Reaching the bright heart of the scriptorium, her footsteps faltered, for the soaring chamber was filled with blue-robed masters. Standing among them, she spied the flowing white beard of Master Tolk, the monastery's venerable Chronicler. Nim paled, for in all her ten years of study, she'd never seen the Chronicler in the acolytes' scriptorium. And now he was here, with so many other masters, to witness her brashness, to witness this trial of her own devising.
Master Adelbart saw her trepidation and smiled. "Come, child, we have gathered to hear the first reading of your newly exulted text."
The gathering parted, opening a path to the central lectern. In a single glance, she knew the blue-robed masters far outnumbered the golden-yellow robes of fresh-faced acolytes. Looking neither left nor right lest her nerves betray her, Nim walked the path, gently placing her finished piece upon the lectern. Sunlight dazzled the gold leaf and lit the silver like a flash of light running along the blade of the illuminated sword. Exulted by gold and silver and emblazoned by sunlight, her work looked worthy to be offered to the gods. Nim gave the piece one last searching glance and then stepped to the side.
One at a time, the masters came forward to inspect her work. Their faces remained still as stone but their stares were keen as swords, seeking flaws. Not one of them said a word. Nim sweated beneath her golden-yellow robes. Her hands clenched behind her back, she darted swift glances at the masters, hungry for their approval.
"How old are you, child?" The Chronicler broke the silence.
Nim's eyes flew wide, astonished to be addressed by the venerable master. "Sixteen."
"Remarkable." His gaze roved the other masters. "Does anyone find fault with this piece?"
None of the other masters spoke.
The Chronicler fixed her with his stare that seemed to touch her very soul.
Nim held his gaze, afraid if she faltered in anyway, she would forfeit her chance.
A hundred heartbeats passed. The Chronicler nodded toward her. "By dint of your own work and by your own daring, you have won your chance. May the Light favor you." He gestured for her to take her place in front of the lectern.
Her hands shook, so she kept them clasped behind her back.
Nim stared down at the illuminated script, drinking in the details just as she'd been taught. She started with the illuminated paintings, the sword, the knights, the castle, imprinting them in her mind like a cherished memory. Finished with the paintings, her gaze followed the convoluted knotwork. In many ways, the intricate knotwork was both a key and a lock. For those without the proper talent, the knotwork was a busy distraction, muddling the mind and obscuring the meaning, but for true illuminators, the knotwork was a pathway to other planes, other possibilities. Following the convoluted curves and knots, Nim felt her mind open like a budding flower seeking the sun. Ensorcelled by the knotwork, her gaze sought the text. She began to read.
"At the turn of an Age, when Darkness held sway and heroes were sorely needed, Orrin, the last great wizard, turned his arcane skills to the forge. By hammer and by rune, he sought to unlock the mysteries of blue ore. After a year of toil, he discovered the key. The secret lay in the sequencing of hammer, heat, and plunging cold, the final quenching forever fixing the properties of blue steel. Never to be melted, never to be reforged, blue ore yielded a wondrous blade forever sharp and strong, but Orrin Surehammer was forging a weapon for the Darkest of times. Into the blade he poured his magic. Rune forged, with coiled dragons sculpted on the hilt, the blade was bound with indomitable strength and fearless courage. Gifted to the Octagon Knights, the sword was called Dragonbane. In the hands of heroes, Dragonbane did many great deeds, but towards the end of his life, Orrin foresaw that Darkness would covet the sword. In secret, he forged a twin to the blade, equal in strength and magic. Binding the blade with enchantments, he hid it to await the most desperate hour. Hidden since that bygone Age, the True Name of the second sword was Invictus, the blade that awaits the Battle Immortal."
Nim's gaze moved from the last period to the illuminated image of the sword. A doorway opened in her mind. An unexpected power rushed through with a roaring that filled her head. Nim stiffened, her hands gripping the lectern. A current of power raced along her skin, a chime sounding in the back of her mind. Her voice changed, deepening with command. Inspiration gripped her. No longer reading, Nim wielded the voice of a summoner, invoking the sword by its true Name. "Invictus, Invictus, Invictus, by the power of the illumination wrought by my own hand and sealed by my own blood, I summon thee!"
