The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 03 - Glimmer in the Shadow

by Jason McWhirter

  "With your leave, my King, I'd like to accompany Jonas in this quest," Fil said.

  "Of course, you've earned it," the king said.

  "I am the only one who can get us in, so I will go,” Lor-telliam said. “The prince must go as well, as he is the only one who can retrieve the artifacts."

  "Can’t anyone with Finarthian blood draw the weapon?" King Baylin asked.

  "That is so," Lor-telliam said.

  "Then we should not risk his life in retrieving it,” King Baylin said bluntly. “If he is the only one who can defeat Malbeck, then he should be protected at all costs. Sending him into unknown evils to find the sword is an unnecessary risk. I will go and retrieve the blade so that Prince Riker may wield it," the king said matter-of-factly.

  Everyone looked at King Baylin and back to Lor-telliam, not sure how the Ekahal would react to the change in his plan. But the logic made sense and everyone knew it.

  "Sire, I believe your judgment is sound, but who will run the kingdom while you are gone if Commander Kiln is at the Gildren Garrison?" Lor-telliam asked.

  "He will stay here as my regent. I'm sorry, Commander, but you are needed here. General Ruthalis will take your place at the Garrison," King Baylin said.

  "Yes, Sire," Kiln said with a slight nod.

  Cade, the dwarven warrior then spoke up, "Me brother and I would be joinin’ dis group as well. Our weapons be collectin’ dust and I think our skills will be needed at dis hill. It sounds like a mission fit for Dakeen."

  "If this weapon is truly my son’s only chance, then I would never forgive myself if the mission failed and I was not part of it. My steel will be joining yours as well," King Kromm said.

  "I will also go," Allindrian announced.

  "Very well,” King Baylin said, “We are all tired; I have orders to write, and we have much to prepare for. If there is nothing else anyone wishes to discuss, I suggest we end this meeting."

  There was a chorus of agreement as everyone stood up from the table and departed, quietly continuing to comment on the day’s events.

  Kiln said goodbye to everyone and stayed behind. "Gibon," Kiln said to one of the guards by the door. "Send for Master Borum. I am in need of some exercise."

  Gibon smiled, as he always enjoyed watching the two master sword fighters practice. It was a sight that not many would ever see, and Gibon was not afraid to rub that in to the other soldiers who were not one of the private guards of the commander.

  "Yes sir," he said as he left through the double doors.

  Kiln stripped down to his leggings and drew his sword from its scabbard. The stress of the impending battle against Malbeck sat on his shoulders like the weight of a black dragon, its claws gripping his head in an iron grasp, giving him a headache that only a good workout and a large amount of sweat could remedy.

  He loosened up his muscles by slowly going through several basic sword forms. It would be at least a half hour before the weapons master would arrive so he had plenty of time to warm up. He slowly picked up the speed of his movements and it wasn’t long before beads of sweat glistened on his body even in the cold castle air. He had entered Ty’erm, a mental state of consciousness that allowed him to slow down movement and concentrate on everything around him to a level beyond most human cognition. He could hear and see every nuance of sound and sight around him. His sword became an extension of his body and everything within him became one with the moment. His heart beat was a rhythmic drum that united his sword with his body.

  He was in this mental state when he heard the main door to the huge throne room open. Kiln spun through his last movement and stopped instantly in the end position, sword arm straight up and body tall and rigid. Kiln closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and lowered his body into a relaxed state.

  “Thank you for coming, my friend,” Kiln said as the weapons master moved toward him from the door. Gibon had entered with master Borum and had shut the door behind him.

  “It is my pleasure,” Borum mumbled under his breath as he moved closer.

  Kiln walked over to the table and took a drink of water as he wiped his sweat covered face with his tunic. “Sword forms first?” Kiln asked, knowing that Borum would not yet be warm. It was standard procedure to cross blades slowly and move through the basic forms until both opponents felt the warmth of their blood flowing through their bodies. Borum did not respond and then Kiln heard a sound that was out of place. It was a “fffrump” sound followed by a slight gargle.

