King's Champion

by Peter Grant

  Maran hefted the dagger thoughtfully. “It sounds to me as if you want him to aspire to your office one day, King’s Champion.”

  Owain smiled. “I can think of many worse successors, but only the King may appoint a Champion. Perhaps, if one is needed in years to come, and if Garath grows into a man worthy of the office… who knows?”

  “I understand. What will you carry instead of this dagger?”

  “I have Rajczak’s blade. I shall carry it tonight.”

  “I think he would have liked that.”

  “I hope he will, if it is given to our shades to know such things.”

  XXI

  Owain checked the saddle girth, and shook his head. “Trying to get rid of me, are you?” He kneed his horse sharply in the chest, and heard the breath puff out of its formerly distended midriff as he tightened the girth a notch. “That’s better. Tonight, of all nights, I don’t need a loose saddle!”

  Beside him, Maran grinned. “They always try it, don’t they?”

  “Those with spirit do, at any rate.” He turned to his second-in-command, and they grasped forearms, wrist-to-wrist, in the warrior manner. “Take care of the patrol, Maran. I entrust their safety to you.”

  “You make sure you come back to us, King’s Champion – then you can look after them, and I won’t have to!”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Owain swung into the saddle. His three companions were already mounted. He looked at each of them in turn. The two men-at-arms merely nodded at him. The priest-mage said, “I’ve cast the glamour spell, King’s Champion. All is ready.”

  “And Melech?” Owain glanced across to where the other priest sat, cross-legged, eyes closed as if meditating.

  “He is already acting as the nexus for our brothers. They are ready to lend us their full powers.”

  Owain nodded. “I suppose the enemy will detect them if they do, but by then they’ll know about us anyway, so that won’t matter. Let’s be on our way.”

  He kneed his horse gently, and the animal walked forward to the edge of the forest. Beyond the trees, the tall grasses waved in a light breeze beneath the pale moonlight. He looked upward, but could not see the gruefells he knew must surely be on patrol. He took a deep breath, and kicked the horse into an easy canter, hearing the others follow him, behind and on either side of his mount.

  They headed directly for the small group of trees he’d noted during the afternoon. It was four miles from where they’d camped. Every minute of the crossing felt like the longest of Owain’s life. The skin between his shoulder-blades prickled, as if sensing the gaze of every gruefell in creation, but no cries of alarm came from the patrol overhead. The night remained almost completely quiet, the silence broken only by the soft steps of their horses, muffled by the thick grass, and the puffing of their breath and the creaking leather of their saddles.

  After what seemed like an eternity, but had been only about twenty minutes, they slowed their horses to a walk as they entered the small copse. Owain looked around. “All right, picket your mounts. Make sure they’re securely fastened, because if they stray, you’ll have to run all the way back to the patrol!”

  Raz laughed. “Not to mention that everyone who sees a straying, saddled horse around here will be looking for its rider, to ask him all sorts of rude questions.”

  Owain grinned. “Yes, there’s that, too.” He turned to Hevel. “Can you use a scrying-spell to see what’s ahead of us, around the side of the hill?”

  “I can, but this close to the heart of their power, the sorcerers will instantly be aware of it.”

  “But you just used a glamour spell to get us here unseen. Did they not detect that?”

  “No – it is a different kind of spell, hiding itself as well as what it conceals. It’s hard to explain if you don’t know our arts.”

  “Then I suppose we shall have to do without a scrying spell – but keep that glamour spell going, if you can. I’ll go ahead of the rest of you. Ofer, Raz, stay with Pater Hevel. Hang back about ten paces from me, unless I signal you to stay put while I investigate something.”

  Three nods answered him.

  “Let’s go.”

  Owain took his battle-axe from his back as he stepped forward, slinging it across his chest. He unsnapped the leather strap holding Rajczak’s dagger in its sheath, making sure it could be withdrawn instantly if needed.

