by Matt Heppe
Kael did as she asked. Lightning flashed outside, casting fearsome shadows through the room. “You have to lower us,” Maret said. “Into the bailey.”
“With what?”
“Blankets, linens. Whatever we can find.”
“It’s too far! We don’t have enough.” He went to the window and peered out. Wind and rain blew in from the darkness. “They know you. You have to call to them,” he said. “They have to throw a rope up to us.”
Maret placed the crying children on the bed. “Watch them,” she said, and then rushed to the window. She climbed upon the deep sill and shuffled out to the very edge. Lightning flashed and she got a brief glimpse of the drop to the bailey. She had to close her eyes against the vertigo.
She opened her eyes and could barely make out the Landomeri in the courtyard. A group, almost directly beneath her, still battered at the front door with a heavy beam. Nearby she heard the clash of arms and shouts, but the fighting was beyond the palisade.
“Help!” she shouted. But to her it seemed the wind just carried her voice away. “Throw us a rope!”
Rain pounded against the front of the keep, soaking her. Below, it seemed as if nobody had heard. She tried again. “It is Maret! I have Orlos!”
A woman looked up.
“Help!” Maret shouted, waving her arms. “Orlos! A rope!”
The woman shouted to those nearby, and more faces peered up at her. A man rushed up, and in a flash of lightning she saw it was Arno. He waved frantically to her and pointed. “The corner! Corner room!” she thought she heard him shout.
“What?” She glanced off to her left along the rain-slick wall.
Arno leapt in the air, waving his arms. “Corner room!”
Maret backed into the room. “We have to go to the corner room. I think they can get to us there.”
She picked up Orlos, who had stopped crying. Kael put the wailing Enna in her arms.
He grabbed his poleaxe and headed for the door. “Ready?” he asked. She nodded and he pulled the door open. Maret heard the sound of a fight down the hallway as they left the room. Someone roared and the battle pitch rose.
“Quickly!” Kael said, leading her down the short hall to a door. He pushed the door open and ushered her in. “Quiet, quiet,” he whispered. “I think we were heard.” He closed the door and shot the bolt. In a moment he had a large chest against it.
It was a small sleeping room, with one double window. Maret took the children to the furthest corner. “Hush, hush, Enna. We will soon be free.”
Kael went to the window and threw open the shutters. “They are on the wall below us.” He leaned far out. “Toss it up.”
There was a response, but Maret could not hear it. Kael pulled back in the room. “Come to the window, Maret. They don’t trust me.”
Maret went to the window and looked out. “Throw it!” she called.
Arno waved at her and said something to the man with the rope. He whirled it and tossed the heavy hook upward. Kael leaned out, but it fell far short. “Dromost take him,” Kael muttered.
Maret stared at the door. There were voices in the hall. Foreign voices, but not Idorian. Rigarian. The varcolac. Enna still cried, but there was nothing Maret could do. Someone ran past the room. “They are here, Kael.”
“When I have the rope, I will tie it to you. I will lower the three of you.” He stared out the window.
The door latch moved as someone shook it. “Kael!”
“I have it!” Kael said. Just then, the door shuddered under a heavy blow, the wood around the bolt cracking under the stress.
“Kael, now!” Maret called.
The door lurched inward. Only the chest kept it from swinging wide. And then the chest slid back and a huge man pushed in. In a flash of lightning Maret saw a bearded face and bright, silver eyes under a steel helm.
And then Kael was there, stabbing with his poleaxe. The spear tip punched through the varcolac’s coat-of-plates at his shoulder, but if he felt any pain he did not show it. He pushed forward as another varcolac tried to get past.
Kael recovered his poleaxe and with both hands on the haft rammed it across the varcolac’s body, pressing him back. “The window!” he shouted.
Maret tore her eyes from the fight and ran to the window. Kael had looped the rope around the center pillar, using the hook to secure it. Below, the Landomeri held the other end of the line.
“Help!” she shouted down to Arno.
