“All right,” Kevon whispered, taking a deep breath, and looking at the waiting Prince.
“Bertus is recovering,” Alacrit began, “Though he will need re-branded. Carlo gathers troops as we speak, readying for his journey to the South.”
Kevon nodded, confused. “This is what we had already discussed, correct?”
“Yes,” Alacrit assented, “However, Mirsa Magus also prepares to travel with you and the boy, to Eastport.”
Mirsa? Kevon wondered. Why would she be going…?
“We felt that the three of you would be at greater risk apart from one another. You seem capable enough to handle your own defenses, and Carlo will be safe enough with the troops.” Alacrit’s eyes veered briefly to the side as Kevon gazed at him.
“And we’ll be more of a target to draw focus away from the Palace.” Kevon added. “I understand, I think we all do.” Kevon stretched and stood up. “I, for one, am looking forward to the challenge. I wouldn’t doubt the others feel the same.”
“I can assign troops…”
“No,” Kevon interrupted the nobleman with a smile. “We’re better off by ourselves. I can’t explain it, but I just feel our chances are better.”
“As always, should you need anything, you have only to ask,” Alacrit continued. “Mirsa has already sampled from the reliquary.” He chuckled. “Nothing but the best for my Heroes.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kevon replied, “Perhaps Bertus and I will look through the armory later. I would like to leave tomorrow, or the day after, if at all possible.”
“I would almost feel safer if the four of you stayed,” Alacrit offered, “You were the main reason last night’s attack failed. Mirsa is questioning local Master Magi, and looking for extra Court Wizards during her absence.”
“I will be able to focus wholly on this matter once I return from Eastport,” Kevon reassured the Prince. “If things here worsen, I have allies I may be able to contact from there.”
Alacrit’s expression showed only momentary surprise before returning to normal. “As I have said before, you have the gift of Adnoros, and we are blessed to have earned your loyalty, rather than your enmity.” The Prince regarded Kevon’s sleep-starved countenance for a moment before adding, “I have other pressing duties to attend to, so I shall take my leave.” He bowed slightly before exiting, closing the door behind him.
Kevon awoke again to a loud pounding.
“C’mon!” Bertus jeered through the door. “I almost died, and I’m already up!”
“If you don’t have food, go away,” Kevon shouted, throwing a boot toward the noise.
“Sleep then,” Mirsa called. “We’re leaving.”
The Adept dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his tunic and boot. He hobbled over and opened the door before grabbing the other boot. “Where are we headed?”
* * *
Kevon was unsure what amused Mirsa the most; the lavishing of attention from the Guildsmen as she sat at the main table, or the scowls of the serving maids that were accustomed to having it for themselves. He and Mirsa ate while the brand heated in the fire, and Bertus sat quietly, contemplating the pain to come.
Carlo emerged from a knot of Warriors that had moved to the table, brandishing the glowing implement. “Look familiar, boy?”
Bertus raised his tunic sleeve and leaned toward the approaching Blademaster. “My memory is just fine, old man.” The Seeker clenched his teeth and forced a smile as Carlo pressed the sizzling brand into his flesh. He yelped only when one of the barmaids sloshed some clear liquid from a wooden goblet over the burn, and handed the remainder of it to him to drink. He took a swallow and sputtered. “Not sure which way burns more,” he gasped when he found his voice again. He held still as the wound was bound with clean strips of cloth, and once he had rotated his arm around to check the wrapping’s effect on his range of motion, the crowd dispersed.
“A re-branding is only amusing for a short while,” Bertus explained to Mirsa over the surrounding conversations that were surprisingly courteous, due no doubt to her presence. “It’s a trade-off. The pain of the brand is supposed to purify the weakness that required Healing.”
“It’s barbaric,” Mirsa scolded, “But I’m learning to appreciate the way things are done here. The brand is shared pain. That experience ties you together, much as shared magic binds Magi, helps them to know one another.” Her gaze drifted to Kevon long enough for him to notice.
“I had better get back to the Palace,” Kevon said, standing. “Prince Alacrit wanted us to look through the armory before we leave.”
“A new sword would be nice,” Bertus said, standing and flexing the fingers of his branded arm. “Shall we?
* * *
Prince Alacrit’s eyes danced as he watched the two Warriors survey the contents of the room. They were the only ones outside of the royal family to lay eyes on any of the treasures contained in this private vault since before the completion of the palace, shortly after the beginning of the Wars of Men. More than two thousand years of history sat displayed here, serving no purpose other than to amuse and comfort generations of his family. Alacrit had decided that was no longer acceptable. If his heroes stood a better chance of surviving with aid from heroes from the past, tradition would have to change.
“A little more extravagant that I would like,” Bertus called over his shoulder to Alacrit as he hefted a wide-bladed short sword with a hilt inset with jewels, “But it is a fine weapon.”
“That is the sword my own blade, and in turn, those of my personal guard, is based on.” Alacrit explained. “It belonged to a king whose name, and kingdom, has been lost to history. It is only fitting that it now defend this Realm.”
