by Walter Rhein
“He didn’t say,” the attendant replied.
The earl’s face hardened.
“Then why did you let him in?”
“He had this,” the attendant replied, turning over an envelope bearing weapons-master Denz’s official seal. The earl sneered at the sight of the treacherous image. He became reflective. The envelope was smudged and dirty as if it had covered a great distance. Denz must have sent for this emissary some time ago. Interviewing him now might only confirm the suspicions the earl had about his disgraced first lieutenant.
“Leave us,” he said finally to his attendant, and stepped forward.
When he was a few paces behind the man, the mysterious figure spoke.
“It seems odd that you would invite me to your castle and then leave me waiting in your courtyard for so long.”
“I just returned from a ride—” the earl began, but the man cut him off.
“Nonsense, I saw you ride up almost forty minutes ago.”
There was an awkward silence during which the earl just stood silently holding the soiled letter. The man at the window continued to stare out into the distance.
After a moment, the earl couldn’t take the quiet anymore.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve heard,” the man replied, “that you’ve been having some trouble.”
“Heard? Heard what? From whom?” the earl responded.
“The letter,” the man replied, “you sent me a letter, or rather your weapons-master sent it.”
The earl went silent. He was hardly tempted to admit that Denz was currently rotting in his dungeon.
The mysterious figure continued.
“The letter described a man that is of great interest to me, a warrior who carries an unusual sword.”
The man at the window turned slightly.
The earl watched him in awe. Even though he had only shifted his weight away from the window, he had moved with a fluidity that the earl had only seen exhibited by the performers of the Southern courts.
He moved like a dancer.
Or like a highly skilled warrior.
“Who are you?” the earl whispered, and he was surprised to note a hint of awe in his own voice.
“Is it true?” the man replied. “Is it true that the warrior you saw carried a sword like this?”
He held up a weapon. The earl wondered where it had come from, since the figure at the window hadn’t appeared to be carrying one. The handle of the sword was white and intricately carved.
It was a bone sword.
And yes, the earl realized he had seen a sword just like it once before.
He nodded slowly.
The figure seemed to accept the earl’s acknowledgment, and he turned back to the window.
“It’s true, then, the lost one has returned. Good! I have a score to settle with him.”
None of this made sense to the earl, who, nevertheless, recovered his air and managed to speak.
“Who are you?”
The figure flicked back a mocking look over his shoulder.
“Haven’t you guessed?” He sneered and his voice became low and deadly. “I’m Oberon Keels. I‘m the answer to all your prayers.”
Chapter 25
Marching Archers
Malik, Gerard and his two sons made their way, single-file, through the knee-deep snow. Malik had decided that Noah and Jasmine should stay behind. Noah complained, of course, but Malik had feared the journey would be too hard for them, and the destination too dangerous. Gazing back along the trail they had cut through the snow, he felt confident he had made the proper decision.
Progress wasn’t all a struggle. At occasional intervals, there were stretches where the wind had blown the fluffy powder into drifts, leaving bare rock and an easy trail. Still, the going was hard, and Malik knew it would be many days of cold camping before they had made their way back to civilization.
“Four swords,” Malik said, “four swords to start a revolution.”
“With a bone sword among them, those aren’t bad odds,” Gerard replied. “Other revolutions have begun with less.”
“And there are sixteen Nightshades accompanying Father Ivory, you say?” Malik continued, ignoring the compliment.
“Yes,” Gerard replied, his tone as serious as Malik’s.
Malik bowed his head in thought as he walked. They were running a ridge that allowed them to gaze down into the valley below.
“Sixteen,” Malik whispered reflectively. “I fought four in the wilderness outside of Elmshearst.”
“A worthy total,” Gerard replied with a grin. “The whole contingent of Elmshearst only managed a count of five.”
Malik looked back at him sternly.
“If Jasmine hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have survived it. This isn’t going to be easy.”
Gerard nodded, “It never is. But at least we’ll have the element of surprise on our side, eh?”
Malik still seemed unconvinced.
“How good are your lads with their bows?”
Alec and Michael perked up. Alec, the younger, gracefully strung his weapon and knocked an arrow. For a moment, he stared out along the ridge, the air whistling through his full head of hair. Then, with an almost effortless motion, he drew back the shaft and loosed it seemingly at random at a spot about eighty yards ahead of them. Without a word, he unstrung his weapon and marched forward. The others followed silently.
Scrambling between some boulders, Alec came across his arrow, which had pierced a snow rabbit through the breast. He picked it up proudly.
“Michael probably could have taken it through the eye,” Alec said with a grin, “but dead is dead as far as I’m concerned.”
Gerard smiled proud then said, “Aye, dead is dead.” Turning to Malik, he continued. “They were the two best archers under my command,” he said. “I suppose any father prefers to see a wall between his children and his enemy rather than just a sword.”
“I suppose so,” Malik responded, “but something tells me you wouldn’t have neglected to teach them proper swordplay.”
“They can hold their own,” Gerard said.
Alec had already set about skinning the rabbit. He hung the steaming body from his belt.
