A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) (3 page)

Kendrick charged across the arid desert landscape,
Brandt and Atme by his side, his half-dozen Silver beside them, all that
remained of the brotherhood of the Ring, riding together like old times. As
they rode, venturing out deeper and deeper into the Great Waste, Kendrick felt weighed
down by nostalgia and sadness; it made him remember his heyday in the Ring, surrounded
by Silver, by brothers in arms, riding out into battle, alongside thousands of
men. He had ridden with the finest knights the kingdom had to offer, each a
greater warrior than the next, and everywhere he had ridden, trumpets had sounded
and villagers had rushed out to greet him. He and his men had been welcome
everywhere, and they had always stayed up late into the night, recounting
stories of battle, of valor, of skirmishes with monsters that emerged from the
canyon—or worse, from beyond the wild.

Kendrick blinked, dust in his eyes, snapping
out of it. He was in a different time now, a different place. He looked over
and saw the eight men of the Silver, and expected to see thousands more
alongside them. But reality slowly sank in, as he realized the eight of them
were all of what was left, and he realized how much had changed. Would those
days of glory ever be restored?

Kendrick’s idea of what made a warrior
had shifted over the years, and these days, he found himself feeling that what
made a warrior was not only skill and honor—but perseverance. The ability to go
on. Life had a way of showering you with so many obstacles, calamities,
tragedies, losses—and most of all, so much change; he had lost more friends
than he could count, and the King he had lived his life for no longer even
lived. His very homeland had disappeared. And yet still, he went on, even when
he didn’t know what for. He was searching for it, he knew. And it was that
ability to go on, perhaps most of all, that made a warrior, that made a man
stand the test of time when so many others fell away. It was what separated
true warriors from fleeting ones.

“SAND WALL AHEAD!” shouted a voice.

It was a foreign voice, one that
Kendrick was still getting used to, and he looked over to see Koldo, the King’s
eldest son, his black skin standing out amongst the group, leading the pack of soldiers
from the Ridge. In the brief time Kendrick had known him, he had already come
to respect Koldo, watching the way he led his men, and the way they looked up
to him. He was a knight whom Kendrick was proud to ride beside.

Koldo pointed to the horizon and
Kendrick looked out and saw what he was pointing to—in fact, he heard it before
he saw it. It was a shrill whistling, like a windstorm, and Kendrick recalled
his time in the Waste, being dragged through it semi-conscious. He recalled the
raging sands, churning like a tornado that never went away, forming a solid
wall and rising to the sky. It had looked impermeable, like a real wall, and it
helped obscure the Ridge from the rest of the Empire.

As the whistling grew louder, Kendrick dreaded
re-entering.

“SCARVES!” commanded a voice.

Kendrick saw Ludvig, the elder of the King’s
twins, stretching out a long, mesh white cloth and wrapping it over his face.
One by one the other soldiers followed his lead and did the same.

There came riding up beside Kendrick the
soldier who had introduced himself as Naten, a man Kendrick recalled taking an
instant dislike to. He was rebellious of Kendrick’s assigned command, and
disrespectful.

Naten smirked over at Kendrick and his
men as he rode closer.

“You think you lead this mission,” he
said, “just because the King assigned you. Yet you don’t even know enough to
cover your men from the Sand Wall.”

Kendrick glared back at the man, seeing
in his eyes that he held an unprovoked hatred for him. At first Kendrick had
thought that perhaps he had just been threatened by him, an outsider—but now he
could see that this was just a man who loved to hate.

“Give him the scarves!” Koldo yelled out
to Naten, impatient.

After some more time passed and the wall
came even closer, the sands raging, Naten finally reached down and threw the
sack of scarves at Kendrick, hitting him roughly in the chest as he rode.

“Distribute these to your men,” he said,
“or end up cut up by the wall. It’s your choice—I don’t really care.”

Naten rode off, veering back to his men,
and Kendrick quickly distributed the scarves to his men, riding up beside each
one and handing them off. Kendrick then wrapped his own scarf about his head
and face, as the others from the Ridge did, wrapping it around again and again,
until he felt secure yet could still breathe. He could barely see through it,
the world obscured, blurry in the light.

Kendrick braced himself as they charged
closer and the sounds of the swirling sands became deafening. Already fifty
yard away, the air was filled with the sound of sand bouncing off armor. A
moment later, he felt it.