“And this?” Kevon asked, lifting a strange looking hammer from the stand on which it had been resting. Ignoring the shock that tore through him at first contact, he traced his fingers over the top, a four-edged spike that speared through the weapon’s head. The hammer head was balanced by an axe blade, reminding Kevon of a halberd, the blade less wicked, and more regal.
“The only weapon ever to have been recovered from any of the Dwarven Lords,” the Prince explained. “The metal is unknown to us, and as you might imagine, we have not asked the Dwarves about it.” Alacrit smiled. “So you have chosen, then? I will personally oversee their preparation this evening, and you shall have them in the morning.”
Kevon nodded, replacing the hammer on its stand, and moving to join Bertus, who had already started for the exit. A jagged, rusty length of greatsword caught his gaze as he walked by its display case, seeming out of place amongst the rest of the treasures. He blinked and shook his head, thinking there was something he should remember, but continued on out after Bertus and Alacrit.
“Mirsa thought it best that you leave early in the morning, unescorted,” Alacrit remarked as they crossed from the royal quarters back into the common hallways. “It would let you get well clear of the city without drawing too much attention to yourselves. You could easily outdistance most pursuers at your normal pace.”
Kevon found himself wondering what manner of forces might give chase. Magi, for certain, but have they recruited others? He could think of no Warriors in the local Guildhall that would move against him, but if the coin was great enough, loyalties could change. There was always plenty of riff-raff in the slums to the north, past the market quarter. He chuckled to himself. Those undesirables would be as likely as not to cut down a Mage offering a job for the gold in his purse rather than accept a job from one. He and his friends might have less to worry about than they feared.
“You seem amused,” Alacrit observed, stopping to address Kevon. “Care to share?”
The Warsmith thought for a moment before he answered. “Running… Hiding… Fighting…” He shook his head. “There used to be a point to it all. I could see the life at the end… Now?”
“Because of Her?” Alacrit asked.
Kevon stood, silent, unsure of what to say.
&
nbsp; “The Merchant’s daughter?” the Prince prodded. “Your business in Eastport?”
“I…”
“There is little that escapes me where my inner circle is concerned, Warsmith.” Alacrit laughed. “Your love, his parents, Mirsa’s training…” He waved an astounded Bertus off as he resumed walking. “We have no time for this at present. Your journey to the north will provide what you require to choose your paths.”
At the next intersection in the hallway, Alacrit stopped and gripped each Warrior in a firm, but familiar handshake. “Rest well,” he advised, “A new adventure begins upon the morrow.”
Kevon and Bertus stood and watched the monarch stride out of sight down the hall.
“My parents?” Bertus whispered after the departing prince, face scrunched in bewilderment.
Kevon remained silent, wondering what other information Alacrit held in reserve, what methods he used to collect it. Deciding that the prince could not possibly know his secret, he jostled Bertus as he started back to his quarters. “Begins upon the morrow…” he teased, exaggerating Alacrit’s lofty accent and staid bearing until he needed to duck a punch thrown by the younger Warrior.
Chapter 26
Kevon rolled out of his bunk, ready, at the first light knock on his door. He’d slept earlier, but as the night dragged on, he’d tossed and turned. Deciding to put his waking hours to good use, he’d shaved and dressed, prepared everything he could so that there would be no delay when the others arrived.
One of the two men flanking his door was from Alacrit’s personal guard, the other a guardsman that Kevon had fought beside during the recent attack. He hefted his packed belongings, glanced around the room once more, and followed the escorting officers down the hallway.
The detail led him to Carlo’s office, where the Commander greeted him at the door.
“You thought to leave without orders from your superior?” the Blademaster grumped. “Get in there.”
The Adept peered past his comrade to the office, where the desk had been moved into a corner, making room for the tables laden with breakfast foods. Mirsa, Bertus, and Alacrit were already filling their plates. He sat his gear next to the pile by the door, and joined the others.
“You really think you can handle it?” Mirsa asked Bertus. “It’s not to be taken lightly.”
“I learned a few things when we ran with the patrol to the tower,” the Novice reassured her, “And I’ve worked around them for years.”
“He does have a way with the beasts,” Carlo agreed, eliciting a grin from the younger Warrior. “That’s not to say it’s a wise idea.”
“As I said before, I can spare a hostler,” Alacrit interjected. “It’s no great…”
“No!” the four chorused.
Alacrit sighed. “You’re hiding something, I understand.” He looked from face to face, locking eyes with Kevon. “And it’s about you, Kevon. Or Anton, whichever you prefer.”
Kevon’s gaze faltered under the monarch’s steely glare. He was unsure how much more the prince knew, and began weighing the possibility of telling him everything before the royal spies found out on their own. “It’s…”
“Sire,” Carlo interrupted, “If I may, something that I learned not so long ago?”
“Speak,” Alacrit assented.
“With all due respect… You’re not ready.”
Bertus chortled, nearly choking on a strip of bacon.
Prince Alacrit’s expression shifted from one of displeasure, to mild amusement. “I will find out,” he cautioned.
Kevon nodded. “I pray you will be as accepting of the truth as the others.”
Alacrit shook his head. “This is a farewell, not an interrogation.” He motioned to a guard by the door. “Bring them in.”
