“As am I,” said Ridmark. “But we need another Swordbearer, and we need one now. It’s going to be you, Accolon.”
“But…” said Accolon.
“Decide,” said Ridmark. “If you don’t want to take up the soulblade, fine. I’ll find someone else. But if you decide against this, if you hide here in the monastery, you’ll have something new on your conscience. Maybe you’ll never forgive yourself for Caitrin Rhosmor. But if you hide here, you’ll never forgive yourself for that, either. Not ever.”
Accolon said nothing. His mind flashed back to the horrible scene of Caitrin hanging limp from the ceiling. He could not escape that image. But other images flashed before his eyes, things that had not happened yet, but might. He saw Castarium burning as the goblins rampaged through the town, saw women and children butchered in their homes. Accolon had seen such things during the Frostborn war, and he might see them again.
Perhaps he had damned himself for his failure with Caitrin, but he could not turn his back on Castarium, not now.
“I’ll do it,” said Accolon.
Ridmark nodded, held out Hopesinger’s hilt to him. “Take the hilt in both hands and kneel.”
Accolon took the sword and knelt, Hopesinger’s hilt grasped in both his hands. The sword was motionless, but the soulblade seemed to let out an angry thrum. Soulblades only allowed their bonded wielders to use them and inflicted crippling agony followed by death on anyone else who presumed to wield them. Hopesinger didn’t have a bonded wielder at the moment, but if Accolon tried to draw the sword, he knew it would kill him.
Ridmark drew Oathshield and rested the tip of the sword on Accolon’s right shoulder.
“Accolon Pendragon, Prince of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “Do you swear in the name of God and the Dominus Christus to wield this soulblade against creatures of dark magic? If you agree, say that you so swear.”
Accolon drew a deep breath. Swordbearers died on the field of battle often, and their soulblades were too valuable and potent to lie idle. Traditionally, soulblades were taken back to the Castra of the Swordbearers in Tarlion, where the Master of the Order would give them to worthy knights. But on the field of battle, in times of emergency, any Knight of the Soulblade had the authority to create new Swordbearers with the soulblades of fallen knights.
It was easy. All it took was a solemn, binding oath…but swearing the oath of a Knight of the Soulblade had sharper consequences than most vows.
“I so swear,” said Accolon.
“Do you swear to defend the weak, to succor the orphan, to guard the widow, and to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves?”
“I so swear.”
“Do you swear to stand ever vigilant against the urdmordar, the dark elves, the dvargir, the undead, the Frostborn, and any other creatures of dark magic or wielders of dark magic?”
“I so swear.”
Ridmark nodded. “Do you swear to keep to all these promises in the face of torment and death?”
“I so swear,” said Accolon, his fingers tight against Hopesinger’s hilt.
Ridmark lifted Oathshield and placed the blade on Accolon’s other shoulder. “Then by my authority as a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, I grant you the soulblade Hopesinger. Wield it wisely and well and hold always to your oaths.”
White fire blazed along Oathshield’s blue length, and Hopesinger answered with a similar fire. The white flames sank into Accolon, and he gasped as a strange feeling flooded through his mind. It felt almost as if he had grown another limb. He felt the link to the soulblade, sensed his connection the weapon. It was a source of power he could draw on when necessary, using it to make himself faster and stronger. And he felt the sword’s will, its hatred of dark magic and all who would use it.
“Then rise, Knight of the Soulblade,” said Ridmark, stepping back and sheathing his sword.
Accolon took a shaking breath and got to his feet, Hopesinger in both hands. “That…felt strange.”
“You’ll get used to it,” said Ridmark. “Let’s move.”
“Lord Ridmark!”
Accolon paused, and Ridmark turned towards the monastery church. The doors had opened, and Abbot Caldorman, Prior Simon, and a dozen other monks hurried towards them, their expressions shocked.
“What is going on?” said Caldorman. “We saw that there were foes in the town, and we retreated into the crypt. Then we heard the sounds of fighting.”