  Kiln quickly spun around and saw Borum standing ten paces away in a fighting stance. Something was obviously not right. Kiln glanced behind Borum and saw the body of Gibon sprawled on his back with a small black feathered shaft protruding from his neck. Then the man in front of him reached up with one hand and pulled something off his face. It looked very strange to Kiln, as the hand moved upward across the face, a new face emerged. Instantly the shape of the man in front of him shimmered and changed to a familiar sight. Standing in front of Kiln was the Sharneen assassin he faced a month ago. He wore the same black clothes, but this time wore no mask. He held no weapons, but in his right hand he grasped a simple black mask.

  Kiln’s eyes narrowed as he readied his body for the attack.

  “I will not need a warm up, Commander, but thank you for offering,” Uthgil said. His use of the vernacular was choppy and his Sharneen accent was strong, but Kiln could easily understand him.

  Kiln replied in Sharneen. “You will pay for the man you murdered a month ago, and for the man that lies behind you.”

  Uthgil’s expression registered momentary surprise as he heard his own language spoken. Not many this far west would even recognize the language, let alone be able to speak it. “Do not forget your fellow swordsman, whose body now lies in a pool of his own blood as we speak.”

  Kiln hadn’t thought of that. Whatever magic the assassin used to take on Borum’s guise somehow required his death. Kiln ground his jaw as anger threatened to take over. Borum was a great man, and a great swordsman, and he deserved a better death. “How did you kill him, assassin?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  “I stabbed him in his back while he made himself some tea.”

  Kiln said nothing as he fought back the anger that was so close to the surface. “And now you have come for me.”

  “Yes, you are my target. But don’t worry, your death will be honorable,” Uthgil said as he whipped his left hand across his body so fast that Kiln could barely register the movement.

  Kiln reacted on instinct and spun his blade back and forth in front of him. He could barely see the projectiles but he heard a ‘ting’ as his blade made contact with something metal. Then he felt a slight sting on his leg and looked down to see a small metal dart sticking out of his thigh. The assassin must have thrown two or three knowing that Kiln would block at least one. He yanked it out and threw it on the ground. “How is poison honorable?”

  “The poison now in your blood is called Blackcoil. It is made from a desert plant far to the east. It is a slow acting poison that will take hours to kill you. In fact you will not even feel the effect on your body for some time. In a black vial located here,” Uthgil said, tapping his side under his tunic, “is the antidote. Without it you will die.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Kiln asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.

  “It’s simple. I wish to fight you. If you win, which you won’t, you deserve the antidote. You should also know that the person who hired me to kill you is a wizard named Gullanin.”

  “Impossible. The wizard, Gullanin, was killed by King Kromm of Tarsis,” Kiln said.

  “How long ago?”

  “A week.”

  “That explains his recent condition. He is an undead monster now. I fear nothing, Commander, but this thing frightened me. He radiated a power beyond my comprehension. He has asked for your death, and I will deliver it.”

  “My death will not be so easy.”
>
  “I know, that is why we will fight.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Kiln smiled coldly as he fought back his anger and focused on his center. In seconds his body relaxed and he found Ty’erm again.

  Uthgil dropped the mask to the ground and drew both blades at his hip. They began to circle each other. They had fought briefly before, but the meeting had been short, and neither had found a weakness in the other.

  Kiln did not hesitate and attacked immediately. His sword was longer, but he fought a man with two blades and it was his reach alone that kept those wicked swords at bay. They spun, danced, and pivoted as steel clashed against steel. Sparks flew as the magical blades fought for openings. They floated across the stone pavers and any who watched would have been mesmerized by their grace and skill. The blur of the blades, the speed of the dance, and the fluidity of the movement would have entranced anyone lucky enough to witness it. A person could live ten lifetimes and never have the opportunity to view a contest of sword skills such as this.

  Kiln had no idea how long they had been fighting. It seemed like a flash in time, but he knew that it had been much longer. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his lungs ached with exertion. But his movements showed no signs of fatigue, nor did the movements of Uthgils.

