Emboldened, he held the scepter aloft, calling upon the Guardian. "By the Light of the Ethereal Flames, I summon the King of the Mist! Come and keep your vow!"
He held his breath, waiting, his anger annealing to iron-hard determination.
Sounds assailed him, the clarion call of a battle horn and the distant clash of swords, as if he stood mired on a ghostly battlefield. All around him, spectral figures appeared in the Mist. Wielding swords and spears, they waged some long forgotten war. The details remained hazy, obscured by the fog...but then one figure drew near. With each stride he became more substantial. Tall and regal and clad in ancient armor burnished bright, he wore a winged helm emblazoned with gleaming stars.
The King of the Mist, Master Rizel fought the urge to bow. "So you've come at last."
"Long has it been since one of your ilk sought my council."
Bathed in the light of the staff, the Guardian King seemed real enough to touch. His face was graven with the deep lines of hard decisions, his dark hair tinged with gray, his eyes full of ancient wisdom. He seemed almost mortal, yet he wore the armor of another Age. Burnished to mirror brightness, his silver breastplate bore the eight-pointed sigil of the Star Knights. The pommel of a two-handed great sword reared over his right shoulder like a threat. A vision of martial splendor, Master Rizel struggled not to be consumed by wonder.
"Close your mouth, you gape like a fresh-made squire."
"I'm not accustomed to speaking with kings."
"...or speaking with ghosts?"
"You are far more than that, my lord."
"So you know your lore."
"Else I would not be here. Yet I did not expect to contend with dragons in the depths."
The king gave him an appraising look. "It takes courage to dare the Mist."
"Was the cavern real? Is all that knowledge preserved, or is it truly lost?"
"Knowledge that built and destroyed an earlier Age, yet despite the temptation, you passed the test." The king stared at him. "Why have you come?"
"The red comet is nearly set."
"Even through the Mist, I can feel it burning the sky like a curse. This Age draws to a close. The Battle Immortal will decide the fate of us all."
The question whispered out of him. "How will it end?"
"The future is never set in stone. Much depends on the players. What will you risk? What will you dare? What do you know?"
"Not nearly enough." The master gripped the staff with grim resolve. "An owl has come from the north bearing a dire portent, something we did not foresee, something we cannot interpret."
The king waited, his face somber.
"The great eight-sided castle raised by the Star Knights has stood unmarred for over a thousand years, impervious to weather and war...but now the mage-stone walls are newly chipped, scarred by a passing wagon wheel."
The king wavered, as if fading back into the Mist...but then he solidified, seeming real once more. A grimace rode his face. He drew his sword as if battle was near, the great blade whispering from the harness at his back. "Darkness prevails. The honor of the Octagon is sullied and my line falters."
"Your line?"
"What of the blade bearer?"
"The crystal dagger has gone north of the Dragon Spine Mountains...we've heard nothing more."
"Much will depend on the daughter of my bloodline."
Your bloodline...the knowledge staggered the monk, yet he forced his mind back to the question at hand. "But how can mage-stone fail?"
The king gave him a daggered look. "Have you forgotten so much?"
Master Rizel waited, gripping the scepter. "How can mage-stone be scarred?"
"By failed intent. The mage-stone of Castlegard is imbibed with the honor of the Octagon. The two are inseparable. For a thousand years, steadfast honor has kept the mage-stone adamant. If it fails then the honor of the Octagon is sullied and my line fails."
Insight hit the master like a slap from an iron-gloved hand. For Honor and the Octagon...Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge...these were more than just words, they were sacred vows, the essence of the knights, the essence of the Order. The insight staggered him. Their magical roots ran deeper than he'd ever fathomed.
The king drilled him with his stare. "Look to lore for the answer you seek. The high magics of the ancient wizards were so powerful they sought safeguards lest they fall to the hands of Darkness. So the wizards imbued their greatest workings with purpose, with intent." His voice turned ominous. "Consider the power of words. Betray the intent and the magic will crumble."
Master Rizel said, "I always thought it just a motto."