There was a crash behind her and the sounds of heavy blows being struck. She didn’t dare turn to watch. Maret threw her leg over the windowsill, straddling it. She held Orlos tightly. It was an eight stride drop to the wall, but she had no way to get there. She couldn’t hold the rope and both babies.
“I’ll catch him!” Arno shouted.
Catch him? He wanted her to drop Orlos to him. “No! Are you mad?”
“I will catch him!”
Maret turned at the sound of a loud crack only to see Kael topple to the floor, his pole-axe haft shattered. Two varcolac stood over him. Another lay bleeding on the floor beside him.
A third entered the room and leapt at her.
“No!” she screamed. He ran into her and nearly knocked her from the window. If not for the hand that seized her arm, she would have fallen. Enna wailed as the varcolac tried to tear her from Maret’s grasp.
“No! Stop!” Maret cried out. But the varcolac yanked Enna from her grasp. And then Maret did almost fall as the varcolac released her. Orlos slipped from her arm and she desperately held him by the wrist, dangling below her. Her left hand scrabbled for some purchase on the stone sill.
A varcolac grabbed her left arm again. Another took her leg. Below her she saw Arno, hands outstretched toward her. She had no choice.
She swung Orlos out away from the wall and let go. She let out a sob that broke her heart as she watched him go. He spun as he fell, so that for a moment he faced her.
Powerful arms yanked her into the room, but not before she saw Orlos land in Arno’s arms.
Maret crashed to the floor, slamming her face. Her vision dimmed. Someone shouted at her, but she couldn’t understand his words.
She rolled to her back. “…Morin’s daughter?” a guttural voice demanded. “Is this Hadde’s daughter?”
Maret blinked her eyes clear. “I… what? I don’t…”
“Tell me the truth!” He raised Enna over his head. “Who is she, or I kill her and then you.”
I’m sorry, Hadde. She nodded and then closed her eyes against the tears. “It is.”
Boots scraped and shuffled as Enna wailed. The door slammed and then all she could hear was the rumble of thunder and the distant calls of the Landomeri on the wall below.
Chapter Thirty-six
Storm ran faster and longer than any horse had ever run. Faster than any except Morin’s black. The two raced side by side, stride for stride, so close that Nidon’s knee sometimes touched Morin’s.
Morin rode leaning forward in his saddle, his hand outstretched to touch Storm’s neck. His silver hand glowed with the power of the Orb, and that power fed Storm, who never tired and never faltered.
Nidon was exhausted. They had ridden all afternoon and into the evening, mostly on the road, but sometimes off. Twice they had gone cross-country to evade outriders from Baron Grax’s army. Once they had to take a distant detour around a larger force encamped in a walled town.
I failed them all. My men. Rayne. King Boradin and Handrin. Failed them all.
I took the king hostage. I am the Champion of Salador and I took the king hostage!
Nidon clenched his teeth in anger, his eyes closed against the memory. His mistakes paraded themselves through his mind—all the things he had done wrong that he wished he could undo.
The horses suddenly slowed and Nidon had to catch himself before he fell from the saddle. Morin held out his silver hand to Nidon. “Take it,” he said. “I can give you strength.”
Nidon frowned and pulled his ha
nd back. “I don’t want you in my mind.”
“I will stay out. Now take my hand. There’s no other way. We cannot stop for you to rest.”
Slowly, Nidon reached out his hand and took Morin’s in his own. The silver skin was cold at first, and then the power of the Orb came rushing through.
Nidon gasped at it. The warmth. The euphoria. Fatigue and pain were stripped away, leaving only strength and the knowledge that the goddess Helna was with him. The pain in his back and legs was gone. The cuts and bruises, the gash on his head, all disappeared. He felt as if he had just mounted and not ridden a full day at a gallop.
He could do anything.
“Is this how it always is for you?” Nidon wasn’t sure if he said the words or if they were in his mind.
“Until it is taken from me. And when it is gone, I am less than nothing. You—you will just return to your normal self.”