  Uthgil’s heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through his body. He relished every flex of muscle, every lightning quick riposte from himself and his opponent. He smiled outwardly as his opponent deflected his attacks and matched his speed and agility. No one had ever come close to matching his skill with a blade. And now he faced an opponent that could possibly be his equal. No, not his equal, Uthgil thought, but close to it. The man was very skilled, but Uthgil was at least ten years younger, and soon the commander’s sword arm would slow with fatigue. That would be when his blades would taste his blood.

  That moment came only seconds after he contemplated it. Kiln deflected a forward movement from Uthgil’s left blade and turned his sword over the attack, snapping his razor sharp point towards Uthgil’s exposed lead arm. Uthgil, faster than Kiln though possible, snaked his right sword across his body blocking Kiln’s attack, while simultaneously spinning with his other blade.

  Kiln saw it coming and reacted as fast as his body could. But it wasn’t fast enough. He leaped back and felt a sting as Uthgil’s blade cut him across his exposed belly. Luckily Kiln had sucked his stomach in and the blade just broke the surface of his skin. If he hadn’t done so his entrails would now be piled on the floor at his feet.

  “First blood,” Uthgil hissed with exultation.

  “It’s last blood that matters,” Kiln said as he glanced at his wound. Blood welled from the cut and dripped down his torso. But it didn’t hamper his movement as it was relatively shallow.

  Uthgil just smiled and attacked again. They fought on and on, both sweating profusely. Kiln had been pushed back to the long conference table. At least that is what he wanted Uthgil to believe. In one smooth motion he jumped up and back and landed on the table. Uthgil came at him, blocking a downward stroke and swinging his other sword at Kiln’s ankles. Kiln leaped up over the blade shuffling backwards further.

  “You can’t run from me, Commander,” Uthgil said.

  “Run?” Kiln laughed as he snapped his foot down. Uthgil caught a quick glimpse of his movement and saw a loaf of bread with a long carving knife resting on the edge of the plate. Kiln’s quick maneuver spun the blade up into the air where Kiln snatched it like a striking adder. Kiln smiled and ran at Uthgil, his long sword held before him like a lance.

  Uthgil stepped backwards, blocking Kiln’s blade as he launched off the table, then following up the move with more attacks. The pace had now accelerated as Kiln expertly matched the speed of Uthgil’s twin blades.

  Kiln, however, was beginning to struggle. The bread knife was not built for combat, nor capable of facing magical blades such as these. Also, it had no guard, so any block with it was a serious risk. So he was leading with his sword and using the knife sparingly. Uthgil, on the other hand, did not have to hold anything back, and that was beginning to make the difference.

  Kiln was forced into a block with the bread knife, and for the first time the Sharneen used the other end of the knife. The blade was a unique design as it continued over the hand like a guard and stuck out past the pommel a good six inches. This blade enabled him to deal death on both ends. And Uthgil was a master with this weapon. As his short sword came into contact with the knife, Uthgil spun the blade around his fingers and whipped the other end of the sword across Kiln’s wrist. It was so fast that Kiln could not avoid it. The razor sharp steel bit deeply into Kiln’s wrist and the long bread knife clattered to the stone pavers.

  Uthgil smiled as Kiln shuffled away, his blood splattering on the floor. Kiln glanced quickly at his wrist, concerned about what he saw. His blood was not squirting out rhythmically, which reassured him that the assassin had not hit an artery, but he was bleeding heavily, in thick waves of crimson, indicating that the wound was indeed deep. It would not be long before Kiln would begin to feel the fatigue from the loss of blood.

  “It seems you have lost,” Uthgil said as he slowly advanced towards Kiln.

