Black Kerthon's Doom (3 page)

Kaell found him in this room, his head buried in a book heedless of all else. Kaell watched him with a sneer on his lips, wishing he had the courage to sink a knife in the exposed back of his partner. He looked around the room and found nothing to interest him. He spat on the floor. Prosty did not turn around.

"Ah, Kaell, by the sound. Welcome to my little hideaway. There is quite a lot of information for a patient researcher. Pick up a book and browse through history."

"I do not think so. Your hobby is distracting you from our goal. I am not sure your potions are keeping the High King under our influence. He seems to have a lot to say. Especially to Daura."

"There is no problem. You need something to settle your nerves. Shall I prepare something for you?"

"Your humor is mislaid, Prosty. I saw Daura come from the High King's quarters. She was very uncooperative. I think she is plotting with the High King. I tried to get her to tell me what she was doing and she pushed me aside."

"Are you surprised? You constantly harass her and there isn't anything about you that is particularly attractive."

Kaell was speechless for a moment. "I will not stand for your insults! You treat me like an inferior. I come up with the plans and you take them over as if they were yours. You start the plans rolling and then you disappear and I find you reading books. I do not understand."

"That is obvious," said Prosty. He put down his book and stood up. "You have no grasp of subtlety. You could not complete the tasks you design. They must be allowed to gather their own speed. Patience. Without me you are nothing."

"I warn you, Prosty. One day you will go too far. And I will kill you."

"Your power is pitiful. Now leave me before I expose you as the fraud you are."

Kaell's face stretched into a grimace and he was shaking with rage. His knuckles were white and he opened his mouth but no sound came out. He turned and fled.

Prosty looked out at the moon and smiled.

The moonlight glowed through the branches overhead creating a surreal atmosphere where everything seemed to move slowly without sound. The rebels had relaxed. It had been an hour since their last encounter with the soldiers and they had hidden their trail well. Gareth did not want to return directly to their main camp in case they were followed. They wound their trail through ravines, rocky slopes and through deep thickets, narrowing their direction towards their main camp.

"I have trained our trail men," said Mira. "They are the best."

"I do not argue the point. The fact is, we have been in battle and have made a three-hour forced march home. Fatigue hits even the best soldier and details are missed. We will stop and camp. We must take no chances with the main camp."

Mira grumbled but she nodded and gave the commands. Quickly the rebels went to action, pulling out tents, setting out food, gathering wood, and setting sentries around the shady dell.

Gareth watched his people set up camp. There were farmers working alongside nobles, highwaymen, rich and poor. It was staggering in some ways to realize how many diverse people put their future, their very lives in his hands. Quickly, all the tents were set up, following the procedures set out by Mira; the camp was ready in minutes.

The night deepened, clothing them in silence as sleep overtook the rebels. Despite their discipline, it was difficult for the sentries to be at their best. Gareth watched the stars through the branches overhead, small twinkles of light, elusive as his quest. His eyelids grew heavy, his mouth slack.

It was nearly midnight when the first shout was given and Gareth rolled to his feet. On three sides of their camp soldiers had attacked. They had come without warning and had silenced the watch. Many rebels died in the first attack.

The soldiers drove the rebels back with their pikes and swords. The rebels who could reach their weapons barely held their own while the rest were cut down. Some rebels set up positions just under the cover of the trees and fired a rain of arrows into the soldiers who fell back to safety. Several pockets of battles flowed among the trees, while in other places soldiers killed rebels with little resistance.

Brice's axe splattered his opponents as he led a charge into the right flank of the Calendian army. He forced them back and they broke and fled as Mira directed more arrows at them. The rebels fell back to the thick cover of the trees where they had the advantage. The Calendian army had not surrounded them, making that one mistake that always allowed the rebels to escape.

One large Calendian soldier fought through the line of rebels and saw Gareth standing, sword in hand, waiting. The Calendian soldier smiled and rushed forward. Gareth raised his sword and the two met in a stunning collision that knocked them both off their feet.