His eyes fell onto Accolon, and the abbot’s frown deepened as he saw the soulblade and the bloodstains on his robe.
“I don’t yet know,” said Ridmark. “Creatures calling themselves goblins are emerging from magical rifts and attacking the town. I suggest you remain within the church or the dormitory and wait until I send word that the foe has been defeated.”
“Wait,” said Calliande. “You were all taking shelter in the crypt. Why was Accolon not with you?”
Ridmark looked at his wife, and then back at Caldorman, his eyes narrowed.
“The novice was in the doorkeeper’s lodge,” said Caldorman.
“Why?” said Ridmark. “I thought that position was to be held by a full brother.”
“As you know, the spiritual welfare of all those within these walls is in my care, Comes,” said Caldorman. “Given the struggles the novice Accolon has undertaken within his soul, I thought a night’s vigil in the doorkeeper’s lodge would serve him well.”
“Then once you saw the goblins attacking,” said Ridmark, “why did you not get him?”
Caldorman spread his thick hands. “There was no time. We had no choice but to barricade ourselves in the crypt. We hoped and prayed for the novice’s safety, of course.” He frowned. “Though it appears the novice has shed blood.”
“In defense of his life against the goblins,” said Caius.
Caldorman did not deign to answer. “I do not tell you how to defend the town, Lord Ridmark, but I suggest you do not tell me how to oversee the monastery that God had placed into my care.”
Calliande scowled at that, but Ridmark did not seem to care. “Fine. Remain here and stay out of the way until the fighting is over. Once I know more, I will inform you.” He looked at Accolon, and then at the others. “We’re leaving.”
“Novice Accolon!” said Caldorman, his voice cracking like a whip. “You will put down that weapon and come with me.”
“I cannot,” said Accolon, “as I have taken the vows of a Knight of the Soulblade.”
“What?” said Caldorman, sudden fury filling his voice. “You have done what? This is egregious! You have taken the oaths of a novice of the monastery…”
“A novice’s oaths are only temporary, you know that,” said Caius, his tone calm and reasonable, “and can be dismissed at any time if the novice feels that God has called him to a path other than the stern one of the monastic life. Clearly, that is the case for Prince Accolon. Both the town of Castarium and the monastery have sore need of Swordbearers to defend them, for all the goblins seem able to use magic.”
“You will come with me now!” said Caldorman, ignoring Caius. “You put your soul in grave peril if you go back into the world and its temptations.”
“I am sorry, abbot,” said Accolon. “I have already committed grave sins. But my conscience tells me I would commit another if I turned aside from my people and my duties in this hour of peril.”
Caldorman said nothing, but he almost went purple with rage.
A sudden flicker of disgust went through Accolon. Ever since his father had become the High King, he had been surrounded by men who sought to use Accolon’s position as heir to the throne for personal advancement. Accolon had used that his own advantage, of course – likely some of his lovers had been with him because of that. But Accolon had thought better of Abbot Caldorman, thought him a man who despised temporal things for the spiritual.
Yet if Accolon had not been the crown prince, would Caldorman have protested so much?
Accolon thought not.
So
mething of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Caldorman tried to force his temper back. “Accolon, my son, this is for your own good. You must lay aside worldly things to focus upon the spiritual.”
“I’m sorry,” said Accolon, and he turned to Ridmark. “My lord?”
“Let’s move,” said Ridmark, and they left the monastery, Caldorman staring after him.
The abbot looked furious. But more than that…Accolon thought that the abbot looked afraid, that his rage sprang from sudden terror.
Was he that frightened of the goblin attack?
Yes, that had to be it.
***
Chapter 13: Sword & Fire
Ridmark hurried through the northern street of Castarium.