  —————

  In the chapel of the Order’s monastery in Atheldorn, the priest-mages sat in their assigned places, eyes closed, joined in a telepathic link with their brothers in Kingsholme. The mental union was held in focus and directed by the Abbotts of the two Houses. Their combined energies reached out unseen to the forest near the Sacred Hill, where Pater Melech struggled under a fourfold burden. He was trying to receive the energies sent by his brothers and send them onward to Pater Hevel, while simultaneously receiving what Hevel was seeing through his eyes and spells, and re-transmitting it to the watchers in the Kingdom.

  The Abbotts noticed his difficulty, and silently directed a quartet of priest-mages to re-orient their spells. They dropped out of the telepathic link against the sorcerers, and redirected their energies to strengthen and reinforce Pater Melech. Almost instantly, they felt the strain on him lessen as the added power made itself felt. He relaxed, now able to handle the load with ease. Approaching the hill, Pater Hevel felt the change, and sighed with relief.

  The telepathic link stood by, all its energies awaiting either a spell from the Abbotts, or one from Pater Hevel, depending on who could respond most quickly to any need as it arose.

  —————

  In the ring of standing stones atop the hill, a trainee sorcerer was at work, directing his scrying spells towards the Kingdom, trying to see whether the unidentifiable, amulet-protected person accompanying the Earl’s escort – presumably the King’s Champion – was headed now. It looked as if he’d joined up with the troops that had defeated the ambush attempt against the Earl of Elspeth, and was now heading back towards Brackley with them.

  He was jolted out of his concentration by a creaking sound from the dark mass at the very top of the hill. Startled, he jerked around, staring. A voice, audible only in his head, said sibilantly, “Summon them.”

  “Who speaks?” The student spoke aloud, his voice panicky, fearful.

  “Summon them.”

  “I – ah…”

  “Do not trifle with me! Summon them! NOW!”

  “I – I obey!”

  Scared almost out of his wits, the trainee sorcerer sent out a mind-call – which came out more like a mind-scream for help – to his five superiors. Within moments he heard the thump of their feet on the ground, as each appeared from the standing stone that gave him direct access to the inmost circle. They hurried up the path towards him.

  “What is it?” the leader demanded sharply, his eyes gleaming red in the darkness, showing his anger and concern.

  The student gestured over his shoulder towards the dark mass. “It – it… spoke, Master!”

  The sorcerer’s mouth sagged open in shock and disbelief. “What?”

  Before the student could reply, he suddenly shrieked, clutched his head, and collapsed to the ground. Before the horrified eyes of the five master sorcerers, his body seemed to evaporate into a gray mist, which flowed across the grass and into the dark mass, which absorbed it like a sponge. His clothes were left empty upon the ground.

  A voice echoed in their heads. “Fools! Centuries ago, I answered your forefathers’ quest for power, and called Karsh to my service. You failed me once before, when Karsh was overthrown. I gave you another chance, pouring even more power into you, and had you train replacements for your brothers who were killed; but again, you have failed me miserably. The greatest threat I ever faced has returned. I sense its presence. It is very near.”

  “But – but what is it?” the leader asked, shaking with fear. He knew the awful, merciless power of the being who spoke.

  �
��It is an artifact created by an ancient foe. It has returned to this world from a past age, I know not how. You should have stopped it getting this close to me. If we do not defeat it and its bearer once and for all, this very night, all is lost! Summon all your students. I shall consume their power and energy to boost my own, as I have already done with that one.”

  “B – but it will take us years to train more!”

  “You lost two students some months ago, through your carelessness in setting them a task that was too much for their limited powers. It will take years to replace them. If I consume the other students, it will take no longer to find and train their replacements, too; so, they will be no great loss. It took me almost a thousand years to raise up Karsh, and find and train twenty-four of you to form a Circle of Sorcery, to be my voice to the world. You failed me. I was merciful, and gave you another chance – but I am beginning to wonder whether that was foolish of me. I can discard you all, and start again from the beginning, if I must.”

  Trembling, a sorcerer blurted, “We must alert the fort!”