Gareth was on his feet first and sliced through the soldier's shoulder. The man only grunted. He slapped at Gareth's legs and the rebel leader lost his footing as he tried to dance away. He barely ducked the sweeping blow of the sword and the flat edge rang against his skull. Gareth was dazed. The Calendian soldier prepared for a final thrust.

A white-hot fire burst inside Gareth's head, he saw himself rise and take hold of the Calendian soldier's sword with his bare hand, and power filled him and ran down the blade to the terrified soldier who screamed silently as his soul began to burn. Gareth let go instantly, but it was too late.

His vision cleared and the sight of the soldier, still steaming on the ground staggered him. Gareth vomited and leaned on a tree for support. No! He screamed to himself. NO! I will not succumb. I cannot! He ran from the field of battle and his tears were swept off his face as he ran. The glowing figure caught the attention of the fighters briefly, and then Brice urged the rebels on to greater effort.

Gareth stopped and tried to calm himself but the vision of his damned father filled his eyes. It can't happen again! He sat on the ground and tried to concentrate on his breathing. I will not give in to it! I won't! I will not become like Kerthon. He sobbed in his hands as the swords rang behind him.

Later, he ran back to the campsite as the battle was winding down. There was still a small group of rebels resisting the soldiers. Mira saw him wave.

"To the trees!" shouted Gareth. He fitted his bow and fired at the soldiers, but there was no time to draw another arrow. He had drawn the attention of soldiers and several ran in his direction. He ran dodging the trees and ducking under branches. Mira's voice sounded above the battle and he knew she was saving some lives. He heard Brice, too. But no one had followed Gareth. He slowed. Perhaps he should double back.

A battle horn pierced the darkness. Gareth's blood began to boil. Horeth himself led this night attack. It was Horeth's attack that caused the curse of Kerthon to rise in Gareth again. This was another evil Horeth would answer for. Gareth would not rest until his vengeance was complete. Why was only Gareth, of all of them, Daura, Horeth and the High King, the only one affected by Kerthon's curse, Kerthon's blood? Why did the talent for sorcery skip the other descendants?

He started to turn back when he met Brice.

"They have fallen back," said Brice. "We reached the trees too quickly and set up archers. They dropped like flies. I guess it was enough. Horeth led them."

"I know. I heard his horn."

"Shall we backtrack them?"

"No. Let it be for now. We do not have the manpower now. We must return to camp and regroup. We lost far too many soldiers for so little accomplished." His tone was bitter.

Brice nodded. "Mira is leading a group to the north and I will take more south. No direct route back."

"Good. I will follow you but don't wait. I will go at my pace. There is much I must think over."

"Yes, Gareth." He watched his leader for a moment, and then sighed.

Brice moved off leaving Gareth to fight the demons in his head alone.

Kerthon. The name screamed within Gareth's brain. The Sorcerer King of Moorld whose magic defied the land and all he touched, including his descendants. Now the last of those, Gareth, felt the tug of power, the irresistible draw of magic. Magic, to use for rebuilding the land. Magic, to right the wrongs in the world. He told himself often that he could use the power and not be tainted. Each time he tried to convince himself that he was strong enough, voices in his head laughed ever so softly at his folly. The sorcery had so much potential.

But it would decay within him and turn him black like Kerthon before him, if he were strong enough. If he were weak, he would perish. Gareth knew the power dwelt within him. The Calendian soldier's death was just the latest evidence. He vowed again, not to follow the dark path to Kerthon's fate. The power was becoming easier to use although his body ached afterward and the intensity grew each time he used it. The greater power brought greater pain.

He looked up at the moon, now low in the sky. It mocks me, he thought. It knows what I think and sees my weakness.

The wind increased and fell voices shouted his name in the darkness and Gareth ran. He ran and ran trying to escape the accusation in the wind. The night had no mercy and a weary Gareth stumbled into the rebel camp and fell into a heavy slumber from which he could not be awakened for half a day.