"Castlegard's words are potent, a creed, a belief, a pledge. Betray the motto and you betray the purpose." The king gave him a searing look. "The crumbling of the great castle proves the intent is soiled if not broken...and I suspect the bloodline is broken as well." His voice turned grim as a grave. "Your Order breaks its oath to me." The king grew in size and menace, appearing more like a wraith than a man. "Keep your vow and restore my bloodline."
A cold wind sprang up, swirling around the monk like a deadly vortex. Master Rizel fought to hold his place against the gathering storm. "Can the magic be restored?"
"Keep your oath! Restore the purpose!"
An angry gust battered against the master, snuffing the Ethereal Flames from the scepter.
With a roar, the king disappeared in a swirl of white.
The wind intensified, snatching at Rizel's hair and robes, stinging his face with cold. Assaulted by the whirlwind, he was harried and pushed. Keep your vow, the ghostly words thundered through the fog, coming from a hundred voices. Keep your vow for the hour grows late. A dense white surrounded him, stealing all his senses. Prodded and pushed, he stumbled and fell. The golden scepter clattered against the stony ground, but instead of rune-carved gold it was nothing more than a wooden quarterstaff. Locking his fist on the wooden shaft, he staggered to his feet. Blood poured from a cut on his forehead. Harried by the wind, he staggered blindly through the Mist, clutching the staff like a talisman. Beseeching the gods for aid, he stumbled forward and stepped into the light.
Sunlight dazzled him. He fell to his knees in thanks. The vengeful wind was gone, replaced by the stillness of the clear mountain sky.
Ambrose was there, gripping his arm, anchoring him to the land of the living. Behind him stood Master Grimshaw, concern etched on his ebony face. Ambrose pulled him to his feet. "You're alive!" His eyes widened in alarm. "You're bleeding! And burned! What happened in there?"
Master Rizel shivered despite the sunlight. "It's worse than we feared. Somehow Darkness has corrupted the Octagon Knights...and we've failed the King in the Mist."
33
Jordan
The days fell into a relentless rhythm. Riding from dawn till dusk, Jordan snatched hasty meals with her captains and then spread her bedroll around the campfire, always sleeping with her weapons close at hand. At night, she dreamt of Stewart, but her dreams proved unreliable. Most times she dreamt of their last night together, lying entwined on his sumptuous camp bed, other times she dreamt of their wedding bower at the Crimson Keep, but too often she woke with a scream hovering on her lips, plagued by visions of death and bloodshed. Shaking and covered in sweat, Jordan told herself they were only nightmares, only her imagination, yet she fretted over the terrible odds. War was a grim undertaking where numbers mattered. Forty thousand, how could the north muster so many? Ten to one, the odds hammered her mind. Such impossible odds, yet somehow the enemy had to be stopped. Jordan glared at the heavens, unsure if she should laugh…or weep. Any seasoned general would say the enemy's numbers alone ensured a bitter loss, but the consequences of defeat were too terrible to imagine. Somehow she had to find an advantage, something beyond swords.
Marching to a steady drumbeat, her war host reached the Snowmelt River, the icy-cold divide between the southern kingdoms and the Domain of Castlegard. This time of year, the river glowed like gree
n jade, a sure sign the cold waters swelled with glacier melt. Beautiful yet treacherous, the springtime thaw made the Snowmelt wild and unpredictable, a raging barrier between the north and the south. Needing a better view, Jordan cantered to the nearest hilltop, her officers trailing behind. From the wooded bluff, she gazed upon the river. A broad ribbon of jade-green swirled with white she watched as treacherous eddies formed and disappeared, small whirlpools compounding the river's danger. As she watched, a felled tree came roaring downstream, tangled branches reaching toward the sky like a desperate hand. The tree was immense, yet it sped by in a few heartbeats, proof of the river’s fierce power. And then she saw a sheep, bloated and dead, floating feet up, caught in the river's embrace.
Beside her Rafe whistled, his gaze tracking the dead sheep. “The enemy’s going to cross that?”
“Not here. Closer to the coast, the curves of the Serpentines tame the river.” Jordan considered the stories she’d heard. “They say the curves slow the Snowmelt but they also make the river tricky with sandbars. If the Snowmelt can be crossed, it will depend on the luck of the sandbars.”
“Perhaps luck won’t favor the Mordant.”
"What are the odds of that happening?"
