Honor Crowned

by Michael G. Southwick

  Neth drew her sword and began stretching out her legs and shoulders. Jorem did the same. This was not something you went into cold, not if you were going to do it right. The afternoon sun glinted off Neth’s sword, flashing in Jorem’s eyes. This would be the first time they had done this exercise with live steel; before it had always been with blunted edges.

  By the time they had finished warming up a crowd had begun to gather. An audience could be a distraction. This exercise would require complete focus on both Jorem’s and Neth’s part. Using live steel, the slightest mistake could result in injury. Jorem could hear whispering and the shuffling of bodies, the scuff of feet on stone.

  Taking position in the most open area available, Neth and Jorem faced each other. A mere arm’s length separated them. Their swords were crossed between them, the blades pressed hard against one another. Closing out everything else, Jorem focused solely on Neth, her sword and the moment. His breath came in an even rhythm and his muscles were tense and ready.

  As one, they pushed and leaped back, then came back together in slow, measured steps. Their swords, weaving intricate patterns in the air, blocked attacks from enemies who were not there. When they were nearly back to their starting place, their swords came together in a forceful blow. The ring of steel striking steel echoed off the walls.

  They paused for just a moment, then each took a step back. They moved in unison, sometimes mirroring the other, sometimes matching. Their movements were fluid and seamless. Most often their blades would barely touch with a slight ring. Occasionally, the clash of their blades was fierce and forceful. Once begun, it was like a spell had been cast from which neither could escape.

  Time seemed to stop as they twisted, tumbled and slashed. Over and under, face to face or side by side, they moved as one. A missed step or a failed block could easily leave one or the other in pain and possibly bleeding. Each had confidence in the other, however, that that would not happen.

  Jorem’s breathing grew labored. Sweat dripped from his brow and made rivulets down his back. Neth’s face had a glistening sheen. The faster they moved, the more focused they became. Soon all Jorem could see was Neth and her sword. Never had they managed this exercise at such speed. Neither faltered, neither failed.

  The final lunge was toward each other. Both of them ending with one knee on the ground, the other knee pressed tight to the chest. Jorem’s sword hand rested on Neth’s left shoulder, his sword extending out behind her; Neth’s sword hand likewise rested on his shoulder, the blade pointing behind him.

  They knelt there, staring at each other, neither wanting to break the spell that held them there. Even through their harsh breathing, there was a peace and tranquility seldom found. When the applause started they began to rise. Even then it was with great reluctance. The outside world returned and the feeling was gone—gone, but always to be remembered.

  It seemed every remaining resident at the Keep had come to watch them, young and old alike. Before they knew what was happening, Neth and Jorem were swarmed with children. They both quickly sheathed their swords to avoid unwanted accidents. The children were still a little reluctant around Jorem, but Neth was nearly pulled to the ground by the weight of so many small bodies hanging onto her.

  One young boy stood in front of Jorem. His eyes were wide in wonder. Jorem knelt so the boy wouldn’t have to look up at him. Apparently he was less intimidating on his knee. Once he was down on their level, several more children joined the boy. With the added support, the boy mustered up the courage to speak.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” the boy asked.

  Jorem had to smile at the awe in the boy’s voice. “Your Lady Nethira taught me.”

  Hearing that their Nethira was his teacher suddenly brought him to their level. He’d worked long hours beside several of these boys and girls preparing the Keep for battle, but it took his relation with Neth for them to accept him. With that acceptance came a flood of questions. Jorem answered their queries as plainly as he could. Finding him willing to listen, several launched into tales of their own.

  Jorem was about to excuse himself from the group when a young girl who’d been silent thus far asked a question. Her question drew the attention of everyone close enough to hear it.

  “Why do you growl when you fight?” she asked.

  As the question spread, the silence was deafening. It was a good question. One he knew he had to answer. What could he tell them? What would make sense, not only to them, but to himself as well?

  “That’s a very good question,” he said into the hanging silence. “I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose it’s probably so I don’t get too afraid. If I think of myself as more dangerous than my opponent, it’s easier to face them.”

  “But you didn’t growl when you were fighting Lady Nethira,” one of them stated.

  “Well, I wasn’t really fighting Nethira. Besides, I can’t think of anything more dangerous than her, can you?”

  His comment brought a giggle from several of the children and a few of the adults as well. It also earned him a smack on the back of his head from Neth. Jorem glanced sideways at her then back at the children.

  “See,” he said with a grin. “I told you so.”

  Neth just shook her head at him. Together, they turned and led the way back into the Keep. Even through all of the dangers they had faced, and with friends and loved ones lost, the people of Cragg were a strong and united group. Jorem would miss them. He was also going to miss the soft, comfortable places here he’d had to sleep.

  ************

  The morning was cool and quiet as Jorem and his men departed Cragg Keep. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. Even though it was quite early, several people, including Neth and Bethania, were there to see them off. For having been with these people for such a short time, Jorem and his men had become close with many of them.

