Against That Shining Darkness: Boxed Set Trilogy Page 6

  A rustling in the undergrowth brought him alert. The fire was dying, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark. From the crossroads came the sounds of many scuttling things drawing closer. He nudged Kane who woke but didn't move.

  “Up. Something's coming.”

  Kane rolled to his feet, sword in hand. “Can't see much.”

  Seth considered and spoke a short prayer. Light blazed above them, and for a few breaths the view was clear. Droga whinnied a challenge. Scruffy-furred animals—waddling and hopping on toadlike hind legs—covered the floor of the wood.

  The light startled them, and they chittered, retreating in a mass.

  A thin voice from the shadows screeched words of command, and a roiling black fog dimmed the light.

  “Someone is using dark power here,” Seth said.

  “At the moment, I’m more worried about that mob of caks,” Kane said with a grimace.

  “Well, it looks like they’re working together,” Seth said. “You take Droga and draw them off while I hide here and see who. I’ll get rid of them and come back on the flank of the caks.”

  Seth grabbed his bow and melted into the trees.

  Kane pulled a torch from his pack and lit it from the embers then mounted Droga who stamped and snorted at the approaching vermin. Kane shouted a battle song and moved down the path. The caks followed, hopping after them.

  Seth took a moment to nock an arrow then hurried without a sound behind the shuffling, leaping caks. The acrid smell of them made his eyes water. Caks came out at night to hunt in groups. At this time of year, in their hunger frenzy, they pulled down even large animals when they surrounded them.

  Someone with power over the pack was using them to rob travelers on this isolated hill.

  Kane's shouts and Droga’s shrill challenges faded as the fight carried him back the way they’d come. Seth listened; sorting and identifying sounds while searching the shadows. In the clearing, something moved. Seth clenched his jaw. Someone was eager to see what spoils the caks had left. The shadowed figure crouched by the embers of the fire, plucking at the saddlebags.

  Here's a lesson to the greedy.

  He drew back the arrow and shot at body center.

  A shriek of pain and rage signaled a hit. Sparks flew around the fire as someone stumbled through the coals.

  He felt something brush his mind. A thin voice screamed, “I see you now, boy. You think you're so pure, but you're—” but Seth already had another arrow nocked and drawn, the flames outlined his target. He released again; the shaft sped true.

  Dark returned.

  Seth waited till his eyes adjusted then sent another arrow into the form next to the embers. It flopped once then was still.

  Seth turned and ran back towards the sound of shouting and neighing. Kane was making the caks pay for his retreat. Seth passed scores of them, some slashed in two, others trampled into the turf.

  When he reached the main body of caks, Droga was dancing back and forth, snapping his forefeet out and killing the vermin with deadly accuracy. Kane leaned over from the saddle, stabbing and tossing caks away from the stallion’s back legs and belly.

  Seth took a deep breath and called for a light. The glare blazed up over the fight like a bonfire. The caks scattered, hopping for the surrounding bushes; some fell under stamping hooves. In a few moments the area was clear of all but a few too crippled to escape. Seth dismissed the light.

  Kane lifted his torch, and they retraced their path to their camp while the sound of wounded caks feeding on each other faded behind them.

  At the clearing, they approached the remains of the fire. Kane put his hand on Seth’s arm. “There are spells that allow those who pay the price to hold on to life in spite of terrible wounds,” he whispered.

  Seth nodded, watching and keeping his sword drawn. Kane threw dead pine-branches on the coals. After a moment they blazed. The frail figure by the fire lay wrapped in a torn and filthy cloak. Seth’s three arrows protruded from it at odd angles., Seth turned the body with his foot, revealing the face of a young girl with yellow curls and smooth, clear skin.

  He sucked in his breath.

  What have I done?

  A sharp hissing noise—Seth jerked his head aside at the sound. The tiny dart had almost taken him in the throat.

