And it was all Accolon Pendragon’s fault. He had done this to her. He had driven her to it.
It had left him inconsolable. The guilt had filled his mind and heart like acid. Accolon had confessed his sins to a dozen priests in Tarlion, even to the archbishop of the city, had gladly undertaken their penances, pledged to prayer and charity and fasting. None of it had helped. Finally, in desperation, he had come to the Monastery of St. Bartholomew in Castarium. It was well-known that Abbot Caldorman got along with neither Lord Ridmark nor the archbishop of Tarlion, which meant he would belligerently assert his authority and refuse to surrender any novices. Accolon had become a novice of the monastery, with Abbot Caldorman guiding him in prayer, and once the year of his novitiate was complete, he intended to take vows as a monastic brother and renounce his titles and claims forever.
The sins of the flesh, his sins of the flesh, had led Caitrin Rhosmor to her death. Perhaps this would be a fitting penance, to spend his life in the monastery praying for forgiveness.
So that was how Accolon Pendragon found himself awakening before dawn in the doorkeeper’s lodge, lying on an uncomfortable cot and the smell of damp and mildew filling his nose.
To his great shame and irritation, he had awakened from a dream of women. No specific woman, but in the dream, he had felt warm arms wrap around him, an undressed female body against his as he pushed her down to the bed. Accolon cursed himself for his past folly. If only he had exercised better self-control. If only he had resisted against the sins of the flesh. Caitrin would be alive now. Perhaps that was a just punishment to spend his life tormented by desire.
The hideous scene in Caitrin’s bedroom flashed before his eyes, and Accolon whispered a curse and sat up, rubbing his face. He had slept in his robe and sandals. A quick glance at the narrow window told him that it was just before dawn. He would have time to wash his face and hands before dawn prayers began in the monastery’s church. In fact, the monastery church’s bells were already ringing, calling the monks to prayer.
Accolon rose, turned towards the door of the small lodge, and froze in surprise.
Those weren’t the monastery’s bells. They were coming from the town. Castarium had a cathedral, but in a town of five thousand people, there were a dozen or so smaller churches scattered throughout the walls. The jovial Bishop Belasco had a large flock to shepherd. Yet now every single one of the churches was ringing its bells. That was odd. Usually, only the cathedral rang its bells, and the smaller churches tended to ring theirs on festival days, or…
Accolon blinked, a darker thought threading its way through the haze of guilt and regret that had choked his mind for months.
Or the churches would ring their bells in times of crisis, if there was a fire inside the town walls. Most of Castarium’s houses were built of brick, so it was unlikely flames could devour the entire town, but there was still plenty that could be lost in a fire.
Or if there was an attacker outside the walls.
That was a ludicrous thought. Castarium was on the southern edge of Taliand, only three days’ ride from Tarlion itself. This was perhaps one of the safest places in the realm of Andomhaim, hundreds of miles from the Mhorites or the medvarth or the dangers of the Wilderland. That was one of the reasons Accolon had come here for his penance. He wouldn’t be disturbed by the outside world until he had finished confessing his sins and found a measure of peace over his guilt.
An even darker thought penetrated his remorse. Perhaps Tarlion was the safest place in the realm, defended by both the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Swordbearers…but thirteen years ago, the Frostborn had broken Tarlion’s gate and nearly destroyed the realm of Andomhaim. Nowhere in the world was ever completely safe. Even Caitrin in her room in one of Tarlion’s best inns had not been safe from the shadows within her own mind.
Distant shouting came to Accolon’s ears and something that sounded like steel ringing against steel.
Nowhere was ever completely safe.
His experiences as a knight and a soldier took over, and Accolon stepped towards the door to the courtyard, intent on finding out what was happening. A novice was supposed to remain in his quarters or at his tasks unless instructed otherwise by a brother of the monastery, but for the moment Accolon disregarded that. Abbot Caldorman and Prior Simon were wise men, spiritual men, but they were not worldly men. More to the point, they were not men of action. If there was a crisis, he suspected they would be overwhelmed.