  Pentrothe was there as well. The old wizard was dressed for travel but he would not be joining them. He had spoken to Jorem the night before of his concern for his sister, Zensa. He had not heard from her in some time and feared she may have run into trouble in her search for her Dragon Lord. Pentrothe was going to Dawnsword to see if he could find some trace of her and begin his own search.

  The farewells were short but heartfelt. A bond had been built between all of them that would last for a lifetime. Even Conrad got a little misty-eyed when one of the children wrapped her arms around the scout’s neck and planted a kiss on his check. So touching was the act, Hector didn’t even tease him about it.

  As they entered the trees, they spread out, staying just within sight of one another. With there being only five of them, there was no point in formation. Instead, they concentrated on stealth and speed. If they came upon a large force, it would be more important for them to be able to escape than to attack.

  Jorem found he was able to tell who was where by the sound of their passing. Bertran and Jensen were less skilled at navigating through the woods and inevitably found a twig to step on or a brush to rub against. Conrad was better, with only the occasional muttering of complaints about life in general. Hector was a ghost. If you thought you saw a phantom, it was probably him.

  The pace they set was good, though nothing like the last trip Jorem had made through here. During the day, they traveled as quickly as they could, but they had to stop frequently to check that all was really clear of dangers. At nightfall, they made camp and discussed what they had seen. It took three days to reach the homestead Jorem had found at the end of his scouting run. The house was less intimidating in the daylight. They buried those they found there and moved on.

  Game had begun to return to the area so they were able to supplement their rations. When they reached the border village of Krin, it was with heavy hearts. A cursory search revealed that there was no one left—no one alive, that is. Even Conrad, the seasoned veteran of who knew how many battles, turned pale at the sight.

  Jorem wanted to tend to the dead with a prope
r burial, or at least a pyre. He also knew that such work would likely take days, days he didn’t think they had. The others didn’t seem to mind avoiding the ordeal. It had been at least a sevenday since the monsters had passed this way, maybe more. The stench alone was enough to drive them away.

  A day’s travel beyond Krin, the forest began to change. The trees were larger and the brush thinned. Some of the trees were so large it would have taken eight men to encircle them with arms stretched wide. The ground was a mat of fallen leaves and needles. Even so, the passing of the northern army had left a distinct trail that was easy to follow.

  The branches of the massive trees created a barrier through which very little sunlight could penetrate. So thick was the canopy of branches, midday seemed like twilight. When darkness came, it was complete. The light from the moon and stars had no chance of reaching the ground here. Their only light came from a small fire which they built more for comfort than warmth.

  Chapter XXV

  When morning came, they found themselves surrounded by a veritable sea of mist. It was impossible to see anything more than two wagon lengths away. All sounds were muted and everything was covered with a thin layer of moisture. Conrad built up the fire to burn away the slight chill in the area and they took the time to have a good meal.

  Although there were no markings, Jorem was certain they were well past the border of their own land. From here on this was enemy territory and serious trouble could come upon them at any moment. Greater care would be needed as they traveled from here so this would be their last fire for some time. If there was anyone here, Jorem wanted to know about it long before their own presence was discovered.

  As they started their march, the early morning mist continued to drift through the trees. Moisture glistened on the needles of the pines. The creatures of the forest were still slumbering in their dens and warrens. The sun remained hidden behind the thick foliage of the trees.

  Jorem’s boots and pant legs were soon damp from the morning dew that was thickly beaded on the grass and sparse low shrubs and ground. Only occasionally would he glimpse one of his men as they ghosted through the trees. They’d seen no sign of enemy forces yet. Still, they took no chances. One misstep could bring an army of hundreds down upon their tiny band.

  Cresting a small hillock, Jorem carefully scanned the view before him. A hint of movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention. Peering intently, he waited. There, ahead and to his left, something passed through a gap in the trees. Crouching low, he crept forward, using shrubs and deadfall to mask his approach.

  Without the sounds of the wildlife, he couldn’t signal his men without revealing himself. He would get just close enough to see what danger they faced. Then he would retreat and gather his men if needed. As they had learned in recent days, a group as small as theirs could decimate a much larger force if approached with cunning and skill.

  Laying belly down on the ground, Jorem wormed his way along the length of a fallen tree. Coming to its end, he peered through the branches of a small bush. A small shaft of sunlight pierced through the branches above, causing the dew trimmed leaves and trees to sparkle like diamonds. A slight breeze swirled the mist through the trees.

  A lone figure, still shrouded in the morning mist, wandered aimlessly from tree to tree. A long dark cloak trailed behind the figure like an afterthought, a forgotten item no longer needed. As he watched, the figure stumbled and fell. Long dark hair tumbled to the ground. Jorem quietly crept closer.

  Slowly, the figure pushed up from the ground, staggering forward and leaving the cloak behind. The ebony wave of hair parted, revealing golden skin and delicate features. No one else in the land could look so exquisite in such a bedraggled state. Zensa!

  Jorem stood and stepped forward.

  “Zensa!” he cried.

  No response. The Dragon Mage continued wandering, stumbling, going nowhere. Jorem walked up to her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She stopped but still did not respond. Jorem tilted her head up and looked into her eyes.

  “Zensa, it’s Jorem!”