  Kane's blade descended in a short, chopping arc. The golden curls fell away from the body. Kane shoved the severed head into the fire with his boot. There it stared at Seth as the hair hissed and crackled, sending out a stench.

  Seth turned to stare at the body. Perhaps it was just an enchantment. At any moment the body would revert to something old, evil, withered. Though he held that hope as long as he could, the limbs remained as they were—the flesh smooth.

  A voice brushed at his mind…

  You think you’re so pure it doesn’t matter if you kill me? I was hungry. You are no better than me.

  He shivered.

  Kane plucked the dart from Seth's cloak and sniffed it. With a disgusted expression, he threw it in the fire.

  “Seth, did it prick you?”

  Seth shook his head; the dart had lodged in the leather cover of the shoulder plate of his armor.

  They used sticks to lever the slight body onto the fire and heaped more wood around it..

  Seth shuddered. “She said she was hungry. All she needed to do was ask.”

  Kane sighed. “I have traveled for a long time, Seth, and I've seen a great deal. In the last few years...,” he shook his head. “She tried to kill us.”

  “Two hours left on my watch,” Seth said.

  “I'll stay up a while,” Kane said. “I'm not sleepy anymore.”

  Seth collapsed on his blanket, though he never expected sleep to come, but sometime that night he dreamt.

  ~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~

  He walked on a beach by waves that rolled up red on the sand. Two bodies sprawled there—a moon-colored horse and a cloaked figure; it wore his cloak. He turned the body over, dreading what he’d see. There was a hiss; something sped toward his face. He jerked aside, but the dart lodged on his cheek.

  Now he walked through a dark wood toward a glowing fire. A crumpled figure lay next to the embers. The figure rolled over, face staring at him and mouthing breathless words.

  I know you, boy… You think you're so pure… You're just like me.

  Chapter 7 (Holding)

  Winter dies hard in the Seabreak Mountains, and long after the frost melts—the stones of Castle Gynt still summon back its chill. In the throne room, breath hung in a mist around the heads of those gathered.

  A stolid guard poured heated stones into the iron foot-warmer before the throne. Arod pulled his cloaks closer about him as he looked over the small assembly. Marshall fought not to grin. Though almost buried in wool robes, Arod still looked regal. Brynd and Luca were on the King's left—across from Marshall and Jyrmak. Brynd’s face was expressionless; Luca glared at the entire room. Two scribes sat behind the throne, warming their hands over a small brazier, waiting to take turns writing when the hearing began.

  Two guards framed the massive ironbound door. The cook and a groom stood between the guards. The other guard finished loading the foot-warmer and took a place next to the King.

  “Begin,” said Arod.

  The older of the two scribes stood, hands tucked in his sleeves. “Judgment—regarding the authenticity and legal standing of the stewardship of co-regent, Seth Arodan—is before the court. Be it known the law of the land shall be upheld. Challengers, to the stewardship document in question, may make their case.”

  Brynd rose to his feet. “We bring charges against these two,” he said, pointing at Marshall and Jyrmak. “… that they have kidnapped or killed our brother to usurp the benefits of his position with this false document—”

  Arod raised his hand. “Bring me the document.”

  The guard by his feet took it from the scribe's table and brought it to the King, holding it with care .

  Arod scanned
the document then called, “Witnesses Wilgrif and Sedrick approach the throne.”

  The cook and the stable hand walked to the center of the room.

  From where he sat with Jyrmak, Marshall appraised them. Though both were nervous, they stood straight. Marshall saw why Seth had chosen them. The determination in their faces told of the honor written on their souls. Marshall glanced at Arod.

  The King studied the witnesses. “Sedrick, you are the head groom,” said Arod in a steady voice.

  “Yes, Sire,” answered Sedrick as though he had practiced saying the words just for this occasion.

  Marshall smiled, perhaps he had.

  “Did you sign this,” said Arod, holding the paper for them to see.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “And you, Wilgrif?”

  “I did, Sire,” rumbled the cook.

  “Tell me how it happened, Wilgrif.”