He reached for the door and froze in surprise.
The door hung poorly in its frame, and there were small gaps between the planks. Through those gaps, Accolon saw a faint blue glow. His first thought was that one of the moons that gave off blue light was out tonight. But while he was no expert on the positions of the thirteen moons, he didn’t think any of those moons were out tonight, and besides it was almost dawn. The moonlight wouldn’t be that bright.
He had seen magical spells that produced light like that. Spells of dark magic and the peculiar ice magic of the khaldjari created a similar glow. For that matter, both Queen Mara and Lady Third could use the power of their blood to travel, and that created a blue flash when they used their power.
The thought of Mara of the Anathgrimm froze Accolon, and another wave of shame went through him. Not from his failings with Caitrin and her unborn child, but for a different reason. Mara hadn’t wanted to become Queen of the Anathgrimm, had wanted to live out her life quietly with Jager someplace. Yet she had desired to undo the evil work of her father, and so she had taken up the burden of leading the Anathgrimm. Accolon could only imagine what she would say if she saw him here, hiding from his responsibilities while he wrestled with the guilt. And she had been a sister of the Red Family of Cintarra. Surely, she had seen darker things than he had.
For that matter, what would Lady Third say? He could imagine her staring at him with those cold, flat black eyes, and questioning him (in a calm and reasonable voice) just what he hoped to accomplish by fasting himself to exhaustion and praying all day. He had seen Caitrin’s hanged corpse…but Third had been an urdhracos for a thousand years. She had seen worse things than Accolon would.
She had done worse things than Accolon had ever done.
For just an instant, those thoughts passed through his brain, then Accolon steeled himself and pushed open the door.
At once, he saw the source of the blue light.
The monastery’s wide, grassy courtyard was quiet. Quieter than it should have been, come to think of it. The brothers assigned to the bakery, the laundry, and the kitchens should have been hard at work, going about their tasks for the day. Though Accolon had noted that the sin of sloth seemed prevalent among the monks of St. Bartholomew, though it was not his place to point that out. But even so, the courtyard was quiet.
Which made the rift in the air all the stranger by contrast.
It hovered in the air halfway between the gate to the town and the monastery church. It was a jagged, uneven square about fifteen feet high and fifteen feet across. The air within it rippled and twisted, and through the rift, Accolon saw what looked like a burning forest. No, that wasn’t right. The forest wasn’t burning, but the sky was on fire. The edges of the rift were lined in blue flame, which explained the glow that had leaked through the door.
Accolon had seen something like this before. When Lord Ridmark had still been the Dragon Knight, he had possessed the power to open gates like this at will. He had given up the Sword of the Dragon Knight, though Accolon had heard that Oathshield possessed the power to open similar gates on a lesser scale. Yet Accolon could not think of why Ridmark would possibly have opened a gate in the middle of the monastery’s courtyard.
And Accolon had no idea what the blue-skinned creatures wandering around the gate were.
He had never seen anything like them. They had the pointed ears common among orcs and elves, but the creatures stood only about the height of dwarves, five and a half feet at the most. Their skin was a deep blue,
and they had sulfurous yellow eyes with vertical black pupils. The creatures had black claws rising from the ends of their fingers, and to judge from the shape of their boots, they had similar claws on their toes. Shocks of greasy black hair crowned their heads, and the creatures wore chain mail and carried short swords.
Were they a nation of orcs he had never encountered? Perhaps they were the source of the rumors of red orcs that had reached even into the quiet cloister of St. Bartholomew. Yet these creatures were blue, not red, and not even deep orcs were that short.
A boot rasped against grass, and Accolon whirled.
One of the blue-skinned creatures stepped towards him. It had been moving along the curtain wall, and it had come up behind him. Up close, the creature looked even more unsettling, and when it smiled at him, Accolon saw that its mouth was full of needle-like fangs. The creature took another step and lifted a steel short sword in its right hand.