  The mental voice replied bitterly, “Troops will be of no use against this threat. They can no longer prevent its bearer’s approach. You must be ready to use everything I have taught you.”

  “Where should we take our stand?” the leader asked numbly.

  “Right here. The enemy will come to you. Now, make ready!”

  —————

  Owain crept up to a corner, and peered around the bushes lining the path. There was no-one in sight. A narrower footpath led through a gap in the bushes just ahead, disappearing up the hillside.

  That must be it, he thought to himself. Well, there’s no sense in waiting around. We may as well go straight up, and trust to Ahurael to guide us. Turning, he waved the others to follow him around the bend.

  They filed through the gap in the bushes, and started up the hill. “Stay close,” Owain murmured. “We don’t know what the first ward circle will look like, but we’re all wearing the arm rings taken from the gruefell riders’ bodies. They should pass us through it. Keep your eyes open.”

  —————

  In the chapels of the monasteries at Atheldorn and Kingsholme, it was as if every individual priest-mage was inside Hevel’s mind. Linked to him in the telepathic link, each saw all that he saw, heard everything he heard, felt every pebble on the path beneath his feet, smelled every scent that came to his nostrils. On tenterhooks, they waited to pour their powers and energies into him, the instant they were needed.

  —————

  They had climbed well over halfway up the hill before they came to a flat area, denuded of grass. The dirt was packed down hard, but in the moonlight, Owain could see what looked like deep scratches. He instantly recognized the marks, and turned to the others. “This must be where their gruefells land, to deliver or collect messages and passengers. We must be very close to the outer wards now.”

  Sure enough, as the path curved onward and upward around the hill, another quarter-turn brought them to a single standing stone. Owain held up his hand to halt the others, and stepped forward carefully past the stone. He felt something tug at him, a faint pressure, but it released him as soon as the arm ring he wore passed the stone. He turned back to look at the others.

  “Come forward, arm ring foremost. It will pass you through the ward spell. It won’t harm you.”

  They did as he instructed. All passed the stone without harm, and Owain felt himself relax. Now that they were past the ward stone, all around the hill, they could see a faint violet hue below them, reaching up to about ten feet above the ground. It appeared to radiate outward from the stone in both directions.

  “Why couldn’t we see that from the other side?” Raz asked.

  Hevel answered quietly, “The spell is designed to kill anyone who passes through it unawares. However, anyone on this side of the barrier is presumed to be one of their own, otherwise they could not have entered here in the first place. It is visible for their sake, so they can see when they are about to leave the security offered by the ward spell.”

  “I get it. Crafty buggers, these sorcerers, aren’t they?”

  Owain stifled a laugh. “They may be evil, but no-one said they were stupid.” He looked around, but could see and hear no-one. “Come on, let’s continue.”

  The path led to a flight of stairs leading directly up the side of the hill. They began to climb it, their breath coming faster with the exertion. At the head of the stairs, thirty steps up, was another standing stone. Owain stopped them a couple of steps beneath it.

  “Remember what Rajczak said,” he warned them, speaking very softly. “He said the princes of the Graben had torcs that served to pass into this second circle.” He showed them the one around his neck. “I took this from a gruefell rider a while back. I think he was a prince, and this was his torc. I’m going to try to walk past that stone, and see what happens. If I do so safely, I’ll come back and lead each of you past it in turn. If you’re touching the torc, you should be safe.”

  “What happens if you’re killed trying to get past it?” Ofer whispered.

  “Then climb down the hill again, and send word through the priest-mages that we could get no further. At least you can tell the Baron where this hill is located. Leave my body where it lies.”

  The trooper sniffed. “Typical Champion, you are. Make us common soldiers do all the running around!” The others chuckled softly.

  Smiling, Owain turned to face the standing stone. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the torc against the skin of his neck and upper chest with his left hand, and walked forward. Again, he felt an invisible barrier trying to hold him back; but as soon as the torc was level with the center of the stone, all resistance ceased, and he could move forward freely. He exhaled, a gusty sigh of relief, and turned back to the others.