The hour after he had left the monastery had been busy, with messengers running back and forth as he issued his commands. All the rifts inside the walls had been closed, and Antenora and Calliande had laid a ward over the standing stone, preventing it from opening any more gates. The surviving goblins had been hunted down and killed, and the militia had been summoned and organized, set to guard the town’s walls and make sure the goblins did not get inside. Ridmark had also dispatched a company of militia to watch the outer walls of the monastery. No doubt Abbot Caldorman would howl at this usurpation of his authority, but Ridmark didn’t care. If the goblins got into the monastery, they would kill the monks and turn it into their stronghold, and the town might not survive that.
And they had to move at once. Calliande and Antenora reported at there were three more gates outside the town walls. One was about a mile to the north and the second a mile to the west, and the third two miles north of the first. The men on the walls had already spotted the distant shapes of goblin warriors and more of those greenish-gray giants, and a red dragon had been seen circling over the fields. A steady stream of fleeing villagers had approached the gates, seeking shelter inside Castarium, and they told a tale of strange raiders attacking their fields, and all of them had seen the red dragon.
A powerful force had come out of the three gates to the north. Perhaps a stronger force than Ridmark would be able to defeat. If a goblin army had emerged from the gates, Ridmark would have to wait inside the walls and prepare for a siege. Either Calliande or Antenora could send messages to the other Magistri in Tarlion, and they would summon reinforcements.
But the sooner Ridmark closed the rifts, the better.
He walked to his horse and swung into the saddle, shifting Aegisikon into its staff form. Behind him, thirty of his men-at-arms mounted, along with Calliande and Antenora. A mixed force of his remaining men-at-arms, town militia, and Kharlacht’s warriors would accompany him. Sir Longinus would be left behind to command the town until Ridmark and the others returned. Hopefully, they could close the rifts and return swiftly.
If not…Ridmark would deal with that if it happened.
“Are you ready?” said Ridmark to Accolon.
Accolon sat atop a nearby horse, his expression grave. He had changed from his novice’s robe to chain mail and leather, a wooden shield on his left arm. Fortunately, there had been mail in the armory that would fit him. He looked thinner than Ridmark remembered, but his expression was determined.
“Aye,” said Accolon. “At least the goblins aren’t as strong as the medvarth, and they can’t fly the way the locusari can.”
“No,” said Ridmark. The enemy did have at least one dragon, though, perhaps ridden by another of those gray-skinned elves. Still, Antenora and Calliande had been able to defeat the green dragon. Likely they could deal with another. “Vegetius! Are we ready?”
“Aye, my lord,” said Vegetius from where he stood with the footmen. “We’ll give these blue devils a whipping and send them back to wherever they came from.”
“Good,” said Ridmark. He raised his voice. “Open the gate!”
The men at the gate retracted the bars and swung the heavy doors open. Ridmark rode through the gate and onto the road, the others following him. In the distance, he saw plumes of black smoke rising against the mid-morning sky. His mouth tightened in a hard line. The smoke came from burning barns and houses, from the homes of people under the protection of the Comes of Castarium. Ridmark might not have been able to protect them all, but he would at least drive the invaders from this land.
“The nearest rift is that way,” said Calliande, pointing with her staff.
“Then we’ll start there,” said Ridmark. “Vegetius?”
Vegetius picked four of the mounted men-at-arms to act as scouts and sent them riding to the north. The rest of the horsemen followed at a more sedate pace, while the footmen marched behind. They had covered about half a mile when the scouts came riding back, and Ridmark glimpsed the blue glow in the distance, coming from a small copse of trees.
“We’ve found the rift, my lord,” said one of the scouts. “It’s just to the east of those trees. There are two or three score of goblins there, along with a half-dozen of those giants.”
“Fewer than we expected,” said Calliande. “If we hit them hard, we might be able to push them back from the gate.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, thinking it over. “All right. This is what we’ll do.”
He laid out his plan. No one objected though Kharlacht’s warriors seemed disappointed to know that they would not be at the forefront of the attack. But they were realistic enough to know they had little defense against the magic the goblins and the giants wielded.