“Who are you?” said Accolon in Latin. He wondered if the creature even spoke that language. “You will identify yourself at once!”
Some of his old tone of princely command slipped into his voice. It must have worked, because the creature came to a stop, regarding him.
“Foolish human,” said the creature. It spoke Latin with a strange, jagged accent. “The days of your kindred have passed. Your Emperor is dead. The Valedictor has fallen, but the Signifier will slay you all.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Accolon.
“Then die in ignorance,” said the creature.
It lunged at him, short sword stabbing for his chest. Accolon’s robe would provide no protection against a steel blade. Yet he had seen the change in the creature’s stance, how its footing had changed. Ridmark and Kharlacht and Bishop Caius had taught Accolon how to fight, and they had all agreed that while a swordsman’s eyes and hands and tongue could lie, his footing could not.
So Accolon saw the thrust coming, and he dodged. His strength had waned during his months of fasting and prayer, but his reflexes had not. The thrust missed him, and the creature stumbled, trying to get its balance back. Accolon hammered the heel of his foot into the back of the creature’s right knee. Its leg folded, and Accolon punched it in the side of the head. The creature stumbled, and Accolon seized its right wrist and twisted. The sword fell from the creature’s clawed fingers, and Accolon grabbed the hilt and stepped back, pointing the weapon. The sword’s balance felt strange in his hand, but it was well-maintained and sharp.
“I suggest,” said Accolon, “that you answer my question, or…”
The creature snarled and gestured with its left hand, and fire blazed to life around its fingers. Accolon had been around enough wizards to realize what was happening. The creature, whatever it was, could wield magic, and it was about to use its power to kill him.
Accolon slashed the sword, grasping the hilt with a two-handed grip. Using a short sword with a two-handed grip was challenging, especially for a man of his height, but his aim was true, and the creature’s attention was on its spell. Accolon took off its left hand, and blue-black blood spurted from the stump. The creature rocked back with a furious screech, and Accolon ripped the stolen sword across its throat. More blue-black blood welled from the wound, and the creature fell to its knees.
Unfortunately, its cry drew the attention of others. A dozen of the creatures stood near the gate, and all of them whirled, seeing Accolon with the bloody sword in hand and their comrade dying at his feet. All the creatures began gesturing, fire and lightning and freezing mist swirling around their fingers.
They all could cast spells?
In the horrible months since Caitrin’s suicide, Accolon had thought he deserved death, more than once. He wouldn’t kill himself, for suicide was a mortal sin, and he had enough of those on his conscience already. But he had thought a just God would send a thunderbolt to kill him, to blast him dead for his failings.
That said, while Accolon suspected he deserved death, he didn’t think he deserved to get blasted by blue-skinned creatures that had emerged from a mysterious hole in the air. The creatures thrust their hands, and Accolon whirled and threw himself to the side. A volley of lightning and fire shot over his head and slammed into the curtain wall. A thunderclap rang out, and splinters of hot stone tumbled through the air.
Accolon heaved himself back to his feet, bloody short sword in hand, and the creatures charged him. Why not use magic again? Perhaps they needed to rest to recover their strength before they worked another spell. Even the Keeper needed to recover her powers, though she was far stronger than any of these creatures.
But even without magic, they could kill him quite handily with their swords.
Accolon needed to get out of the courtyard, right now. If he stood here, the creatures would encircle and kill him. He looked around, trying to find a good defensive location. The stables? No, he would be trapped, and they could burn the building down on top of him. The laundry? It was built of brick, so they couldn’t burn it, but he would be trapped nonetheless. Perhaps the stairs to the rampart would serve. The curtain wall had battlements and a rampart since the builders of the monastery had foreseen that it might one day come under attack. A flight of narrow stone steps led up to the ramparts near the gate, and Accolon might be able to hold the creatures off there.