A blinding flash beat against her, bright as an exploding star.
Nim flinched away, shuttering her eyes against the searing brightness.
She held her breath, feeling the presence of the gods.
When she dared to open them again, the blinding light was gone and so was her illumination. The vellum page was wiped clean, devoid of ink, paint, and metal leafing. Accepted by the gods, only blank vellum remained. But sitting atop the lectern, sitting atop the vellum, was a two-handed great sword, dragons coiled on the hilt, runes incised along the blue steel blade. The sword's name whispered out of Nim's soul. "Invictus!"
21
General Haith
Braziers illuminated the command pavilion, dispelling the damp chill. General Haith beckoned the scout towards the map table. "Come. Show us where it happened."
The other commanders moved aside, opening a path.
Clad in chainmail and soiled leathers, the scout bowed low and then shuffled forward. Unshaved and unwashed, the man stank of stale sweat, wood smoke...and fear. His hooded stare skittered around the commanders crowding the pavilion, and then he looked at the map. Slack-jawed, he stared awe-struck at the details inked on parchment.
By any standards the map was peerless, a colorful work of military art captured from the Octagon Knights at the sacking of Raven Pass, but General Haith had no patience for the scout's gawking. "Can you find it?" His voice jabbed like a spear.
Startled, the scout leaned forward. With a shaking hand he traced a path along a narrow pass threading through the Dragon Spine Mountains, stopping at a highland meadow. "Here, m'lord, it happened here."
Too close for comfort. "How many dead?"
The scout met his stare.
For the first time, the general got a good look at the scout's fear-laden eyes. Haunted eyes, the general knew that hollow-eyed stare, he'd seen it oft enough in the Mordant's service. Soul-scarred, the scout's eyes were shadowed with nightmares, proof he'd seen something far worse than just death.
Ducking his head, as if to shutter the shame of his gaze, the scout mumbled. "It were horrible, more of a slaughter than a battle."
General Marris snapped. "Speak up! You're here to give a report, not to mumble."
The scout cringed as if lashed, but he spoke louder. "Blood and guts everywhere. More than a hundred, all of them killed." His hand groped at his empty scabbard, as if seeking the reassurance of cold steel. "And they was not just dead, they was butchered. Heads taken, entrails smeared across the snow, bodies torn asunder," he cast a wary glance toward the general, "as if an animal had torn them to shreds, hungry for meat, yet none of them was eaten." He gave the general a dead-eyed stare. "This was not done by no four-legged beast," the scout shuddered, "this were a nightmare come stalking."
"And the enemy?"
"That's just it, m'lord. One horse, one set of enemy footprints. How could one man slay so many?"
The others murmured in disbelief, but the general knew the truth. So the Dark Sword is unleashed, yet he kept his face stone-still. "You're sure of what you saw?"
"By the Dark God, I swear it were true, m'lord!" The scout cringed as if expecting punishment. When no blow came, his voice strengthened with conviction. "I didn't believe it myself at first. I know my craft, so I cast about, seeking other footprints. Found them, I did, but they was on the ridgeline, as if they watched the battle yet never took part. No," the scout shook his head, "there was only one enemy...one man
to slay a hundred."
"And after the battle, where did this enemy go?"
"He withdrew, mounted his horse and rode back into the mountains."
"And you didn't think to follow?"
Terror flashed in the scout's dark eyes. "No, m'lord, thought you'd want word of the slaughter. Someone had to live to tell the tale."
A murmur rippled through his senior commanders, but the general silenced them with a harsh glare. "You did well."
Relief washed across the scout's face.
"Go and get yourself a hot meal. And tell no one what you saw."
"Yes, m'lord." Bowing low, the scout scuttled from the pavilion.
The general swept his commanders with his gaze, settling on a young centurion. "Hastings."
"Yes, m'lord."
"See that the scout is permanently silenced. I'll have no ill rumors spooking the troops."
"I'll get..."
"No, you'll do it yourself." The centurion stiffened as if struck. "And dispose of the body. The gorehounds are always looking for fresh meat."
