The Traitor's Tale (5 page)

Now there is no High King in Britain, Camelot lies
waste, and the pagan Saxons ravage our shores. Every day the Saxons
advance further and further, laying waste to our fields and flocks,
butchering our fighting men, making slaves of our womenfolk, and
desecrating holy churches and monasteries. Soon all of Britain
shall lie under their tyranny, just as the barbarians overthrew the
Emperor of Rome.

My lords, I write not to claim the High Kingship of
Britain – for Britain is lost to the Saxons – but to offer hope. My
grandfather the High King is slain, and his true heir Galahad fell
seeking the grail, so therefore this burden has fallen to me, for
there is no one else to bear it.

Britain is lost, but we may yet escape with our
lives.

For I have spoken with the last Keepers of Avalon,
and by their secret arts they have fashioned a gate wrought of
magic leading to a far distant realm beyond the circles of this
world, certainly beyond the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here we
may settle anew, and build homes and lives free from the specter of
war.

I urge you to gather all your people, and join me at
the stronghold of Caerleon. We shall celebrate the feast of Easter
one final time, and then march to the plain of Salisbury, to the
standing stones raised by the wizard Merlin.

The gate awaits, and from there we shall march to a
new home.

Sealed in the name of Malahan Pendragon, in the Year
of Our Lord 538.

###

The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord
1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon,
Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.

He gazed at the town huddled behind its walls of gray
stone, his left hand gripped tight around a long wooden staff. He
had not been here in over five years, not since the great battle
against Mhalek and his horde of orcs, and then Dun Licinia had been
little more than a square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost
named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland.

Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people,
fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small
keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone
church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and
pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine
flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the
wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the
south.

Ridmark’s father had always said there was good
mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if
men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and
dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.

And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose
behind Ridmark.

He walked for the town’s northern gate, swinging his
staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him.
When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek’s
horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of
blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that
something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty.

Perhaps no one would recognize him.

Freeholders and the freeholders’ sons toiled in the
fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring
planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long
after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a
gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow
slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure.

Especially since he kept his hood up.

But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the
brand that marred the left side of his face.

He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall
itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty
feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms
in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the
wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon
their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight
Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.

Before Mhalek and his horde.

“Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged
man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your
business.”

Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the
town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”

“Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep
in the hills, do you?”

“I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know
how.”

“Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked
his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the
gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”

“Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.

The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry
weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from
harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”

He wasn’t wrong about that.

Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish
to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will
swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to
invoke.”

Three more men-at-arms emerged from the
gatehouse.

“What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.

“Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.

The first man frowned, but the youngest of the
men-at-arms stepped forward.

“I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my
mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked
her caravan. You drove them off! I…”

“Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your
face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”

“Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even
about this.

He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the
broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.

A ripple of surprise went through the men.

“You’re…” said the first man. He lifted his spear.
“What is your name?”

“My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”

The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark
rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have
purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village,
rather than coming to Dun Licinia.

But he had not expected the town to grow so
large.

“Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He
looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find
Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the
sunlight.

“Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it
would be better to simply leave.

The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.

“You think he made the friar disappear?” said the
younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the
Gray Knight! They…”

“The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man,
“and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark
Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”

“So be it,” said Ridmark.

A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he
attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would
pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.

And he could rest at last…

Ridmark shook off the notion and waited.

A short time later two men approached and spoke in
low voices to the first man-at-arms.

“You will accompany us,” he said.

Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun
Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him.

###

Calliande opened her eyes.

She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but
the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her
robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough.
Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she
tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and
only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing
her cheek and jaw.

She could not see anything in the blackness, but she
recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her
face.

Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.

A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a
deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.

###

Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across
a raging sea.

She saw herself arguing with men in white robes,
their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist
whenever she tried to look at them.

A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men
striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great
half-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen
savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale
armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering
swords in their hands.

The sight of them filled her with terror, with
certainty that they would devour the world.

“It is the only way,” she heard herself tell the men
in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to
remember their names. “This is the only way. I have to do this.
Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And
we might not be able to stop him next time.”

She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking
laughter.

A thunderous noise filled her ears, the sound of a
slab of stone slamming over the entrance to a tomb.

“It is the only way,” Calliande told the men in white
robes.

“Is it?”

A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and
cold, utterly cold.

“You,” whispered Calliande.

“Little girl,” whispered the shadow. “Little child,
presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than
you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long
before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills.” The
shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. “You
don’t know who I truly am. For if you did…you would run. You would
run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me.”

“No,” said Calliande. “I stopped you once
before.”

“You did,” said the shadow. “But I have been stopped
many times. Never defeated. I always return. And in your pride and
folly, you have ensured that I shall be victorious.”

The shadow filled everything, and Calliande sank into
darkness.

###

Her eyes shot open with a gasp, the cobwebs dancing
around her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. Again a
violent spasm went through her limbs, her muscles trembling, her
head pulsing with pain.

Bit by bit Calliande realized that she was ravenous,
that her throat was parched with thirst.

And she was no longer in the darkness.

A faint blue glow touched her eyes. She saw a vaulted
stone ceiling overhead, pale and eerie in the blue light. The air
smelled musty and stale, as if it had not been breathed in a very
long time.

She pressed her hands flat at her sides, felt cold,
smooth stone beneath them.

On the third try she sat up, her head spinning, her
hair falling against her shoulders.

She lay upon an altar of stone, or perhaps a
sarcophagus. The altar stood in the center of a stone nave, thick
pillars supporting the arched roof. The blue light came from the
far end of the nave, near an archway containing a set of
stairs.

Calliande sat motionless for a moment, listening to
the silence.

She had no idea how she had gotten here. Nor, for
that matter, did she know where she was.

And, with a growing sense of panic, she realized she
could not remember who she was.

Calliande, her name was Calliande. She knew that
much. But the details of her past turned to mist even as she tried
to recall them. Shattered, broken images danced through her mind.
Men in white robes, warriors with eyes of blue flame, armies of
blue-skinned orcs…but all of it slithered away from her grasp.

Something, she realized, had gone terribly wrong.

“They were supposed to be here,” she whispered, her
voice cracked and rasping. “They were supposed to wait here.”

But who?

She didn’t know.

Her panic grew, her hands scrabbling over the altar’s
stone surface. After a moment she realized that she was looking for
something. A…staff? Yes, that was it. A staff.

Why?

Calliande looked around in desperation, her panic
growing.

“They were supposed to be here,” she said again.

But through her fear, her mind noted some practical
problems. She was alone in a strange place, her stomach was
clenching with hunger, and she was so thirsty her head was
spinning. Despite whatever had happened to her, she could not
remain here and wait for someone to find her.

Calliande took a deep breath, braced herself on the
edge of the altar, and stood. Her boots clicked against the stone
floor, and her legs felt as if they had been made of wet string.
Yet she did not fall, and after a moment she took a step
forward.

Something brushed her left arm and fell to the
floor.

She looked down at herself and saw that she wore a
robe of green trimmed with gold upon the sleeves and hems, and the
left sleeve had fallen off, exposing the pale skin of her arm. Once
it must have been a magnificent garment, but now it was worn and
brittle, the seams disintegrating. The leather of her belt and
boots was dry and crumbling, and the few steps she had taken had
already split her right boot open.

The clothes looked centuries old.

Her fear redoubled. Was she dead? Had she been buried
alive?

Another part of her mind, the cold part that had
urged her to find food and water, pointed out that a dead woman
would not feel nearly as hungry as she did. Had not the Dominus
Christus eaten food in front of his disciples to prove that he was
not a spirit?

Whatever had happened to Calliande, she was still
alive.