The guard exited, and returned a few seconds later, followed by two others bearing a long crate. The two soldiers placed the crate at the Prince’s feet, bowed, and left. The guard resumed his post without a word.
Alacrit lifted the crate’s lid, and pulled a scabbarded sword from it. “For Bertus. I could not bring myself to have the gems removed, but they are now all but hidden by the new leatherwork. A regal blade, disguised as commonplace… It’s almost…” Alacrit smiled and handed the sword to Bertus. “May it serve you well.”
Next, the Prince retrieved a thick leather-bound tome from the depths of the crate. “This book has not been seen by Magi for over five hundred years. It was once studied by all the Royal Wizards of this House, but was stored away generations ago when my ancestors began to fear another War of the Magi might arise. The Arts described within are thought to be dangerous, but they may be needed in the days to come.” He handed the book to Mirsa, whose eyes shone with excitement, and hands trembled as she held the tome close to her.
“Kevon,” Alacrit said, lifting the Dwarven warhammer from the crate, holding it out for the Warrior to examine. “The old inlays have been replaced with ebony, the handle was re-wrapped.”
“The strap is new,” Kevon observed, thinking it could be useful if he lost his grip on the weapon in the heat of battle. “It is beautiful.” He admired the inlaid strips that showed no gaps between the dusky wood and the creamy grey metal for a few moments longer before taking the weapon from Alacrit.
“And for my Knight Commander,” Alacrit began, reaching once again into the container.
Kevon snickered, and Carlo groaned as the Prince began lifting an iron-rimmed shield from the crate. The Warsmith was well aware of the Blademaster’s disdain for shields.
“Before you judge the gift,” Alacrit growled, “Consider it.” He spun the shield around to face the others, revealing the decoration on the front. Sunken into the shield-face, outlined by more hammered iron and held fast by steel bands, was the rusted greatsword that Kevon remembered seeing in the Royal armory the day before. Beneath the jagged point of the sword, he recognized the indented ‘x’ that was Xæver’s artisan’s mark.
“Is that?” Carlo asked, dumbfounded.
“The sword is not fit to attack, the shield is not the best defense,” Alacrit answered, “But the men will rally to our cause, follow wherever you lead. It is indeed, that sword.”
Carlo looked more shaken than Mirsa had at her gift of ancient magic as he accepted the shield. “From Keldin’s Reach, The Twisted Spires, to the Southern Shore…” the Blademaster whispered, looking down at the captive relic.
“Rode the mighty Bartok,” the Prince added, “Behind him… followed War.”
Kevon’s head spun, memories of an evening of strong drink and singing more than two years gone by flowing through his mind. “The song?”
“How will they know?” Carlo asked Alacrit. “I can believe… I want to believe… but the people?”
“Messengers are already on their way to the Warrior’s Guild.” The Monarch drank deeply from a goblet filled with juice. “Timed properly, the commotion should cover the exit of our other Heroes. Unfortunately, that means breakfast is over.”
* * *
The Adept ranged out ahead of the wagon, and was not quite a mile from the western gates of Navlia when he heard the faint clanging of the bells in the main square. He reined the stallion back, and wheeled around to see Bertus looking over his shoulder back toward the city. Mirsa alone spared no attention for the abandoned Capitol, urging her mount on, passing the wagon.
“This may only distract them for a short time,” the Master Mage said as she pulled alongside Kevon. “We cannot slow. If any of them know who I am, they could be scrying for me even now.”
“We may have destroyed their leadership, disrupted their organization” Kevon replied. “There is no way to know for sure, but we may not be followed at all.”
Mirsa shook her head. “His will be done…” she quoted, and the hairs on the back of Kevon’s neck stood on end. “It seems that they were connected with Gurlin. But… where we were led to believe in our mission of containing the evil, they may have been told differently, told the truth. Such fanati
cism… could hardly be limited to such a small group.”
“So we’re almost certainly going to be followed.”
She nodded.
Fragments of Kevon’s nightmare from days earlier spun through his consciousness, the mad rush to the gates of Eastport, the horrific greeting once he reached ‘safety’. He knew it was just a dream, intensified by the events that followed it. The knowledge did little to comfort him.
“Best possible speed, then,” he decided. “We have extra supplies, feed for the horses. No larger force could catch us, no smaller force would want to.”
“Unless they were Sent ahead of us,” Mirsa countered. “We cannot rule out that possibility, given who we might be facing.”
Would they know we were headed to Eastport? Kevon wondered. Very few knew, but there was still a risk of someone letting the information slip. Or having it pried out of them.
The rumbling of the approaching wagon started to drown out the conversation. Mirsa slowed, to fall back to her position alongside it, as Kevon spurred his stallion ahead.
Chapter 27
“The book is useless,” Mirsa declared, brushing crumbs from her morning meal off of her robes and rising from her place at the fire. “I looked through it last night. All of the runes are fragments, and it’s written in Dwarven script. Of all the languages…”
“Maybe not useless, just not simple?” Kevon asked, after cinching up his saddle and scratching the stallion behind his ears.
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