead.”
Alan scowled at this, but Rafel merely nodded in his direction. Carol understood Alan’s dismay that their father regarded her so highly while Alan’s lack of self-control disappointed the high lord. “Let’s get to work.”
The room cleared, and Carol returned to her chambers to pack. First she changed into sturdy riding pants, a pullover shirt, and a warm sweater. She packed several similar sets of clothes, some jackets, and boots. Going to her bookshelves, she picked out ten favorites, including Liberty by Thorean. Of all the works in her collection, she considered this the masterpiece. Thorean had spent his life studying the philosophy of the erudite Endarian culture, specifically the structure of the meritocracy. The Endarians chose the ruler, male or female, from among a group that the high council deemed most intellectually accomplished. And they replaced that ruler whenever another’s talents surpassed hers or his. Fear of the ideas expressed within this tome had driven King Rodan to order Thorean’s execution. Although the scholar’s body now lay in an unmarked grave, his thoughts on individual liberty and equal rights for women under the law lived on.
But Carol’s most important book had no title. A weathered leather cover with a strange symbol stamped into the binding wrapped itself around thick, yellowing pages. Hawthorne had presented it to her three years ago, a gift to his prized pupil.
Carol placed the books with her clothes, limiting herself to one trunk due to the shortage of wagon space. She toured the room, trying to determine whether she had forgotten anything. After packing some last toiletries, she closed and locked the trunk just as two servants appeared to carry her baggage down to a wagon.
When they departed, she stood alone. Her comfortable room, still filled with most of her belongings, felt empty. She looked around as a lifetime of memories flooded her. Blinking away tears, she turned and wal
ked into the corridor that would soon no longer echo with her footfalls.
4
Hannington Castle
YOR 412, Late Winter
Gilbert looked up as the black-cowled figure strode swiftly through the throne room’s double doors, the guards standing to either side of the double doors failing to notice his passage into the king’s chambers.
The untested monarch shifted uneasily on the throne as Blalock loomed before him.
“Why have you summoned me, Highness?” Blalock’s voice echoed throughout the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once and carrying with it the rumble of a midsummer storm.
Gilbert shrank before the sound, knowing that his pallid complexion had just become much more so. He did his best to keep the quaver from his voice when he spoke. “Blalock, my patience with your recent activities has reached its end.”
A chuckle rumbled in the wielder’s throat. “And what activities are you referring to, Highness?”
Gilbert swallowed. “I am neither deaf nor blind. I have heard the reports of strange people coming and going in my kingdom, and of caravans arriving from unknown origins to unload mysterious cargoes here in Hannington Castle, all without my knowledge. The royal guard has also reported increasing violence, both on our borders and within the kingdom itself.
“And then there’s the wielders’ wing of my castle. No one is allowed to enter, and strange cries echo from your corridor almost every night. I have tolerated this because you alone have been firmly behind me in my quest to put down the rebellious nobles. However, Blalock, the people are demanding action, and I shall—”
Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1) Page 2