They continued north, the footmen forming themselves into a line on the left, the horsemen on the right, and soon the gate came into sight. As the scouts had said, the rift was a dozen yards or so to the east of the trees. In front of the gate, Ridmark saw perhaps fifty goblins, along with six of the armored giants. The goblins saw the larger force approaching, and they began to array themselves into a shield wall, while the giants put themselves on the goblins’ left to counter the horsemen.
“Looks like they’re expecting our horsemen to flank them,” said Kharlacht.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, dismounting. Accolon followed suit. Swordbearers fought best on foot. Their soulblades made them stronger and faster, but that power did not extend to their horses. “We’ll make them come to us. Calliande?”
“We are ready,” said Calliande atop her horse, staff in hand.
“Then let us begin,” said Ridmark, stepping in front of the footmen. He glimpsed Niall of Ebor standing with the militia, sword ready, shield raised. The young man looked nervous, sweat glittering on his face, but the hands that held the sword and shield were steady as a rock.
Calliande lifted her staff and started casting a spell, and Antenora followed suit. A fireball the size of Antenora’s head whirled to life over the end of her black staff, and she made a pushing gesture with her free hand. The sphere of fire shot forward, soared over the field, and landed amid the goblins. It exploded with a roar, and a dozen goblins fell dead, their bodies wreathed in flames, and the blast even caught one of the armored giants.
Calliande finished her spell a second later and struck her staff against the ground. Lightning crackled up its length, and then a massive bolt of lightning fell from the sky with a tremendous thunderclap. It was a spell she had seen Tamara of the Arcanii use many times in Owyllain, and now Calliande employed it herself to good effect. Lightning usually struck the tallest object nearby, and magical lightning behaved no differently. The bolt of lightning forked to strike the steel-armored giants. The blast threw them to the ground, and the harsh smell of ozone flooded Ridmark’s nostrils. Some of the giants staggered to their feet, but others remained on the ground.
One of the goblins screamed something, and both the goblins and the surviving giants charged with a roar, weapons raised. A dozen of the goblins began casting spells as they ran, fire and freezing mist swirling around their fingers.
“Hold!” roared Vegetius as the militiamen began to shift uneasily. “Hold where you are! Hold!”
The goblins hurled bolts of fire and spear-lik
e shafts of glittering ice, but Calliande was ready. She thrust her staff and cast another spell, and a wall of translucent white light rolled forward. The warding spell would not have much power when spread over such a large area, but none of the goblins’ individual spells were that strong. The fire and lightning danced across the wall of light and then fizzled out.
“Accolon!” said Ridmark as more of the goblins began spells. “With me!”
The prince nodded and stepped after Ridmark, Hopesinger gripped in his right hand.
###
More of the goblin creatures charged forward, along with armored giants of a sort that Accolon had not seen before. They were as bulky as a medvarth, but taller and built like apes, though they seemed to have no trouble standing erect. Like the medvarth, they had claws and fangs. Unlike the medvarth, they had no fur, though their warty grayish-green hides seemed as tough as leather.
And like the goblins, they could all cast spells. None of them seemed to have the power of Calliande or the fury of Antenora, but they could use magic, and that was an alarming thought. The war against the Frostborn had been hard enough. How much deadlier would it have been if every single creature the Frostborn had commanded could wield the power of magic?
Accolon and Ridmark had walked ahead of the men, so the goblins and giants shifted their focus, aiming their spells at them.
“Accolon, now,” said Ridmark, voice hard, Oathshield coming up in his right hand.
Accolon called on Hopesinger’s power to defend against magic. He didn’t know how he did it, not precisely. The bond with the soulblade had appeared in his mind, and with it came instinctual knowledge of how to call upon the sword’s magic. Accolon did so now, and Hopesinger’s blade flashed with white fire.
A second later fire, lightning, and ice slammed against Accolon. He flinched in alarm, raising his shield to protect himself on reflex, but that proved unnecessary. The hostile magic shattered against Hopesinger’s glow, leaving him untouched.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 19