“We’ll have to catch another to have a fair supper tonight,” he smiled, “but if we have to make do with this, perhaps we could prepare a stew.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael growled sarcastically, “and what pot are we going to boil it in?”
Alec’s eyes widened in embarrassment. “Oh,” he said.
Malik laughed.
“I’m sure you’ll spot another before our march is done for the day.” He turned and started walking again. He had taken only a few steps, however, when he burst out in laughter. Gerard looked up at him, startled.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing really,” Malik said sheepishly. “It just occurred to me how fate can sometimes play tricks on you.”
Gerard responded with a blank look and Malik, realizing he hadn’t properly explained himself, elaborated.
“I came to Miscony through the swamps of Plaiden,” he stated simply.
“You were on the run,” Gerard presumed.
Malik nodded. “I was under the impression that Miscony was my last opportunity. I’d heard there was a corps I could join that didn’t ask too many questions and that appreciated some skill with the blade.”
Gerard’s eyes narrowed in thought, and then widened in shock. His mouth dropped open and he stared at Malik for a full second before bursting out in laughter.
“You were planning on joining the Nightshades,” he surmised.
Malik smiled and nodded.
“And now here I am planning how to eliminate them,” he shook his head and smiled. “It’s funny how things can change.”
“Indeed it is,” Gerard replied. “Indeed it is.”
Their laughter echoed across the ridge.
Several hundred yards back down the trail, out of sight but not out
of the range of hearing, a figure squatted down in the snow. For a moment, he paused, gazing down at the tracks he was following. Then, a wave of resolve hardened his features and he continued on his way, all the while crouching low and glancing forward furtively to ensure he wouldn’t be seen.
Chapter 26
Declaration of Debt
The Earl of Miscony sat in his dining hall, watching Oberon Keels with an attentive eye. The arrival of the legendary warrior had unbalanced him at first. But now that he’d had a little bit of time to get used to the idea of the great man’s presence (as well as finish several cups of wine), he was starting to enjoy the situation.
Oberon sat beside him and sipped at his wine reservedly. He had cut a fair portion of beef from the loin on the center spit, and sliced it on his plate with restrained courtesy.
“You must be tired from your journey,” the earl slurred. “Tired and hungry! Drink! Eat!” He lifted his glass in the air in celebration and caught one of the serving girls to sit on his lap.
Oberon inclined his head. He gazed around the empty dining hall.
“Your castle is empty m’lord,” he observed.
“Ha!” the earl grunted, “There are few of my stature in this cursed country!” he grumbled. “My parents are long dead, and Father Ivory quells the revolution in the hills. I have only my servants to keep me company. But they shall not sit at my table for obvious reasons.”
He squeezed the girl he was holding appreciatively.
Oberon only nodded and bowed his head back to the serving of meat he was picking at. “And has the lord never thought of taking a wife?”
The earl smiled widely.
“What need have I of a wife when every woman of Miscony is mine to take?” he smiled.
“Indeed,” Oberon replied.
“Besides,” the earl continued failing to note any sarcasm in the hardened warrior’s tone. “Miscony is just a temporary outpost. I’m sure to be called to the Southern court soon. It’s there that I truly belong, not here, not among these savages!”
The earl gazed lecherously at the young girl he held before lurching forward to kiss her roughly.
Oberon watched it all, then placed his utensils deliberately on the table.
“Is even your weapons-master unworthy of your presence?”
At this, the earl grunted in anger.
“Denz has a cell below us. I’ve come to doubt his loyalty.”
“I see,” Oberon said. He wiped his lips with a silk napkin and gave the earl a serious look.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, you know.”
The earl froze mid-kiss and his eyes swiveled to Oberon. He said nothing, but the muscles of his face hardened in anger.
Oberon paid the thinly veiled threat no heed.
“How big is your garrison here?”
At this the earl’s chest puffed out.
“I control five hundred soldiers,” he snapped proudly.
“Nightshades?”
“Twenty-five,” the earl replied, “they’re with Father Ivory now.”
“I see,” Oberon remarked. He thought for a moment, then gave the earl a hard look. “How long until reinforcements can arrive?”
The earl laughed loudly, causing the girl he was holding to squirm in discomfort.
“Don’t you think it’s enough? We’re only talking about a single warrior after all.”
“He’s a member of the Camden Guard,” Oberon said flatly.
“Bah, the Nightshades will have him soon.”
At this, Oberon coughed slightly.
“My guess is that your Nightshades are already dead, or will be shortly.”
The earl’s eyes flashed. For a moment, he stared angrily at Oberon. But then, the twinkle returned, and he smiled mockingly at the man.
“Well, I have you don’t I?” He grinned, “Aren’t you good enough to handle this single warrior?”
A silence descended on the table, and for a moment Oberon stared at the earl with hard, judging eyes.
“Yes,” Oberon said eventually with absolute certainty. “But by now he’s recruited others to his cause.”
The earl’s defiant look cracked slightly.
“My guess is,” Oberon continued, “that he’ll soon be marching on Miscony Castle with an army that vastly outnumbers your own.”