  “A fight is never over until your opponent is dead,” Kiln replied as he fought to regain control of his nerves. It was only a flash, but he felt it clearly, it was fear. Not fear of dying, but fear of being beaten. Or maybe it was the fear of leaving Finarth before the battle, or the fear of leaving Jonas and his friends. He wasn’t sure, but he tucked the fear neatly away and used it to fuel his tiring body. Uthgil was perhaps a better swordsman, although the contest was very close. The difference might be age, or it could be a result of the fact that Uthgil fought with two weapons. But Kiln also knew that sometimes better swordsmen succumbed to lesser warriors. A fight was not always determined by skill alone. The components of a great warrior were a combination of skill, endurance, courage, luck, and most importantly, a complete lack of concern about who won. That was the hardest skill to master, entering a fight without thinking about whether or not you were going to win or lose. Most warriors, no matter how skilled, could not help but think about the consequences of victory and defeat. Duels, by definition, required a winner and a loser. And someone like Uthgil, no matter how skilled he was, could not stop thinking about his victory. He lived to be the best, and that would be his downfall. Not to mention Kiln was not just a master swordsman, he was an expert at tactics. No one could read an opponent better than Kiln, or read a situation and manipulate it to his advantage. And that was just what Kiln was doing now.

  Kiln forced himself to maintain his center, as he renewed his focus on Uthgil’s movements. But the assassin did not make any mistakes. He fought with a precision and speed that was unmatched, and Kiln was gambling on the assassin’s skills. He snapped his bloody hand forward splattering his blood across Uthgil’s face. The warrior hesitated for a second, and Kiln capitalized on that by lunging forward with his long sword.

  Uthgil did exactly what he thought he would. He deflected the blade and jabbed forward with his other knife. This time Kiln reacted differently than he should have. Instead of spinning or pivoting sideways away from the blade, he jumped forward towards it. Uthgil’s eyes widened in surprise as his short sword sunk deeply into Kiln’s side. Kiln had hoped that he had judged the assassin’s strike correctly and that he had angled his body just enough so that it wouldn’t cut into his lungs or vital organs. But he had no time to ponder whether or not his maneuver was successful.

  Kiln bit back the pain, dropped his sword and grabbed Uthgil’s tunic so he could not withdraw the blade and retreat backwards. Simultaneously, using his bloody and damaged hand, he quickly grabbed a knife from the bandolier on Uthgil’s chest and rammed it hilt deep into Uthgil’s neck, yanking the razor sharp edge up and to the left, slicing through the artery in his neck.

  Everything about Kiln’s move showed desperation. He did not know where Uthgil would stab him, nor did he know
if he could even grasp the knife with his damaged hand. Any mistake would be Kiln’s death. But the alternative was still death, as he knew he could not defeat the warrior with a damaged hand and one weapon.

  The entire move was almost instantaneous. If you blinked you would have missed it. As blood sprayed over Kiln, he staggered backwards to his knees as Uthgil landed with a thud on the floor.

  Kiln looked down panting, cringing at the sight of his wound. The assassin’s blade had buried itself nearly hilt deep into his side. The blade had not hit his lungs, but it had sunk in deep a hand span left of his belly button. He had seen enough wounds to know that this one was fatal if not healed quickly.

  Before he passed out he had to get to the vial that held the antidote. If he could do that, and maybe raise an alarm, he might survive. So Kiln crawled forward on his hands and knees. The movement caused severe pain as the assassin’s sword still dangled from his belly. But he reached Uthgil, found the vial, and consumed it quickly.

  Kiln stood up on wobbly legs and slowly ambled towards the main door. The pain was intense and he left a path of blood across the stone floor. He fought back the pain in each grueling step and finally made it to the door. Using his good hand he opened it, stumbling through the doorway and landing hard on one knee. The jolt sent a new wave of pain through his stomach. But he found the resolve to stand and he continued down the hallway towards the guard’s anteroom. Kiln knew that there should be two more guards stationed there. Even if the fight could have been heard by someone, which Kiln doubted, they would likely have just assumed that it was the sparring bout between Borum and himself. It would not have raised an alarm.

  Finally Kiln reached the door to the guard’s anteroom that served as a hub to the other hallways that housed the royal chambers. There were several rooms such as these, through which any intruders would have to pass through. Kiln was in a daze when he finally reached the door, lifted the latch, and swung the door open. He had lost a lot of blood and his vision was hazy. He stumbled through the doorway, again landing on his knee. This time he could not get up, and he fell to the cold pavers. He had just enough sense to turn his body so he would land on his side and not embed the short sword any deeper into his abdomen. The last sounds he heard were the frantic voices of the guards shouting in alarm just before he passed out.