  “Three days before the spring feasting, the prince came to the kitchen where I was checkin’ the pantry. He asked would I sign that paper you've got, Sire.” Wilgrif made no effort to cover his deep country accent. Leave fancy talk to the court dandies, his manner said.

  “I was not aware you were an educated man, Wilgrif.”

  “I can write my name, Sire, and that's about the stretch of it. The young prince showed me years back,” said Wilgrif, his face lit in a smile. On the rare occasions he was called on to sign his name he often smiled long afterwards.

  “Did he say what it was, Wilgrif?”

  “No, Sire, but he swore me to secrecy, until you should ask.”

  “And you, Sedrick,” said Arod, “is your story any different?”

  “No, Sire.”

  “The same day?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Sedrick looked more confident as only simple replies were required.

  The King turned to Brynd. “Have you any questions to ask these witnesses?”

  Brynd ignored the witnesses as if they were beneath his notice, but answered the King with a bow and a humble, “No, Sire.”

  Marshall suppressed a snort. Brynd knew whatever he’d get from those two would only hurt his case. From years of bullying around the castle, he could tell who couldn’t be intimidated.

  Arod turned to the witnesses again. “You may go.”

  After a well-rehearsed bow, they hurried out with relieved expressions.

  Luca sprang from his seat with a growl. “Father, they lie. They are part of the plot. This paper is a forgery.”

  “You had the opportunity to question them,” said Arod.

  “They would only have lied the more,” Luca sneered.

  “Silence!” thundered Arod.

  Luca closed his mouth.

  Marshall chuckled to himself. So they had thought the old lion toothless.

  Arod scrutinized the document. “I am confident this is Seth's hand, and I am sure neither of those two are liars.” Then—as though struck by a sudden idea—he bent over and held the note above the foot-warmer. At the bottom of the paper, a small symbol appeared and darkened. Arod gave a quick laugh. “I am convinced my son made this document of his own will,” he announced, and rolled the paper shut.

  “Sire,” said the scribe who was warming his hands. “Will you say what you’ve seen so we can enter it in the records?”

  “Let the records show Seth Arodan did leave a sign by which I recognized him as the author of this document, and I am satisfied with his choice of stewards.”

  Luca rose. This time, he waited for Arod to acknowledge him, as procedure dictated. In a voice choked with anger, he said, “But I am not satisfied, and by the law—as his brother—I may challenge this choice.”

  “On the grounds that it is not in your brother's best interest, yes,” said Arod, “but the law was not meant for challenging appointments made by the heir himself.”

  Brynd stepped forward before his brother could speak. “But Sire, we are certain that our brother's choice is not in his own best interest. Seth is young and too trusting. We believe these two have duped him, in their greed for power.”

  “And who would you place in their stead,” asked Arod.

  “Ourselves, his own kin,” said Brynd, holding his arms out and forcing a wide-eyed innocent expression.

  Arod measured him with his gaze; Brynd’s jaw clenched as he fought to remain steady.

  “It is my wish you do not make this challenge,” said Arod.

  “We will challenge, Sire. The law gives us the right,” said Luca with venom.

  “The code law of noble challenge states that you must fight a warrior of their choice in armed combat,” Arod said with a sigh.

  “So be it,” snarled Luca, ecstatic eagerness on his face.

  Marshall had seen the same look on an Ibuchan assassin’s face once. It was clear that Luca had murdered for pleasure. Marshall remembered cases in the kingdom of unexplained deaths, and old suspicions came to roost. The taste of anger seeped into his mouth; he’d counted some of those people as friends and seen what their deaths had done to their families.

  Arod turned to Marshall and Jyrmak with a sad sigh. “Do you accept the challenge?” he asked. “Yes,” Jyrmak said.

  “Then you may choose the time, place, and weapons. Who is your champion?”

  Marshall stood. “I will be Seth's champion.”