Though to what end, he didn’t know. Could he hold until help arrived? He doubted that any would come from the monastery. Whatever their virtues, the monks were not fighting men. Perhaps Accolon could escape to the watch tower where the town’s walls connected to those of the monastery, and then rouse the men of Castarium. If the town was coming under attack, then Lord Ridmark had to know.
Accolon reached the stairs, sprinted halfway up them, and whirled. The blue-skinned creatures were right on his heels, and Accolon thrust. His higher position and longer reach let him take the nearest creature in the throat, and his foe collapsed and fell off the narrow stairs. The next attacker lunged at him, and Accolon parried and hit the creature in the forehead with the pommel of his sword. The thing stumbled, and Accolon killed it with a vicious stab to the armpit. The creature fell back into the others, and the rest prepared to charge up the narrow stairs.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and sweat dripped down his face and back, but strangely, Accolon felt better than he had in months.
It seemed that he was not ready to die quite yet.
Though as he watched the creatures, he suspected that death had found him nonetheless.
***
Chapter 11: The Swordbearer & The Thief
Niall of Ebor slept in a pile of hay, and for the first time in weeks, he slept soundly, his mind untroubled by fears and worries.
The praefectus Flavius had handed him over to the master of Lord Ridmark’s stable, a scowling old man named Titus. Titus had a sour glint in his eye, and a tongue to match, and in the first ten minutes he had questioned Niall’s parentage, skill, intelligence, and had hinted that perhaps Niall had stolen that pig from the monastery for carnal purposes. Yet Titus went about his duties with diligence, and in the first hour of Niall’s work in the stables, Titus’s volley of invective had shifted to a stream of commands, which Niall carried out at once.
Niall knew about horses, and he knew how to work. His aunt Rhiain had raised him after his parents had died, and she had tolerated neither laziness nor shiftlessness. Together they had managed to keep his uncle’s farm going, and while they had hardly been wealthy, neither had they starved. But that was all right. No one in Ebor was particularly wealthy, and everyone helped one another.
Then the fences had gone up.
Their lord, a fat old knight who never left the Prince’s glittering court in Cintarra, had ordered it. The mills owned by the Scepter Bank were paying great sums for wool to make into garments to sell to Owyllain, and a clever lord could make more money from sheep than he could from receiving crops from his tenants. The fields of Ebor had all been enclosed, and flocks of sheep grazed whe
re once grain and oats and barley had grown. Their lord had sent men to guard the fields, and when they had questioned their lord’s seneschal about what to do, the seneschal had replied that they could go to hell for all he cared.
The men of Ebor had no choice but to leave. There had been dark rumors about the enclosures in all the villages and towns along the River Cintarra for years, and now those rumors had come to Ebor. Some men whispered of revolt, that the evil men of the Regency Council had fed lies and calumnies to young Prince Tywall, who would never stand to see his people oppressed if he knew the truth. There were stories of a daring master thief in Cintarra, a wraith who humiliated the proud lords. Some of the dispossessed commoners said that the time had come to rise up and overthrow the Regency Council, to surround Prince Tywall with sober men who would give him sound counsel, rather than the fat merchants and greedy lords that flocked around the boy now.
But the men of Ebor had listened to other rumors. The lords of Cintarra had no use for their commoners, but the lords of the Northerland welcomed every man willing to settle in their harsh benefices. Granted, the Northerland was dangerous, but the men of Ebor had already lost their homes. What further danger could befall them? And other rumors said that there were lands available in Owyllain, though Owyllain was a dangerous abode of snakemen and ratmen and worse things, and some of the stories claimed that the lords of Owyllain were debauched on exotic spices and each kept twenty young concubines to slate their lust.
Some of the young men of Ebor thought that sounded pleasant.
Niall didn’t care. He just wanted to get through a planting season without seeing that weary, hungry look on his aunt’s face.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 15