The earl pushed the serving girl away from him. The young woman, seizing her opportunity, scampered into the kitchen. The earl leaned forward, paying no heed to her abrupt departure.
“What are you talking about?”
Oberon’s eyes erupted.
“I’m talking about Malik,” He snapped, “the only warrior to ever leave the Camden Guard!”
Suddenly there was a fury in the veteran warrior’s eyes, a flashing, burning desire for blood like nothing the Earl of Miscony had ever seen. The cowardly noble sank back into his chair, and fingered his cup of wine nervously, looking for reassurance.
“You don’t understand the situation,” Oberon continued accusingly. “You don’t know what Malik is capable of. He’ll recruit, train, unite, lead, and soon enough, he’ll come marching for you. He’ll do it reflexively. He’ll embark on the plan before it has even fully resolved itself in his consciousness. He’ll do it because he is a pure warrior, and it is tactically the best, the only, chance for survival. He’ll do it because you’ve allowed your Father Ivory to cavort around in the wilderness like a mad beast and stir up the peasants to the point where even those spineless weaklings will grow a backbone. Yes, you’ve allowed a pestilence to take root, and soon it will bloom into a full-blown plague.”
The earl’s face went beet red.
“Why have you come?”
“I’ve come,” Oberon replied instantly, “to get control of things. I’ve come because you sent for me, or this Denz did. I’ve come because the Southern Kings know that small revolutions that start in the outskirts can become big revolutions that strike like a dagger at the capital of all humanity.”
Oberon grew quiet, and he leaned back into his chair.
“I’ve come,” he said in nearly a whisper, “because Malik owes me. He owes me something he can never repay.”
The earl sat back and regarded Oberon for a long moment. All the muscles in the lean warrior’s body were taut, like he was holding in a great fury. The earl was fascinated; it was as though Keels battled himself—a furious, ever-present inner turmoil that could never have a victor.
The earl watched it for a long moment, and then he laughed.
Oberon Keels’ eyes snapped up in piqued annoyance, but the earl waved it off.
“I do not mock you my friend,” the earl said laughing. “It’s just that our conversation has grown far too serious on what should be a joyous day. Welcome to Miscony!”
He lifted his goblet and extended it toward Oberon with a tipsy grin.
The leader of the Camden Guard looked at it with seething anger.
“Come, come,” the earl said, “it is no dishonor I offer you. Let us simply drink now and consider lighter possibilities. I have no doubt of your wisdom, and it is indeed a wise man who prepares for the worst, but perhaps a pragmatic man—pragmatism being a shadow of wisdom—might allow for other scenarios.”
“Such as?” Oberon replied, thin-lipped.
“Such as the hope that things are not as bad as you fear. The hope that before the spring thaw, our dear Father Ivory will return to Miscony Castle bearing the head of this deserter you so obviously despise. For this night at least, let us tip our glasses and wish for the best.”
“Time is pressing,” Keels stated, “it might already be too late.”
“Please,” the earl said, drunkenly waving his hands again, “offer me the courtesy of a noble. Give my charges the chance to perform their duties. A week, for the sake of their honor. Give Father Ivory a week to procure the traitor.”
Oberon Keels sighed deeply. He gazed at the drunken Earl of Miscony with thinly veiled disgust. He knew a week might make all
the difference. Waiting a week might be too late, but he also knew the pride of these backwater nobles, and that his own crusade would be greatly assisted if the earl supported it with all the resources at his beck and call.
A week?
Thank the gods he hadn’t said a month.
A week was an eternity.
But an eternity he could bear.
He nodded slowly in agreement.
“One week,” he said, emphasizing “one.”
“Good!” The earl said then laughed. “Then let us drink and be merry and forget our troubles for a time.”
Oberon Keels offered a tight smile as he lifted his goblet to his lips.
The earl was so pleased by the great man’s accordance, he didn’t notice how much the vessel trembled.
Neither did he notice that the swordsman’s grip was so tight on the cup that, had it been made of glass, it would have shattered.
Chapter 27
Ivory’s Madness
Father Ivory sat in the torture room, reclined in an embroidered chair. A glass of wine hung limply in his fingers. He took a long, slow drink as he flexed his other hand.
It had been so easy. Town after town, village after village, the peasants gave themselves to him and his Nightshades. They simply surrendered.
Father Ivory laughed at the thought.
It felt good to watch them kneel before him.
Very good.
He stood and took two lazy steps to the young man bound and kneeling on the floor.
The man’s face was swollen from many blows. Blood trickled down his features.
Father Ivory reached forward and tried to push back the boy’s hair.
The young man flinched.
“Shhh,” Ivory whispered, and the trembling figure looked up with tears in his blue eyes. “There, there. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Father Ivory loosened the gag that was wrapped around the prisoner’s mouth. The young man spit it out and whimpered slightly.
“There, there,” Father Ivory repeated. His hand caressed the boy’s cheek. The sweat and blood that had collected on his flesh felt like oil on his thin fingers.
“Perhaps my charges have gone too far?” he said. “What is to be gained from all of this?”