"Yes, m'lord." Bowing, the centurion rushed from the pavilion, leaving a grim silence in his wake.
The general surveyed his commanders. "Thoughts? Comments?"
General Marris gave him a keen-eyed stare, but he declined to speak. His aid, Captain Jothson, rushed to fill the void, his voice full of scorn. "The scout lies. One lone man could never slay a hundred. I'll wager the scout deserted this squad and told the lie to cover his cowardice."
"No." General Haith cut off that line of reasoning like an executioner wielding an axe. "Didn't you see the fear riding his eyes? Don't you know that look? Most of you have served in the Bloody Cavern. We've all seen that kind of hollow-eyed stare before...in the bowels of the Dark Citadel."
The others looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
"That kind of fear does not lie. So we need another explanation." His stare circled his officers, prodding them to speak. "Well?"
Commander Trovis spoke first. "There's only one answer. The knights have finally unleashed their magic." His words met no argument. The commander grew emboldened. "I never believed those who said the knights have no magic. Castlegard is steeped in magic, so they must have it, but why wait till now to wield it?"
His answer released a storm of comments. "Perhaps they hoard their magic in Castlegard. Since the war goes badly for them, they've finally brought their battle magic to the fray."
Commander Crull scoffed, "Their king fought and died at Raven Pass. If the Octagon has magic, why did their king not wield it?"
"Arrogance," Major Barker met the stares turned in his direction. "The Octagon Knights never believed Raven Pass would fall, especially since we brought no siege engines against their mighty walls. They underestimated the power of our dread lord. So they left their magic in Castlegard, thinking it was not needed."
"But what type of magic rends men to pieces?"
"Perhaps it was a berserker?"
"A berserker...or a butcher."
"One against a hundred?" Scorn riddled the major's voice. "It must be magic."
Arguments waged back and forth, a storm of disagreement spiked with wild conjecture. General Haith listened more than he spoke. Their ignorance told him much. So they do not know of the Dark Sword. The general smothered a smile. Their ignorance pleased him, proving he had another huge advantage over his fellow officers. One did not rise in the Dark ranks based on skill alone. Advantage was needed to evade traps, avoid blame, bind allegiance and climb the ranks on the back of others. The Dark Sword was a dangerous and valuable secret. If his lord, the Mordant, chose not share this plot with the others, then neither would he.
General Marris said, "It must be magic. Nothing else makes sense."
Commander Crull turned his way. "We should send a squad with duegars to confirm the knights brought magic to the slaughter."
General Haith responded with a tight-lipped smile. "Finally a sensible suggestion. Yes, send a squad to sniff the site, but have Trantor choose the duegars." Trantor, his personal snargon, would choose duegars loyal to the general, ensuring he got an accurate report before any of the others.
Commander Crull smirked, reading the underlying message. "As you command." His swarthy face sobered. "In the meantime, I suggest we withhold our patrols and double the guard on our perimeter."
"No." General Haith countermanded the suggestion. "Pressure must be kept on the knights. By order of our lord, the Mordant, the Octagon must be harried to extinction." He glared at his commanders, reinforcing the order. "Double the strength of the patrols. Two hundred should prove more than a match for this foe." In truth, the Dark Sword needed to be fed. Better it be fed at a distance.
"And the perimeter?"
"Triple the guards and double the patrols. We'll meet again once the duegar return with their report." He looked towards his aid. "Summon my horse and my personal guard."
His aid leaped to obey, rushing from the pavilion.
General Haith tugged on a pair of fur-lined gauntlets.
While the meeting broke into knots of conversation, General Marris sidled toward him. "You called for your stallion? You're not sleeping in camp tonight?"
"I've grown weary of mud and muck. I'll sleep in the comfort of a king's bed tonight, such that it is. These Octagon Knights put up a brave fight, but their sense of luxury is shocking. Only a peasant would be impressed." He felt the stabbing suspicion of the general's gaze, but he refused to engage. "I'll be at the wall for the next few nights. Send a messenger with any reports."
General Marris scowled. "And I'm left here to face this riddle?"
