Knight's Valor (7 page)

S
apient Breen and Princess Redora trudged northwest through the snow toward the dragon star cluster known to the realm as the ascended Ancient Mertrixia. The ground was dimly illuminated by the moon's glow, but a steady wind threw up swirling curtains of loose snow in front of them, obscuring their vision. Only Mertrixia's fixed position kept them on course. They had walked since early morning, throughout the afternoon, and into the early part of night, and still they had some miles to go before they would come to the realm's northern edge. Redora had raised no complaints, but the night frost that settled over them was a trial difficult to bear.

“I'm freezing,” she said, her lips quivering. She had her arms wrapped over her chest, but it did nothing to stave off the cold. “Is there nothing you can do?”

Sapient Breen had been lost in thought, his mind filled with scenes of battle and contemplation of the conspiracy against the crown, and he had not noticed the chill until Redora broke into his deep reverie. He stopped walking, cleared his mind, and turned to face her. “My apologies, your grace. Such is the way of treachery. It leaves no time to prepare, elst we would have dressed for the weather and packed a nighttime snack.”

“So then, there is, indeed, nothing you can do.”

“There is, perhaps, one thing,” he said.

Redora eyed him warily. “Shadow crafts,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” replied Sapient Breen. He reached out a hand and beckoned her forward. She hesitated a moment, but when a gust of wind sent fresh shivers down her spine, she nodded and stepped toward him. He set his hand on her back, and they began to walk. He waved his free hand, and a translucent bubble enveloped them. The atmosphere inside was warm and quiet, and it kept out the wind.

“It may be that I will become used to your shadow crafts, Sapient Breen,” Redora said. “I wonder if you might whisk us to the wharf with a conjured spell.”

“Up to now, I've only dabbled in shadow crafts,” he replied. “I don't possess the knowledge of the full extent of the dark arts, so I'm afraid your legs will have to do for now.”

“A shame,” said Redora, sighing. “But I thank you for the warmth. Now if you could only conjure a hot rabbit pie or some salted cod or a cluster of ripe grapes …”

It took them another two hours to reach the edge of the promontory that overlooked the wharf that was their destination. Their protective bubble dissolved as they approached the edge, walking one behind the other, with Breen in front. The wind whipped Redora's hair about and sent the hem of her dress billowing out around her. Steep stone steps were carved into the mountainside, and they snaked a winding path down to the wharf. But when Breen peeked over the edge of the bluff, he saw that the single-masted sailing vessel that was usually moored there was gone. His face paled.

Redora, who stood behind him on the bluff, took note of his long silence. “What's the matter?”

“Someone has taken the boat.”

“Shame,” said Redora, sighing. “What will we do now?”

Breen turned around and looked south into the darkness of the vast snowy field beyond. “We've a long walk back.”

“Surely we're not going back to the castle,” Redora protested.

“We're going to sneak past it and make for the nearest town. We need provisions”—he turned to face her—“and a disguise for you. Anyone who has been to court will recognize you. Given what has happened, that could put us both in peril.”

“Indeed,” said Redora. “We had better get moving.”

Breen nodded and they started walking. He placed his hand to her back and, with another wave of his free hand, conjured the protective bubble about them.

Redora looked at him and smiled. “I do so love these shadow crafts.”

Primus Vayjun stood atop a makeshift dais in the courtyard of Storms Reach castle, gazing at the throng of Dremsa plainsmen pressing in around him. Others of the Dremsa men looked down from the roofs of surrounding towers or from positions atop the curtain wall. The Dremsa horde had stormed the castle following Vayjun's order to lower the drawbridge, and their battle blood was still hot within them.

Peppered among the plainsmen were Riders of the Dread Order, clad in black, who had flown in from Aklon on dread reptilian beasts—the unnatural handiwork of the sapients of the West. Also in the crowd were servants, a few visiting nobles, and the remaining knights of the Inner Guard, whom the horde had kept alive.