Kendrick plunged into the Sand Wall, and
it was like immersing himself in a churning ocean of sand. The noise was so
loud he could barely hear the pounding of his own heart in his ears, as the
sand embraced every inch of his body, fighting to get in, to tear him apart.
The swirling sands were so intense, he could not even see Brandt or Atme, just
a few feet beside him.

“KEEP RIDING!” Kendrick called out to
his men, wondering if any of them could even hear him, reassuring himself as
much as them. The horses were neighing like crazy, slowing down, acting oddly,
and Kendrick looked down and saw the sand getting in their eyes. He kicked
harder, praying his horse didn’t stop where it was.

Kendrick kept charging and charging, thinking
it would never end—and then, finally, gratefully, he emerged. He charged out
the other side, his men beside him, back out into the Great Waste, open sky and
emptiness waiting to greet him on the other side. The Sand Wall gradually
calmed as they rode further, and as calm was restored, Kendrick noticed the men
of the Ridge looking at him and his men with surprise.

“Didn’t think we’d survive?” Kendrick
asked Naten as he gaped back.

Naten shrugged.

“I wouldn’t care either way,” he said,
and rode off with his men.

Kendrick exchanged a look with Brandt
and Atme, as they all wondered again about these men from the Ridge. Kendrick
sensed it would be a long and hard road to earn their trust. After all, he and
his men were outsiders, and they had been the ones who had created this trail and
caused them trouble.

“Up ahead!” Koldo yelled.

Kendrick looked up and saw there, in the
desert, the trail left by him and the others of the Ring. He saw all their
footsteps, now hardened in the sand, leading off to the horizon.

Koldo came to a stop where they ended,
pausing, and all the others did, too, their horses breathing hard. They all
looked down, studying them.

“I would have expected the desert to
wash them away,” Kendrick said, surprised.

Naten sneered back at him.

“This desert doesn’t wash anything away.
It never rains—and it remembers everything. These prints of yours would have
led them right to us—and would have led to the downfall of the Ridge.”

“Stop riding him,” Koldo said to Naten
darkly, his voice stern with authority.

They all turned to see him close by, and
Kendrick felt a rush of gratitude toward him.

“Why should I?” Naten replied. “These
people created this problem. I could be back, safe and sound, in the Ridge
right now.”

“Keep it up,” Koldo said, “and I will
send you home right now. You will be kicked off our mission and will explain to
the King why you treated his appointed commander with disrespect.”

Naten, finally humbled, looked down and
rode off to the other side of the group.

Koldo looked over to Kendrick, nodding
at him with respect, one commander to another.

“I apologize for my men’s insubordination,”
he said. “As I am sure you know, a commander cannot always speak for all of his
men.”

Kendrick nodded back in respect, admiring
Koldo more than ever.

“Is this then the trail of your people?”
Koldo asked, looking down.

Kendrick nodded.

“Apparently so.”

Koldo sighed, turning and following it.

“We shall follow it until it ends,” he
said. “Once we reach its end, we will backtrack and erase it.”

Kendrick was puzzled.

“But won’t we leave a trail of our own
upon coming back?”

Koldo gestured, and Kendrick followed
his glance to see, affixed to the back of his men’s horses, several devices
that looked like rakes.

“Sweepers,” Ludvig explained, coming up
beside Koldo. “They will erase our trail as we ride.”

Koldo smiled.

“This is what has kept the Ridge
invisible from our enemies for centuries.”

Kendrick admired the ingenious devices,
and there came a shout as the men all kicked their horses, turned and followed
the trail, galloping through the desert, back into the Waste, toward a horizon
of emptiness. Despite himself, Kendrick glanced back as they went, took one
last look at the Sand Wall, and for some reason, was overcome by a feeling that
they would never, ever, return.

Erec stood at the bow of the ship, Alistair
and Strom beside him, and looked out at the narrowing river with worry. Following
close behind was his small fleet, all that remained of what had set out from
the Southern Isles, all snaking their way up this endless river, deeper and
deeper into the heart of the Empire. At some points this river had been as wide
as an ocean, its banks no longer in sight, and its waters clear; but now Erec
saw, on the horizon, it narrowed, closing into a chokepoint of perhaps only twenty
yards wide, and its waters becoming murky.

The professional soldier within Erec was
on high alert. He did not like confined spaces when leading men, and the
narrowing river, he knew, would leave his fleet more susceptible to ambush. Erec
glanced back over his shoulder and saw no sign of the massive Empire fleet they
had escaped at sea; but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there, somewhere. He
knew they would never give up the pursuit until they had found him.

