Knight's Valor (4 page)

“The realm is in crisis,” one Council member was shouting.

“And the king, beg pardon, is not in any condition to decide on important matters of court,” said another.

When Prichard entered the room, he immediately sensed something amiss, though he couldn't say what it was. Several heads turned in his direction as the white-bearded elders regarded him. The two Inner Guard knights stationed at the door repeated the actions of their fellow knights below, slamming their lances into the stone floor and scissoring their legs together. Silence met Prichard for what must have been three seconds before the queen stood to her feet at the head of the table and said, “We will not stand for this insubordination any longer.”

“You talk of insubordination as though we are not fully within our rights to discuss these matters,” said Lord Lyatt Kern, chief elder of the Council and third in line to the throne.

“Lord Kern, you well know my meaning,” said the queen, who stood as regal as she could manage before the group of wizened old men, all of whom believed their collective intellect and court experience made them her betters.

“Learned though we be, we are hardly mind readers, Queen Klienne,” said Lorn Kern. “Your meaning, therefore, is quite lost on us.”

The elders all laughed at the queen's expense, and this seemed to incense the king, who sat to the right of his wife in his wooden chair on wheels. The king looked weak and haggard as he slumped in his chair, his eyes barely able to focus on the figures in the room. With some effort, he gathered himself to address the elders. “You've been deliberating this past hour”—a pause, followed by deep wheezing—“to no avail. My wife is right to cite insubordination, for here I sit, able to address you as ever”—another fit of coughs—“yet you speak of me as though I am looking up from the grave. This cannot and will not be tolerated. I hereby call for an end to this session, which I neither authorized nor feel the need of.”

Sounds of muttered outrage rose up from the assembled group, and the Council members looked from one to the other to express and confirm their indignation.

“The members will come to order!” shouted Lord Kern. After everyone had settled down, he turned to the king. “Let us face the cold, harsh facts of the matter, your grace. The truth of it is, you don't have long to live. Every sapient who has seen to your care has said as much. Their spiritual healing methods have failed, and all they can offer now are prayers, but I doubt the Ancients are listening. The queen is neither knowledgeable nor experienced in matters of the realm and its governance. That leaves us with but one choice.”

“You insult me, sir,” the queen said.

“It's no insult, your grace,” said another elder. “You have many talents and much experience in matters of pageantry and ceremony. But the truth of it is that you're ill-equipped to rule one of the great realms, begging your pardon. Consider for a moment the many provinces to be overseen. Even the most seasoned royal must give pause at the thought of such an undertaking. Why, managing the affairs of High Court alone is a thankless and unenviable job.”

“I ask for no man's thanks,” Queen Klienne replied. “Your envies are your own affair.”

“Well spoken, your grace,” said Prichard Hennis, stepping forward now. He went to stand beside the king and scanned the faces of the nine elders, some of whose long white beards rested on protruding bellies. And that's when he saw it, a brief ripple in the space above the chief elder, as though a trick of light had caused the stone wall to undulate, like lake waters after a smooth stone breaks their surface.

“Good of you to join us, high vassor,” said Lord Kern. “You so seldom leave that stone prison you call a castle that I consider this visit a great honor. To restate our deliberations for you, we've been discussing the order of succession, which, as you know, the Council of Elders directly oversees once a sitting king or queen is found unfit to rule.”

“Who claims King Hertrigan is unfit to rule?” Prichard asked sharply.

“Let us be bluntly honest,” said Lord Kern. “King Hertrigan is apparently nearing the death that we all must ultimately face, sad though it is. And so we must prepare. The queen, alas, lacks experience in matters of the realm and, until now, has shown scant if any interest in them. Thus, this Council must reject her petition to be next in the line of succession.”

“It's no petition, it's mine by right,” Queen Klienne said.

“As well, the Council must also reject the two princesses, Ellyssa and Redora. The truth of it is, we probably wouldn't be sitting here discussing this matter had the queen borne sons.”

The queen folded her arms and glared at the chief elder. “For that last, I hold you a vile and contemptible creature, Lord Kern. But humor us. Who do you propose should succeed my good husband, the king?”

As Lord Kern cleared his throat, Prichard Hennis could see the ripple just behind him again, and the stone wall shimmering once more. Prichard squinted at the mirage as Lord Kern proclaimed his answer to the queen. “Considering his present high station and his vast knowledge of this and the other great realm, we cast Primus Nerus Vayjun to sit the throne.”

“A sapient?” the queen said. “Now I am certain this Council has run aground of its senses.” She glanced at her husband and then turned back to the chief elder. “I second the king's request that this session be ended at once.”

Prichard Hennis walked toward the table as the queen spoke and reached for a ceremonial chalice that sat before one of the lower elders. It was filled with water. The high vassor flung the contents of the vessel in the direction of Lord Lyatt Kern, and the primus of the sapient order in the East, Nerus Vayjun, materialized behind him, where Prichard had seen the rippling air.

“Thus matters become clear,” said Prichard Hennis. “As clear as water. The primus has been steering this session all the while, using shadow crafts. The dark arts.” He stared at the primus, who was wiping water from his brow. “My mind has been mysteriously clouded of late, Primus. Was it your doing? I would have the truth, sir.”