Kneeling next to Primus Vayjun on the makeshift dais was the king himself, Hertrigan Vame, his head flopped to the side like a scarecrow's while Vayjun's hand gripped his neck. The king might have been dead but for the movement of his eyes, which were filled with dread as they scanned the roiling crowd. Members of the Dremsa horde were shouting battle cries and stamping their feet, even those on the towers and wall. The Riders of the Dread Order, disciplined soldiers all, stood like sentries among the crowd, silent, their eyes fixed on the two men atop the dais. High above them their winged lizards wheeled in the sky like vultures awaiting a fresh death.

Primus Vayjun, who wore the king's robe draped over his shoulders, raised his hand high above his head, and silence fell over the throng. “This night, Storms Reach has fallen, as has High Court to the south.”

The plainsmen began to shout and stamp once more, and many waved their bloody swords and maces.

When Vayjun clenched his raised hand into a fist, silence washed over them again. “People of Glyssia, your king has ruled you long, but his rule is at an end. A successor must ascend the throne. Since there is none in the line of succession worthy of this honor, the Council of Elders has elected to grant the kingship to another—one from among the people. That man stands before you now, I, Nerus Vayjun, primus of the Valiant Order of Glyssian Sapients. But before I can rule, the king must die. What say you all?”

Bloodlust coursed through the Dremsa men, who filled the court with cries demanding the king's head as they waved their blood-stained weapons like banners. Primus Vayjun tightened his grip on the king's neck and lifted him in the air. The king made a feeble attempt to grab Vayjun's wrist with his frail hands, but his efforts were fruitless, and he looked nothing like a king as his feet dangled and twitched. Silence fell over the crowd. Primus Vayjun uttered a low growl, and then a snapping sound resonated throughout the courtyard. The king's lifeless hands dropped to his sides.

Vayjun's eyes moved over the crowd. “The king is dead,” he proclaimed, and he flung Hertrigan Vame's body to the Dremsa horde. “Behold your new king.”

Vayjun raised his arms, and the plainsmen shouted and clapped and stamped their feet. Even the servants and nobles and knights in the crowd cheered his pronouncement. When the cheering died down, Vayjun said, “I will sit the throne in the East, in service to the Dread Lord of Prybbia, Drucephus Farisin. But soon the Great Realms will be united once more!”

This time the Riders of the Dread Order, Farisin's loyal mercenaries, applauded.

The four riders spotted the spice wagon near the road that skirted Eastern Plain. Sendin and Ghendris looked to the north and west, scanning for enemies, while Jerreb and Ellerick approached the wagon. Seyalinn's son was not strapped to her back.

“Where is the boy?” Jerreb asked.

“He sleeps,” Seyalinn replied. “Nineteen hours a day, as I told you. Fair chance he won't open his eyes till morn.”

“I wish to speak with him,” Jerreb said.

“Best o' luck to you,” Seyalinn said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “He's in the back of the wagon.” As Jerreb moved toward the rear, Seyalinn leaned out and said, “Many's the time I've tried to budge him from sleep.”

Jerreb peered into the back of the wagon. Quarvik, who was wrapped in a wool blanket, lay on his back, his eyes open but rolled back so only the whites showed.

“Quarvik,” Jerreb said. “We've returned. Are you awake?”

Your thoughts only, Sir Jerreb. Remember?
Quarvik replied.

You're awake
, Jerreb thought.

I knew you would return. I was expecting you
.
Now you have seen with your own eyes what befalls the Great Realms. Death and destruction, and worse to come.

What have you seen, Quarvik? What is yet to come?

A great evil arises out of the West, from Aklon, the seat of power in the Prybbian Realm. And another evil will rise out of the East. They will wage war one against the other, and many will suffer. A great many will die.

Will the realm stand?

The realm has already fallen, and the primus sits the throne. But there is hope.

Tell me what I must do.

You must leave the lands of the Great Realms and travel a great distance if you intend to free its people from the coming tyranny. You must seek the dragon tamer, who lies far to the north on the Isle of Kebriyu.

I do not understand.

The journey will be long and trying, but once you find the dragon tamer, she will stem the tide until such time as the Restorer comes into power.

Your words confound me, Quarvik. Help me to understand. Please.

You will understand, Sir Jerreb. But now I must rest. Many dreams await me. Dreams that I will share with you in time.

King's Vengeance,
Legends of the Dread Realm: Chronicles the Second
Available Friday, October 26, 2012

DON'T MISS IT!

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