Hands on his hips, Erec turned back and narrowed
his eyes, studying the forlorn Empire lands on either side, stretching
endlessly, a ground of dried sand and hard rock, lacking trees, lacking any
sign of any civilization. Erec scanned the river banks and was grateful, at
least, to spot no forts or Empire battalions positioned alongside the river. He
wanted to sail his fleet upriver to Volusia as quickly as possible, find Gwendolyn
and the others, and liberate them—and get out of here. He would sail them back
across the sea to the safety of the Southern Isles, where he could protect
them. He didn’t want any distractions along the way.

Yet on the other hand, the ominous
silence, the desolate landscape, also left him to worry: was the Empire hiding
out there, waiting in ambush?

There was an even greater danger out
there, Erec knew, than a pending attack by the enemy, and that was starving to
death. It was a much more pressing concern. They were crossing what was
essentially a desert wasteland, and all their provisions below had nearly run
out. As Erec stood there, he could feel the grumbling in his belly, having
rationed himself and the others to one meal a day for far too many days. He
knew that if some bounty didn’t appear on the landscape soon, they would have a
much bigger problem on their hands. Would this river ever end? he wondered. What
if they never found Volusia?

And worse: what if Gwendolyn and the
others were no longer there? Or already dead?

“Another one!” Strom called out.

Erec turned to see one of his men yanking
up a fishing line, a bright yellow fish at the end, flopping all over the deck.
The sailor stepped on it, and Erec crowded around with the others and looked
down. He shook his head in disappointment: two heads. It was another one of the
poisonous fish that seemed to live in abundance in this river.

“This river is damned,” his man said,
hurling down the fishing rod.

Erec walked back to the rail and studied
the waters with disappointment. He sensed a presence and turned to see Strom
come up beside him.

“And if this river does not lead us to
Volusia?” Strom asked.

Erec spotted concern in his brother’s
face, and he shared it.

“It will lead us somewhere,” Erec replied.
“And it brings us north. If not to Volusia, then we will cross land on foot and
fight our way.”

“Should we abandon our ships then? How
shall we ever flee this place? Return to the Southern Isles?”

Erec slowly shook his head and sighed.

“We might not,” he answered honestly.
“No quest of honor is safe. And has that ever stopped you or I?”

Strom turned to him and smiled.

“That is what we live for,” he replied.

Erec smiled back and turned to see
Alistair come up on his other side, holding the rail and looking out at the
river, which was narrowing as they sailed. Her eyes were glazed and had a
distant look, and Erec could sense she was lost in another world. He had
noticed something else had changed about her, too—he was not sure what, as if
there was some secret she were holding back. He was dying to ask her, but he
did not wish to pry.

A chorus of horns sounded, and Erec,
startled, turned and looked back. His heart fell as he saw what loomed.

“CLOSING IN FAST!” shouted a sailor from
up high on the mast, pointing frantically. “EMPIRE FLEET!”

Erec ran across the deck, back to the stern,
accompanied by Strom, racing past all of his men, all of them in battle mode, grabbing
their swords, preparing their bows, mentally preparing themselves.

Erec reached the stern and gripped the
rail and looked out, and he saw it was true: there, at a bend in the river, just
a few hundred yards away, was a row of Empire ships, sailing their black and
gold sails.

“They must have found our trail,” Strom
said beside him.

Erec shook his head.

“They were following us the whole time,”
he said, realizing. “They were just waiting to show themselves.”

“Waiting for what?” Strom asked.

Erec turned and looked back over his
shoulder, upriver.

“That,” he said.

Strom turned and studied the narrowing
river.

“They waited until the river’s most
narrow point,” Erec said. “Waited until we had to sail single file and were too
deep to turn back. They’ve got us exactly where they want us.”

Erec looked back at the fleet, and as he
stood there, he felt an incredible sense of focus, as he often did when leading
his men and finding himself in times of crisis. He felt another sense kick in,
and as often happened in times like these, an idea occurred to him.

Erec turned to his brother.

“Man that ship beside us,” he commanded.
“Take up the rear of our fleet. Get every man off of it—have them board the
ship beside it. Do you hear me? Empty that ship. When the ship is empty, you’ll
be the last to leave it.”

Strom looked back, confused.

“When the ship is empty?” he echoed. “I
don’t understand.”

“I plan to wreck it.”

“To wreck it?” Strom asked, dumbfounded.

Erec nodded.