"Join me on the wall and put Crull in charge. Crull seems capable enough...and rank doth have its privileges."
General Marris hesitated.
General Haith knew exactly what his second was thinking. Giving subordinates too much power was ever a dangerous risk. The superior officer might avoid danger and blame...or he might be overshadowed and miss the benefits of glory. He waited to see what the general would choose.
"No...I'll stay here for now."
So Crull is competent enough that Marris will not give him a chance to shine, the general stored that observation away for future advantage. "As you wish." He strode from the pavilion's brazier-heated warmth into a biting storm. A bitter wind howled through Raven Pass, sleet mixed with rain. The north hovered on the cusp of spring, trading snow for mud and muck. The general hated this time of year, when the sky wept a river turning the land to mire, bringing misery and sickness, but the timing of this war was not his to dictate. Pulling his dark cloak close, he mounted his stallion, shouting orders to his guard. "We ride for the wall." Putting spurs to his mount, he urged his horse to a gallop. Bowing his head against the teeth of the storm, he rode north through the conquered throat of Raven Pass.
A cadre of a hundred guards raced to keep pace, armor and weapons jangling around him. Even protected by a hundred of his best, the general felt exposed. The Dark Sword is unleashed! Such a dangerous gambit, yet he knew the reasons for it. But once unsheathed, the sword would slaver for endless souls. The more it fed, the more it would hunger. The general shivered and not because of the cold. Timing was crucial. He prayed his lord the Mordant would not leave it till too late. Better to spend the next few nights behind stout stone walls. Threats and possibilities thundered through his mind, a calculation of risk and reward. Feeling exposed, the general lashed his stallion to a lathered gallop. The Mordant's promises of power and bounty meant nothing, if one did not survive to reap the reward.
22
Master Rizel
Invictus, the name shimmered like a gong in his mind. Master Rizel carried the great sword aloft, bearing it through the illuminated hallways. Dragons coiled on the hilt, runes inscribed along the sapphire-blue blade, a sword forged at the turning of an Age, a sword forged for heroes. Long thought to be lost, an ancient history verging into legend, yet now it was here, in the mountain monastery, summoned in
the most dire of times. Summoned by a sixteen-year old girl! Had he not seen the invoking for himself, he would not have believed it, yet the proof was in his hands, real as steel.
A flock of blue-robed masters followed close on his heels. Other masters tended to the swoon-struck girl, bearing her to the healery. The girl was a treasure of another sort, but the sword could not be left unattended. By unspoken consent, he bore the blade from the acolytes' scriptorium through the illuminated hallways to the doors of midnight-blue. Golden-robed acolytes gawked as he passed, shocked to see a master bearing a blue steel blade, especially one of such magnificence, yet the sword was only half the wonder. Whispers swirled through the monastery, rumors spiced with mystery.
Master Rizel tightened his grip on the sword lest it disappear.
He reached a midnight-blue door. Stepping from the golden-yellow floor onto the midnight-blue, he gained the serenity of the monastery's inner sanctuary. A hushed peace greeted him, a privacy protected by the rule of color. Like the outer hallways, the inner walls were steeped in learning. Calligraphy emblazoned with color illuminated the corridors, every wall brimming with ancient prophesy. He wondered if the founders had envisioned this very day, when the power of illumination came back to the Order. The sapphire-blade shimmered in the sunlight. He carried history in his hands, a legend come calling.
Threading his way through the twists and turns of the hallowed halls, he reached the inner heart of the monastery. Passing through the rune-carved doors, he entered the Great Archive. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, sunlight pouring through leaded windows. In the monastery's inner sanctum, even the windows bore writing. Text scribed on the clear glass panes cast shadowy words in pools of light, a celebration of learning. Master Rizel breathed deep the heady scents of parchment and vellum, ink and leather, the very bindings of knowledge. Dark wood shelves climbed from the midnight-blue floor to the vaulted ceiling, every shelf crammed with knowledge. The Kiralynn Order preserved and hoarded knowledge from Ages past, history and prophecy sitting side by side. Revered, stored, and studied, scrolls and leather-bound tomes filled every shelf and cubby, a cathedral dedicated to learning.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 12