Rafe looked away.
Jordan sighed. “We can’t leave it to luck. We’ve got to be sure.” Spurring her horse to a canter, Jordan led her army along the river's southern bank. Conch shells blew and the army hastened their pace, battle banners rippling in the wind. They searched for any place the enemy might ford. Thankfully the Snowmelt remained a wild, unbreachable barrier. Jordan beseeched the gods to keep it so.
She settled her horse to a steady walk. Her gaze kept roving to the north shore. The raging Snowmelt formed a barrier but it was also a divide. Gently rolling farmland cradled the south side, while the north shore held towering fir trees. Wild and dark, a dense old-growth forest swept to the very edge of the Snowmelt, a feral wilderness full of shadows and threats. Jordan peered north, trying to pierce the forest’s secrets. Her sixth sense screamed in warning. An entire army could lurk in the dense green and she would not know it. Jordan warned her scouts to keep their longbows close.
Ten to one, the odds kept pounding at her mind. Jordan stared at the river, wondering if the tumbling jade-green water could be an ally as well as a barrier. The river seemed alive, a fast-flowing patchwork of swirls and eddies, yet it seemed to have subtle patterns. Like river-scrawled calligraphy, the frothing white etched a pattern, but it was one she could not read. A pattern, a message...the idea teased her mind.
“Rafe, will you do something for me?”
The monk stared at her with fervent eyes. “Anything.”
His avid attraction embarrassed her at times, yet she counted him a good friend. “Take a handful of guards and a battle banner and ride hard for the coast. At the mouth of the Snowmelt, you’ll find a small fishing village. Tell them you ride on my behalf, for they owe allegiance to the king of Navarre. Talk to the villagers and bring back someone who knows the river’s secrets, someone who can read the messages scrawled in the eddies.” Her gaze turned to the jade-green water swirled with white. “We need to make an ally of the Snowmelt.”
Rafe looked chagrined. “You're sending me away? But I know nothing of rivers or fishermen.”
Jordan laughed. “Seek knowledge, protect knowledge, share knowledge! Who else should I send? My scouts can track hoof prints and follow armies, but I need someone who can ferret out knowledge and wisdom. Someone who knows how to ask questions and weigh answers.” Her gaze turned serious. “Find me a fisherman who can read the river and knows the Serpentines.” Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Else we cannot win.”
He bowed in the saddle as if accepting a geas. “I’ll find someone for you.”
“Thank you.” She turned and called ten names, giving them orders to accompany the monk and obey his commands. “And, Rafe.”
His gaze snapped towards her.
“Hurry.”
He nodded, putting spurs to his mount.
Jordan watched them gallop west, a small knot of men riding beneath a bright battle banner. They carried a slender hope. She prayed she hadn’t sent them on a fool’s errand. Ten to one, the odds were overwhelming, yet if the enemy crossed the river she would not hesitate to order her army to attack. Her gaze clung to the river, wild and wide, praying for aid. If the Snowmelt was not her ally, then she saw no future save death.
34
Quintus
Quintus reached for his quarterstaff, although in his hands it was more of a walking stick than a weapon. His pruning knife was sheathed at his belt, but only plants needed to fear that small blade. As a healer, he'd never taken to weapons training, but in times of war it seemed imprudent to go outside the castle walls without some protection. He grabbed a cold chicken leg he'd pilfered from the kitchen and thrust it deep into a pouch, intending to save it for his midday meal. Straps for his gathering pouches crisscrossed his chest, leather satchels hanging empty at each hip. Divided into numerous pockets, the satchels were perfect for gathering medicinal herbs. With the steady stream of wounded, his supplies were running dangerously low. He hated this war.
His gaze flicked to his frost owl's perch, still empty, a worry of another sort. Snowman was long overdue. A chilling thought gripped him, what if the masters have no answer? Quintus shuddered, making the hand sign against evil, refusing to let his thoughts drift to darkness.