  Still nothing. Her eyes were glazed over. The sparkle was gone from her emerald eyes. Pulling her close, Jorem held one of the strongest mages in the land against him. Limp and frail, she was a shell without strength or purpose.

  “What has happened to you, my Lady?” he asked, holding her tightly in his arms.

  A sharp tingling started at the base of his spine, traveling quickly up to his scalp. “Magic,” he thought. “Old magic.” Glancing from side to side, he could see nothing. Closing his eyes, he was nearly blinded. The trees, the ground, the sky, the entire world shone as bright as the sun. Opening his eyes, Jorem gasped. With his eyes closed, he could see magic, but never had he seen anything like this. Before he could react, a tremendous force grasped his body, pinning it in place. Then, just as suddenly, he was ripped from the ground and flung into the air.

  Everything blurred. Instead of falling back to the ground he was hurdled forward at such speed that trees, rocks, even the very mountains streaked beneath him. It was happening so fast he didn’t even have time for fear. He was struck several times by thick branches as he burst through the canopy that had been so high above him just moments earlier. Then all was a blur of color.

  Whether he had passed out or not, he wasn’t sure. The next thing he knew, he was crashing through a window and slamming up against a stone wall. Slumped on the floor, his body screaming in pain, Jorem looked up and groaned. Zensa’s body was still clasped tightly in his arms, limp and lifeless.

  Jorem shook the Dragon Mage to no avail. If she was breathing, it was but a whisper. He felt panic rising up within him. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself as best he could. “Take stock of your situation, think, then do.” The grating whisper of the old wizard, Pentrothe, came from the distant past.

  Looking around, Jorem found he was in a small, round room. Tables and shelves crammed together filled much of it. Debris cluttered nearly every surface from the floor to the topmost shelf. Jars, globes, pots, pans, and books were strewn throughout the room. Many items looked vaguely familiar, but most were unrecognizable. A thick layer of dust covered almost everything.

  One table in the middle of the room was clean—a round wooden table wiped clean save for a small crystal globe resting at the center. No dust showed on the table or on the globe, while the rest of the room was a forgotten disaster of jumbled discards.

  Gently easing Zensa to the floor, Jorem quietly walked to the clean, round table. Something about the globe nagged at the back of his mind. Where had he seen this before? A quick glance showed numerous globes scattered about the other tables and shelves. Those globes, like everything else, were covered in dust. Looking into the globe on the table before him, he reeled back in both body and mind.

  “The Forbidden,” he whispered in shock.

  Long ago, Pentrothe had shown him this awful device, a device made to steal the soul of another mage, to entrap the soul and funnel off its power. It was an old magic, hidden away from mankind for centuries by the dragons—items of such awful power that to be found with one carried a sentence of death.

  Within the globe, a bright light flashed about, a miniature sun, almost painful to look at. The light—a soul belonging to the Dragon Mage Zensa. Somehow, when the Forbidden had pulled Zensa’s soul to it, Jorem, holding her physical body, had been pulled as well.

  Jorem had no idea how to work the device. Even if he had had the knowledge, he had no magic of his own. He did recall that the wizard Pentrothe had attempted, without success, to destroy the one he had. What was he to do? How long did he have before Zensa was too far gone? He recalled Pentrothe mentioning something about it but the details escaped him.

  Jorem leaned closer to the globe. “Zensa,” he spoke quietly. “Zensa, what do I do?”

  The spot of light stopped dashing about, but other than that, it was silent. The globe’s smooth, polished surface… “Wait!” Jorem’s mind screamed. Lo
oking closer at the globe, he could see scratches on the surface.

  More scrutiny revealed several flaws in the glass. This was not a true Forbidden, but a poor copy. Somehow, someone had learned, or almost learned, how to recreate these awful devices. If it were not a true Forbidden perhaps… perhaps it could be broken.

  Without hesitation, Jorem ripped his sword from its scabbard. Raising his sword high above his head, he tensed. With every ounce of his strength, Jorem brought it crashing down upon the globe. The device burst at the first touch of the blade, glass shards flying in all directions.

  The sword, with such force behind it, cleaved cleanly through the table. Sparks flew as the blade struck the stone floor. The impact of steel on stone sent a jarring shock up through Jorem’s arms, forcing him to stagger back.

  The spot of light that had been trapped in the globe now hung in the air. It was even brighter now than it had been. It grew and pulsed. Jorem pointed to Zensa’s body by the wall.

  “There,” he said. “Your body is there. Return to it if you can.”

  The light slowly drifted over to Zensa’s body. Gradually, the light sank down until it was directly over her chest, then molded itself into her body. Zensa arched as if in great pain, gasping for air as though she were drowning.

  Jorem dashed to her side and knelt beside her. In a flash, she grasped his tunic in a grip of iron. She pulled him closer, even as she gasped for breath.

  “Release the others,” she choked out.

  Looking up, Jorem realized in horror that all of the globes, perhaps even the jars, held the souls of others, mages trapped for who knew how long, forced to serve another. Their bodies likely long gone to dust, their souls were trapped, unable to continue on.