“Shadow crafts have long been banned from this realm,” the king said. He raised a finger and waved it at the two Inner Guards stationed at the entrance. “Seize the primus at once.”

The guards shouted orders through the entrance before moving toward the head sapient. In the next moment, five knights entered the room.

“I hereby disband this Council, on grounds of treason,” the king said. He turned to the knights. “Take them all to the dungeon.”

A great clamoring filled the room, and streams of curses and dire threats sailed in every direction as the knights hauled the ten men away.

When Prichard Hennis was alone with the king and queen, he turned to them, bowed, and said, “I must speak with you concerning grave news that was brought to me by Primus Vayjun and the senior scout of the Outer Guard.”

The storm clouds never did bring rain to Storms Reach.

W
inds howled, and cold early morning rain whipped the faces of Jerreb and his three companions as they rode hard toward High Road. The narrow road that led there was turning to mud in places and made the ride hard going, but the knights' able coursers and Ghendris's massive black dray, which rivaled the Prybbian destriers, were undeterred and moved at a goodly pace.

“Bloody rain won't let up,” cried Ellerick, who brought up the rear on the smallest of the three coursers.

Sendin was just ahead of him, and the burly knight looked over his shoulder and gave Ellerick a fierce scowl. “There you go complaining again. Let it rest for a spell, boy. We can do with a break from your whining. I liked you more when there were six of us.”

“I liked me more when there were six of us, too,” Ellerick muttered, drawing a hearty laugh from Ghendris, who was riding just ahead of Sendin.

They rode another mile before coming to a fork in the road, where the left path became High Road and ended at Storms Reach, and the right path skirted Eastern Plain and continued to the provinces lorded by the vassors of East and South Court. Jerreb slowed his horse and signaled a stop. He looked in either direction and deliberated. Though the rain had washed away many of the tracks that had marked the split paths, he could see countless hoof prints in the dirt. The tracks not only indicated that a horde had marched north to High Court and Storms Reach but also confirmed that a smaller host, able to move at a faster pace than the first, was bound for lands that included his.

“By the looks of these tracks, I'd say our Dremsa plainsmen have broken into two groups,” said Jerreb, as he looked south. “I'm afraid Storms Reach will have to wait. I have to look in on my land.”

“Aye. The wife,” Sendin said.

Ghendris, who had been studying the tracks on the rightward path, looked up. “To the netherworld with Killik. I'll ride with you to Rivencrest to see about your fair bride, king's man. If you like.”

Jerreb turned his courser till he faced Ghendris. “I would like.”

“Then let's ride,” said Sendin, turning to offer a glance at Ellerick. The youth was blinking wildly as he looked up at the clouds through the rain, his face a mask of drenched anguish. “You coming, or should we leave you here?”

Ellerick shook his soaking head like a dog just come out of a lake and spurred his courser toward the road that led south. He waited there till the others pushed off ahead of him, Jerreb in the lead, setting a course for Rivencrest.

Rivencrest lay in ruins. The land was named for its strategic location atop a lush hillcrest surrounded by twin rivers that fed the great Kilgud Lake, which sat half a mile to the south. The beauty of the region was such that it had attracted from various lands philosophers and poets and master potters, whose vases depicted images of the Ancients painted in relief, where subtle variations in polychrome coloring was coupled with delicate light and shade effects to showcase their brilliance. The women of Rivencrest were young and fair, many of them muses to the poets who sat at the river's edge bleeding out the thoughts of their hearts on parchment.

As the four men walked their horses through the center of the village, they gazed at the destruction about them—nearly every dwelling razed to the ground, gardens trampled underfoot by an army of horses, smoke still billowing over distant fields that had been set aflame, and not long ago. The bodies of men were strewn everywhere—fathers, husbands, sons—many of their faces badly bludgeoned. Jerreb moved through the scene like a lost boy through a fog, his glazed eyes taking in the devastation.

“Not a woman or girl among the dead,” Ghendris said, breaking the pall of silence that had fallen over them as he searched the ground.

Jerreb dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and sped toward his home, the others galloping behind. Jerreb's cottage, a two-story fieldstone and timber affair, had been destroyed. The thatch roof had been burned, and the front wall had collapsed, exposing the loft where his wife slept as well as the stone floor below it, where a brazier stood intact. His wife was nowhere to be seen.

“The women have been taken,” Ghendris said. “It's the way of the plainsmen.”

Jerreb arched his head skyward as he let out a bloodcurdling scream that did little to quell his rage. The others looked on with grim expressions, waiting for their leader's madness to subside. As Jerreb fell silent, they heard the sounds of a horse and wagon in the distance. The knights unsheathed their swords, and Ghendris reached for his mace. When they looked in the direction of the hoofbeats, they saw what looked to be a spice trader's wagon drawn by two gray carthorses.

“Stand down, men, it's a woman driving it,” Ellerick said.

When the horses drew up, a woman climbed down from the seat of the wagon and walked around to the back. The four men walked their horses to the rear of the wagon to see what she was about, and they marveled when they saw her strapping a young cripple to her torso. The whiteness of the boy's eyes marked him as blind.