“I don’t want it to end,” Nidon said. He was almost embarrassed to say the words, holding Morin’s hand. But it was true. The thought of losing the infusion of Helna’s grace was almost too much to bear.
“You are healed, rested, and strong. We must ride again.” Morin released Nidon’s hand and in an instant, the euphoria was gone. Morin was right. Nidon was just Nidon again. But healed, mind clear, and rested.
Morin touched Storm’s neck, and they were off again, racing into the night.
They passed leagues of open woodland and the occasional farmstead long-abandoned during the Wasting. And while much land had come back under cultivation, there were still not enough people to fill all of the abandoned villages and hamlets.
Soon, another summer storm struck them. Heavy raindrops smacked them as the wind buffeted man and horse. But Nidon seemed to be the only one affected. Storm, Morin, and Morin’s horse just drove on through the torrent. Drenched, Nidon put his head down and bore his way through it.
The rain slackened and still they pushed on, covered in mud thrown up by the horses’ hooves. And then Morin gave a cry and toppled from his horse at full gallop. The horses separated from one another and slowed.
Nidon pulled Storm up and turned her about. Morin lay motionless on the road, thirty strides back. Nidon’s eyes swept the fields on either side of the road, but there was no sign of attack. He rode to Morin and dismounted.
Morin tried to get his hands under himself and push up, but failed and fell flat. He barely managed to roll onto his back. His silver skin was dull grey, darkening to black. Nidon helped Morin sit up.
“Dromost take him,” Morin said, his voice a whisper. “Cragor cut me from the Orb. I just need a little time.”
“Will you recover soon?” Nidon glanced up and down the road, but there was nobody in sight.
Morin raised his black hand and stared at it. “It could pass in a few heartbeats or not for a week. Only Cragor knows.”
“And what if it happens again and you are left helpless for days?”
“You will have to hide me and go on. You can’t let the queen get my daughter.”
“Hide you? Where?”
“Get me off the road, first.” Morin’s voice was weak. “Maybe it will pass. If not, bury me. Or throw me in a river or a well.”
“I can’t—”
“It will do me no harm. Save my daughter and Hadde and take them to Landomere. I will find you there.”
To one side of the road a low line of trees and brush marked a stream. Nidon led the horses to shelter and tied their reins to a tree and then ran back to Morin. Morin was too weak to stand on his own, so Nidon hauled him to his feet and put Morin’s arm over his shoulder. Step by step they made their way to shelter. It seemed to take forever. When they made it, Nidon lowered Morin as gently as he could before collapsing himself.
“Not good timing for this,” Nidon said as he propped Morin up against a small maple. “We must be close. I have to go on. I can’t let the varcolac get to Hadde and her child.”
Morin reached out and grabbed Nidon’s arm. His grip was pathetically weak. Nidon could have easily broken away, but instead let himself be drawn closer.
“Stay,” Morin whispered. “I will… be stronger soon.” In the darkness, Morin’s skin was completely black. “When my strength returns we will move much faster.”
“The varcolac—”
“Just wait. The Orb will return. You need me.”
Nidon stared at Morin’s unreadable black face. He was right. They would move much faster… when his strength returned. But when would that be? “We’ll wait, but not for long. The varcolac cannot be far ahead.”
He went to check on the horses. Neither showed any sign of fatigue after having been ridden at a gallop for an entire day. Nidon watered them and then led them to some grass and let them graze.
It was not the same for him. Morin had cured him of his pain and fatigue, but that seemed ages ago. And now hunger gnawed. He pulled some smoked sausage from his pannier and ate it as he observed the road. Morin lay by the tree, unmoving.
Or dead. Truly dead. What was it like, knowing that at any moment, someone beyond the horizon could take your life with only a thought?
Morin shifted, and Nidon knew he still lived. Why would Cragor kill him? The eternals were a powerful weapon—if Cragor could master them. Maybe he had mastered some already.
One day the Orb would march out from Rigaria again?
***
Nidon shivered. The sun was gone, and although the rain had stopped, he was still soaked. He grunted and shook his head. At the Dragon’s Gate the men longed to be as warm as this. Winter came early in the Rigas Mountains, and stayed late.