  Brynd grinned; each of the brothers weighed half again as much as Marshall. Weight might be a telling factor in a duel, in a brawl it was often a devastating advantage—this would be a brawl.

  Brynd studied Marshall. Marshall smiled at the scrutiny.

  Luca snorted with contempt; he stood a head above Marshall.

  Marshall spoke again, “Sire, the law states that the challengers must themselves fight. But once we accept the challenge can either renege?”

  “Not after battle begins,” said Arod.

  “But if I fight one and win, may the other—who has not yet enjoined battle—then withdraw the challenge?”

  The King turned to his scribe who was already searching through one of his huge law books. The scribe found the proper page, lifted the book—with a soft grunt—and carried it to the king.

  After studying the book a moment, the King spoke. “Yes, the challenge is revocable until fighting begins.”

  “I will accept the challenge,” said Marshall. “I would not have it withdrawn.”

  Luca laughed again; “You need not worry about that, fool. There will only be one battle and that a short one.”

  Marshall showed his teeth in a cold smile. “As you say,” he replied. He turned to Arod. “I will fight both at once.”

  Brynd and Luca looked at each other—eyes wide—then at Marshall in suspicion.Then, their gaze rested on Jyrmak. “Do not count on magical aid; the scribes have trained to know sorcery,” snapped Brynd.

  Marshall couldn't help pretending to yawn—protocol prohibited spitting in front of the throne. Though he was looking forward to this. He might die, and he had to make himself face that fact. The worst thing for a warrior to believe was that he was invulnerable. He’d known from childhood, when he had first picked up his father's sword and cut himself, that fighting was a dangerous occupation.

  “The time and the place—now and here,” said Marshall. “We will choose weapons from that rack.” Marshall waved a hand at the wall where weapons hung on a rack.

  The rack covered thirty feet of wall, about half the entire length. It held relics from past heroes of the realm who had used them to defend the kingdom. It was the custom to keep them displayed here because the throne room was the last defensive stand. If the castle were besieged, the weapons would serve the kingdom again. Jyrmak said all the weapons there carried virtue. The legends claimed they would not serve an evil design.

  From their expressions, this last point wasn’t lost on the twins, and Marshall laughed at their hesitancy to approach the wall. “Don’t wait for me,” he said with a bow.

  Luca and Brynd strode to the wall. Luca grabbed a broad sword and returned
to the center of the room. Brynd took more time, touching several before taking a long sword and a parrying dagger for his left hand.

  Marshall strolled the length of the wall then turned back again. It wouldn't hurt for them to wait for a while.

  Brynd stood quiet, calm on the outside; Luca growled.

  All the weapons were well-kept though most had seen hard use and were of types not often seen now. They bore the styles and marks of smiths and warriors from long ago. Marshall would have enjoyed spending the day just studying them. Perhaps another time.

  Hopefully another time.

  Marshall had seen what he wanted on his first circuit. He could have used any of the weapons, but he wanted one in particular—a kryllsword Jyrmak had told him would be here—a type seldom seen anymore. Marshall had learned its ways from his father. He pulled it from its leather wrapping with respect; the two-edged blade was four feet of lustrous blue metal. The dense wooden grip was a third of the length of the blade. This offered an area for a bewildering variety of grips in endless combinations. A master of the kryllsword could make the blade move in any direction from any position—a useful advantage against two opponents.

  He returned to the center of the room. A guard finished drawing a thirty-foot circle in the middle of the room on the stone-paved floor.

  In a deliberate voice that carried throughout the room, the King announced, “If anyone steps across the circle, the guards will ward them back with spear shafts. If anyone attacks a guard, they will die. Signal when you are ready.”

  Marshall unwrapped his cape and handed it to Jyrmak.

  Jyrmak took it and said, “I hope you haven't jumped in over your head; two at once is taking a chance. The main thing is the regency, getting rid of both of them is secondary.” “Maybe you're right, but I want them both out of the way,” said Marshall. “Whatever happens, I'll be certain neither of them is in the succession after this.”