“At the most narrow point, where the
river banks meet, you will turn that ship sideways and abandon it. It will
create a wedge—the dam that we need. No one will be able to follow us. Now go!”
Erec yelled.

Strom jumped into action, following his
brother’s orders, to his credit, whether he agreed with them or not. Erec sailed
his ship alongside his others and Strom leapt from one rail to the other. As he
landed on the other ship, he began barking orders, and the men broke into
action, all of them jumping, one at a time, off their ship and onto Erec’s.

Erec was concerned as he watched their
ships begin to drift apart.

“Man the ropes!” Erec called out to his
men. “Use the hooks—hold the ships together!”

His men followed his command, running to
the side of the ship, hoisting the grappling hooks and throwing them through
the air, hooking them onto the ship beside them and yanking with all their
might so that the ships stopped drifting apart. It sped up the process, and
dozens of men leapt from one rail to the other, all grabbing their weapons
hastily as they abandoned the ship.

Strom supervised, yelling orders, making
sure each man left the ship, corralling them all until there was no left on
board.

Strom caught Erec’s eye, as Erec watched
with approval.

“And what of the ship’s provisions?”
Strom yelled out above the din. “And its surplus weaponry?”

Erec shook his head.

“Let it go,” he called back. “Just take
up our rear and destroy the ship.”

Erec turned and ran to the bow, leading
his fleet as they all followed him and sailed into the bottleneck.

“SINGLE FILE!”

All his ships fell in behind him as the
river tapered to its narrowest point. Erec sailed through with his fleet, and
as he did, he glanced back and saw the Empire fleet closing in fast, now hardly
a hundred yards away. He watched hundreds of Empire troops man their bows and
prepare their arrows, setting them on fire. He knew they were nearly in range;
there was little time to waste.

“NOW!” Erec yelled to Strom, just as
Strom’s ship, the last of the fleet, entered the narrowest point.

Strom, watching and waiting, raised his
sword and slashed half the ropes attaching his ship to Erec’s, at the same time
jumping ship over to Erec’s side. He cut them just as the abandoned ship sailed
into the bottleneck, and it immediately floundered, rudderless.

“TURN IT SIDEWAYS!” Erec commanded his
men.

His men all reached out and grabbed the
ropes that remained on one side of the ship and yanked as hard as they could, until
the ship, groaning in protest, slowly turned its way sideways against the
current. Finally, the current carrying it, it lodged itself firmly in the
rocks, crammed between the two river banks, its wood groaning and beginning to
crack.

“PULL HARDER!” Erec yelled.

They pulled and pulled and Erec hurried
over and joined them, all of them groaning as they yanked with all their might.
Slowly, they managed to turn the ship, holding it tight as it lodged more and
more deeply into the rocks.

As the ship stopped moving, firmly
lodged, finally Erec was satisfied.

“CUT THE ROPES!” he yelled, knowing it
was now or never, feeling his own ship begin to falter.

Erec’s men slashed the remaining ropes,
disentangling his ship—and not a moment too soon.

The abandoned ship began cracking
collapsing, its wreckage firmly blocking the river—and a moment later, the sky
turned black as a host of flaming Empire arrows descended for Erec’s fleet.

Erec had maneuvered his men out of
harm’s way just in time: the arrows all landed on the abandoned ship, falling
twenty feet short of Erec’s fleet, and they served only to set the ship aflame,
creating yet another obstacle between them and the Empire. Now, the river would
be impassable.

“Full sail ahead!” Erec yelled.

His fleet sailed with all they had,
catching the wind, distancing themselves from their blockade, and sailing
farther and farther north, harmlessly out of the way of the Empire’s arrows.
Another volley of arrows came, and these landed in the water, splashing and
hissing all around the ship as they hit the water.

As they continued sailing, Erec stood at
the bow and watched, and he looked out with satisfaction as he watched the
Empire fleet come to a halt before the flaming ship. One of the Empire ships
fearlessly tried to ram it—but all it got for its efforts was to catch fire;
hundreds of Empire soldiers cried out, engulfed in flames, and jumped overboard—and
their flaming ship created an even deeper sea of wreckage. Looking at it, Erec figured
the Empire would not be able to get through for several days.

Erec felt a strong hand clasp his
shoulder, and he looked over to see Strom standing beside him, smiling.

“One of your more inspired strategies,”
he said.

Erec smiled back.

“Well done,” he replied.

Erec turned and looked back upriver, the
waters snaking every which way, and he did not take comfort yet. They had won
this battle—but who knew what obstacles lay ahead?