Closing the door on the healery, he crossed the great courtyard, assaulted by the sounds of wooden training swords clacking against shields. This latest levy of peasants' sons was so young and so very green, yet they came bright-eyed to the training yard, eager to learn the sword. The veteran knights that taught them were either graybeards or maimed, yet their visible scars mattered not to the young. All too soon they'd don their maroon surcoats and take up sharp-edged weapons, dross for the gristmill of war. As Castlegard's healer, Quintus well knew the terrible toll of war, but he'd also witnessed how steadfast belief could triumph against the worst odds. He would not gainsay the young their starry-eyed invincibility.
Quintus reached the inner gates and found them open for the noontime passage. Giving the guards a friendly wave, he strode between the mage-stone gates. His heartbeat quickened. Like iron to a lodestone, his gaze swept to the right, to the scar marring the mage-stone wall. Still there. A cold fist gripped his heart. Every time he passed this way, he surreptitiously checked the scar, always hoping it was gone, nothing more than a delusion...but the scar was always there, the nightmare too true. Mage-stone was supposed to be invincible, impervious to time, weather, and war, yet the great castle was scarred by a wagon wheel. A wagon wheel, he shuddered at the thought, as if somehow the very fabric of the world was coming unraveled. Surely the gods would intervene...or perhaps they did not care.
Gloomy thoughts dogged his steps. It did not help that he trod a path through the killing corridor, the walled gorge between the soaring mage-stone battlements of the inner castle and the outer ramparts raised by ordinary stonemasons. Such a grim and terrible place. Desolate of any cover, the corridor was an eerie and ominous place, a stone killing field, a trap designed for death. Even in broad daylight, the corridor gave him the shivers, as if angry ghosts stalked his shadow.
Spying a troop of guards marching ahead, Quintus hurried his steps. Matching their stride, he fell in behind them, grateful for a living escort through the chilling corridors of no-man's-land.
Even at the soldiers' quick gait, the long trek seemed to take forever. Finally he spied the outer gatehouse. Quintus felt a profound sense of relief, glad to be rid of the grim corridor.
Guards in maroon cloaks walked the crenellated battlements, battle banners fluttering overhead. The great ironbound gates stood open, the toothy portcullis raised, and the drawbridge lowered as it often was at noontime. A wagon trundled across, bearing goods from the nearby town. Quintus made sure to hail the guards so they'd know he'd left the castle. H
is quarterstaff in hand, he crossed the drawbridge, escaping the towering corridors of stone for the bright sunshine of springtime.
Buttercups blossomed on the greensward, clumps of golden yellow dotting the vast carpet of fresh green that encircled the castle. A herd of sheep munched placidly in the distance, keeping the greensward cropped while providing the castle with a steady source of wool and mutton. Shaggy and dingy white, they looked like lazy clouds tethered to the green. The herder boy, Jon, raised a hand in greeting. A clumsy lad, Quintus had set his bones more than once. Replying with a cheerful wave, Quintus stepped off the muddy road to meander south across the vast greensward. Still soggy from the snowmelt, the grass squished wet beneath his boots. The puddled dampness mattered not, for he'd come for the springtime flowers. Like a bee, he fluttered from one crop to the next, collecting cuttings for his satchels. Dandelions sprouted amongst the buttercups, a cheerful flower with so many uses. Harvesting both the roots and leaves, he made sure to leave half the patch untouched to ensure future crops. Leaving the dandelions he moved towards a clump of blood root, stooping to clip the delicate white flowers, a cure for fevers. His satchels began to bulge with cures, but the find that thrilled him the most was the feathery leaves of the yarrow plant. Renowned for its ability to stop bleeding, Quintus was hard-pressed to harvest only half the crop. Carefully stowing the leaves and flowers in a side pouch, he moved on, approaching the forest's edge.
Mighty oak trees towered overhead, sheathed in springtime green. Quintus passed from sunshine into shade, seeking to renew his supply of mosses used to staunch wounds. He stumbled over an exposed root, but caught himself with his quarterstaff. Spying a nettle bush, he stopped to collect leaves for an infusion to remedy colds. Moving deeper into the forest, his gaze roved the shady green looking for more cures. And then he saw them. A thicket of rusty swords reared from the forest floor, their blades sunk deep in the dark loam, marking the graves of fallen heroes. Shields dangled overhead, some moss-covered and dulled by time, but all of them bore the same sigil, emblazoned with the maroon octagon of Castlegard.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 19