Nidon looked down the road toward Landomere. Hadde was down there somewhere. With Morin’s child.
Do I care that she had Morin’s child?
Morin had abandoned her, not knowing she was pregnant. Had she even known herself? But did Morin even care?
Down the road, Nidon caught sight of motion. A group of men ran northeast, away from Landomere. They were armed, and running fast. Had the Landomeri defeated Baron Grax’s men? Was this a rout?
But the men did not look like they were running in fear. There were six or seven of them. Nidon squinted through the darkness, but could make out no details. They soon disappeared and the threat was gone.
Nidon went to Morin and knelt near him. “How will you save us, Morin?”
“I will defeat Cragor and take the Orb from him.”
“Why haven’t you already?”
Morin’s face was an invisible black. It was eerie looking into his face and not being able to see even the whites of human eyes in the darkness.
“I think he might know enough of the Orb to kill me. But if I had Forsvar, I could give it to someone who could lead an attack on Cragor. Someone like you, Nidon.”
A shiver ran down Nidon’s spine. To hold Forsvar again. To have it on my arm in battle! He shook his head to free himself of the thought. “You would trust me? What if I took the Orb and kept Forsvar?”
Morin paused. “You would never do that. I am your rightful king and you… you are Champion of Salador.”
“But I could be king.”
Morin shook his head. “Why do you try me?”
Because I don’t trust you. One man with so much power. “In a few years King Handrin could do it.”
Morin gave a weak wave of dismissal, barely lifting his arm. “Too long to wait.”
“Too long for an eternal?” Nidon paused in thought. And then he understood. “Why this child? There must be others. You have a reputation.”
“No others. None that I know of. The Wasting….”
It was possible. There were few children born during the Wasting. “You think she will be an elementar,” Nidon said. “You think she will be your ally.”
Morin didn’t say anything. Nidon couldn’t even tell if the eternal was looking at him. Nidon stood and walked back to where he could see the road. A low mist had risen. It shimmered in the moonlight peaking between storm clouds.
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Morin needed this child. He was helpless against the Orb of Creation. And he couldn’t trust Ilana or Prince Handrin because Morin wanted to be king. But if he had a daughter… an elementar daughter… there was his ally.
Nidon glanced over at Morin’s dark form and then back to the road. It took him a moment to realize there was a rider there. Nidon lowered himself to a knee and took a better grip on his axe.
The rider dismounted and crouched by the road. Searching for something?
Nidon saw a bow. A Landomeri?
Should he call out? What if he was wrong?
The Landomeri mounted. Was it a man or a woman? Too small for a man. Nidon stood and shouted out, “Hey there, Landomeri!”
The rider gave the barest glance in Nidon’s direction before spurring north.
“Landomeri!” Nidon shouted. “I seek Hadde!”
But the rider was gone into the mist and darkness. Nidon turned and walked toward Storm.
“Who can you trust, King Morin?” Nidon asked.
Morin didn’t speak.
You think to trust your daughter. But I can’t trust you.
Nidon hefted his axe. This was all a game for Morin. And people were his pieces. He used them and discarded them as he saw fit. But what was the end game?
King Morin. The Eternal King Morin.
Nidon could end it right here. One stroke of his axe and the world would have one less eternal. One less elementar eternal.
Nidon stood and stared at the helpless eternal. Then he turned and strode to Storm. Morin said nothing. Maybe he was dead. More likely he knew what Nidon’s answer would be. Without another word, Nidon mounted.
He rode to where the Landomeri had dismounted and then halted. The Landomeri, if it even was a Landomeri, was long gone. Off in the same direction as the runners.
To the southeast were Baron Grax and the Landomeri army. And Hadde. The Gods take me for a fool. He turned southeast.
What would he do when he ran into Grax’s men? Tell them he was Champion of Salador? What if they had received word from Mor-Oras? He’d fight his way through them with a sailor’s axe and an old warhorse?