  “It worked! Let me bring you through, one at a time.”

  Within a minute they were all standing above the stone, looking around. The green, grassy hillside still appeared completely deserted. The second barrier, now below them, was revealed as a faint red shimmer in the air, in the same way as the first barrier. Above them, about thirty paces distant, blackness loomed, an impenetrable fog.

  “That must be the third, innermost circle,” Hevel murmured, sweat standing out on his brow. “That fog is a most evil spell! I can feel its malevolence from here. It is death to touch it. There will be no keys such as these arm rings, or that torc, to allow passage through it. One would have to use a spell to transport oneself past it, without letting it touch one’s flesh.”

  “So how are we going to get through it?” Ofer asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Owain admitted. “Let’s look at that building first.” He pointed to what looked like a small, windowless stone shed, situated halfway between the outer and inner barriers. A metal door was set into the side facing them.

  They walked over, being careful to move as silently as possible. Owain studied the door. It was featureless except for two hollows set into it, one in the form of a pentagon, the other a square. His eyes brightened as he recognized them. “Those must be meant to take the two obsidian shapes at the end of the arms of this torc. Heven, stand ready to deal with any arcane threat from within.”

  “I shall,” the priest-mage promised.

  “You two, have your weapons ready.”

  “Aye.” “We shall.” Ofer and Raz spoke in unison.

  Owain took the torc from around his neck, and pressed one end into each of the hollows in the door. There was a moment’s pause, and then the door slowly began to swing open. Inside, a light grew.

  To their astonishment, a middle-aged woman stared at them. She was of medium height, a little stocky, but her arms appeared well-muscled. She was seated on a bench, an empty metal dish and a glass water jug resting beside her. Her ankle-length dress, smudged with dirt and grime, was white, with ornately embroidered braid running down the seams at her sides, and around her sleeves at the wris
ts. She wore black leather sandals on her feet. A golden chain was visible at her neck, running down inside her bodice. A black iron band was fastened around her head, bearing a single black stone pressing tightly against her forehead.

  She said something in a strained, high-pitched voice, but Owain could not understand her tongue. He said carefully, “Do you understand Kingdom speech?” She looked confused, but shook her head. He switched to the Graben language and asked the same question, but got the same response.

  “Let me try,” Hevel said softly, and spoke in a language that sounded like hers. Her face lit up, and she replied excitedly. They spoke back and forth for a few moments, then he turned to Owain.

  “This is a marvel indeed! Her name is Sisa. She is a priestess-mage of Netha, and a member of an order serving that goddess in Qithara. We know of that cult. Netha is their goddess of wisdom.”

  “Is Sisa trustworthy?”

  “I think so. Netha is a goddess of the Light. None of her priestesses would turn to evil.”

  “Tell her to come outside and join us. How did she get here, far across the seas from Qithara?”

  “I shall ask her.”

  He turned back to the captive, beckoned her to join them, and held another animated conversation. At last he said, “She was kidnapped from a sacred grove, on a peninsula in Qithara, by a passing pirate ship. They caught her unawares and struck her down from behind, otherwise she would have resisted them with her arts. When she awoke aboard their ship, they had fastened that ensorcelled amulet around her brow, to prevent her from exercising her powers. She says it cannot be removed – it is spellbound in place.

  “They took her to the Black Coast. There, she was sold as a slave to some Graben merchants. They seemed excited to have bought a priestess, and refused to allow her to communicate with Qithara, to arrange to ransom herself. Instead, after some days, what she calls a ‘foul winged beast’ – probably a gruefell – arrived one night. She was bound hand and foot, and flown across the ocean to this place. She thinks she has been here for almost a week, but it is hard for her to tell the passage of time inside that windowless prison. She says, every time the door was opened to bring her food and water, it was dark outside. Her captors told her she would be sacrificed on a ‘Dark Altar’ of some kind at the next new moon. Her powers – indeed, her very soul – were to be appropriated to serve the darkness. She had all but given up hope of rescue.”