The seaport of Dale had been built at the mouth of the Bruen River. Over the years Dale had stretched down the shoreline of the great sea until it spanned a mile of the shore, and reached back a half-mile inland. The crowded houses were weathered by the sun and wind, much like the people who lived in them. From sunup to sundown, they worked the sea. Apart from merchants, there was no place for people who did not work the sea, and idlers were outcast. The people of Dale depended on the sea and the great fleet left the harbor each week and returned at week's end with their holds full of fish.

Down the southern beach, a rambling cottage stood apart, closed in by wind battered trees. Flower baskets still hung around the porch, the flowers long dead. Each morning when Macelan awoke, he would look upon the endless sea, the fresh salt air would draw him to the beach, and he would sit and watch the waves roll over the sand to the rocky sentinels and the silent voice of the sea would be a roar in his ears. He sat on a large worm eaten log that the waves had deposited on the rocky shore and kicked at the sand fleas jumping near his feet. He looked out over the water to where the horizon met the sky and he daydreamed about sailing over the edge of the world.

He would have an apple spice muffin or two in his pocket for his breakfast, sometimes fresh although he seldom baked since his mother's death. Usually the muffins came from Solly's, a tavern where most of his meals came from in exchange for a tally mark on his bill. Soon after breakfast, Serada would come for him and call in vain at the house and then he would follow the prints in the sand to the water and wonder aloud why he did not check there in the first place and he would find Macelan adrift in thoughts and dreams. They would walk to the wharf and try to be hired onto a fishing boat heading into the deep ocean but their reputation would precede them and the morning would end at Solly's tavern with ale on the house. Solly had long since written off hope of payment from the duo but their company was pleasant, they were still young, and their prospects would improve if they would settle down. Still, Solly did not expect their bill to be paid in full. At least Solly thought that Serada must soon find work and then he would square up with him. For Macelan he had no hope, or rather, little hope. Strange things happened in the world and Solly knew better than to make definitive statements. Macelan was a strange one, a poet at heart, full of images and feelings, but no love of labor.

The tavern was a large single room building set back from the road and nestled in the trees. The shade kept the windowless tavern cool when it was crowded with fishermen. But when the fleet was at sea, Serada and Macelan were the only regulars. The interior had no insulation, just the backside of the wood nailed to the frame and in the winter the wind howled through cracks in the wood.

"Find work yet?" asked Solly. He was a large man, thickly muscled with a thicker midriff and a red face that gleamed with sweat as he wiped the bar.

"No. None of the boats will take us."

"Have you tried without Macelan?" Solly lowered his voice.

"Not yet," growled Serada. "He is my best friend." He paused, aware of Solly working yet still listening. "But I am afraid I will have to."

"I know it's difficult. But you can't sacrifice your future to pal around with him. He'll get over it. Or better yet, find a job of his own."

Macelan rejoined Serada and the topic was dropped. He ordered another ale and smiled at his friend.

"Why no smiles?" asked Macelan. "Do we not enjoy our lives?"

"Of course we enjoy our lives, but we do not earn our living. I do not get the satisfaction from it I once did. Can you not understand?"

"I see. This lifestyle is no longer fulfilling. What can we do to change it?"

"We need to work. I cannot stand it any longer. Solly has been awfully good to us, but we shouldn't push his kindness."

"As much as I hate to say it," said Solly, eyeing the ledger under the counter. "There are limits to what I give away. I have bills like everyone else."

Macelan nodded and gulped his ale.

"My friend," said Macelan as he wrapped his arm around Serada. "What we need is a change of scenery. Just for a few days. I'll make all the arrangements."

"Why does that not reassure me?"

"You are too refined. Not enough adventure in your blood. We will soon change that. We shall visit Bonoma. If there is a more somber man alive, I will pay Solly what I owe. Bonoma will show you the dark side to honest living." He waved to Solly and ran out the door. Serada shook his head and Solly nodded and poured more drinks.

"Perhaps when we return," said Serada. He felt he needed a change as Macelan suggested, but he knew he needed a job more.

"You can't wait forever," said Solly. "You are nearly twenty-five. And what do you have to show for it?"