“What business do you have here, woman?” Jerreb asked.

“It's not safe to be in these parts, mum,” Sendin added.

The woman looked up at the hard faces of the men that surrounded her. “My business here is to give you lot a message.”

That was unexpected, and the expressions on the four men's faces betrayed their surprise.

Jerreb narrowed his eyes at the woman. “Who are you?”

“I be Seyalinn Grun, from Pembrick Hollow, near the heart of the Prybbian Realm.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “This here's Quarvik. He's mi lad. We've traveled many miles, pursued by a torrent of rain all the week to bring you your message.”

“The woman's daft,” Ellerick whispered.

“Watch your tongue, Ellerick,” the woman said, and the young knight started so violently he nearly unhorsed himself. Then she spoke the names of the others in turn as her eyes moved from one face to the next.

“How do you know us, woman?” Jerreb asked. “What sorcery is this?”

“No sorcery, Sir Jerreb,” said Seyalinn, “But I'll let mi lad do the talking from here on.”

Jerreb glanced at the boy hanging from the makeshift harness on Seyalinn's back. “I'm listening, boy.”

“You'll find he can't talk with his mouth,” Seyalinn said. “He's deaf and blind as well.”

Jerreb glared at her. “Stop speaking in riddles, woman. You just said the boy will do the talking.”

“He don't talk like you an' me. He has his own way.”

Jerreb forced himself to be calm. “We're listening.”

Seyalinn gave a small sigh. “You'll do well to close your eyes.”

“I'll keep mine open,” Ellerick said.

Seyalinn shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

But in the next moment all four men felt their eyelids growing heavy, and soon the world around them was shut out. They heard a voice deep within the vast space of their minds, and visions began to play out in a panoramic vista across their mind's eye. The voice spoke to them.

I am Quarvik. What you will see is what has been.

A swirling vision swam before them like gray fog parting. The fog dissolved, and they saw Dremsa plainsmen riding through the narrow, flowered paths of Rivencrest, watched them enter broad fields where farmers harvested the vegetables and fruits common to the region. They saw the riders trample and torch those fields, saw farmers fleeing and being cut down by sword and spear. They saw torches fly up to thatched roofs to set them aflame and battering rams smash the walls of stone buildings. They witnessed other atrocities as well, children taken as thralls, their mothers treated worse than whores, victims of savage rapes amidst the burning and pillaging and kidnapping. They watched as brave men fell under battleaxes and war hammers as they tried to save their wives and children, even the best of them no match against the relentless marauders.

The vision faded, and the four men opened their eyes.

“What did you see?” Jerreb asked Sendin in a voice that he barely recognized as his own.

“Dremsa plainsmen,” Sendin replied, his own voice thick. “Massacre. Pillaging.”

“I saw the same,” Ghendris said.

“And you?” Jerreb said to Ellerick.

The young knight nodded once, too stricken to speak.

The four men looked around them and knew the vision was true. They were surrounded by its aftermath. Jerreb edged his horse closer to the woman called Seyalinn and removed Life Ender from its gilt-mounted leather scabbard. He poised the point of the sword an inch from Seyalinn's lips. “How were we shown these things?” he asked. When she hesitated, he waved the point of the sword before her face. “Speak, woman, or I'll have your tongue.”

“Quarvik,” Seyalinn said, her face gone as grim as theirs. “He possesses a rare gift, what the old taletellers call
aka'tii
. It be a sixth sense granted to souls unable to use all the other five. It allows mi son to communicate with others, mind to mind. This is why you were able to see his thoughts. That is, his dreams.”

“His dreams?” Jerreb asked, trying to make sense of her words.

“He dreams most of the day,” said Seyalinn. “Sleeps nineteen hours, only awake for five. But his dreams aren't like the dreams of others. He only dreams what's real—what has been, what is, and what will be.”

“So, what we were just shown was what really happened?” Jerreb asked, still not quite willing to believe in visions and magical dreams.

Seyalinn nodded. “Every bit of it. He dreamed it on the way, among other things. But that's not what drew us here.”

Jerreb watched her for another moment and then gazed down at the ground. His eyes followed the countless hoof prints that spread out in every direction. The horde had divided and at that very moment might be raiding any or all of Rivencrest's neighboring lands. His wife could be anywhere. Jerreb turned to his three companions. “I must find my wife.”

The boy's words entered Jerreb's mind.
War is coming
.

“Yes, and we initiated it,” said Jerreb.

His friends, who hadn't heard Quarvik's thoughts, looked at him curiously.

My dreams tell me you will find your wife. But first you must do something more important.

“You've dreamt that I will find her,” said Jerreb. “Where? Tell me now.”

They are moving toward Tooths Point, intent on freeing their comrades from the gaol towers.

“Then that is where I am headed,” said Jerreb, and he turned his courser to the road that led south.

His companions looked on helplessly, not knowing or understanding, but when Jerreb spurred his horse and sped away south, the other three immediately took off after him.

Seyalinn stood in the rain and watched the four men ride off. She was at a loss and knew not what to do next.

We must follow them
, Quarvik thought.

Seyalinn sighed deeply and returned to the spice wagon.