The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) (12 page)

Nim's gaze moved
from the last period to the illuminated image of the sword. A doorway opened in
her mind. An unexpected power rushed through with a roaring that filled her
head. Nim stiffened, her hands gripping the lectern. A current of power raced
along her skin, a chime sounding in the back of her mind. Her voice changed,
deepening with command. Inspiration gripped her. No longer reading, Nim wielded
the voice of a summoner, invoking the sword by its true Name. "
Invictus,
Invictus, Invictus, by the power of the illumination wrought by my own hand and
sealed by my own blood, I summon thee!"

A  blinding
flash beat against her, bright as an exploding star.

Nim flinched
away, shuttering her eyes against the searing brightness.

She held her
breath, feeling the presence of the gods.

When she dared
to open them again, the blinding light was gone and so was her illumination.
The vellum page was wiped clean, devoid of ink, paint, and metal leafing.
Accepted by the gods, only blank vellum remained. But sitting atop the lectern,
sitting atop the vellum, was a two-handed great sword, dragons coiled on the
hilt, runes incised along the blue steel blade. The sword's name whispered out
of Nim's soul. "
Invictus!"

21

General Haith

Braziers
illuminated the command pavilion, dispelling the damp chill. General Haith
beckoned the scout towards the map table. "Come. Show us where it
happened."

The other
commanders moved aside, opening a path.

Clad in
chainmail and soiled leathers, the scout bowed low and then shuffled forward.
Unshaved and unwashed, the man stank of stale sweat, wood smoke...and fear. His
hooded stare skittered around the commanders crowding the pavilion, and then he
looked at the map. Slack-jawed, he stared awe-struck at the details inked on
parchment.

By any standards
the map was peerless, a colorful work of military art captured from the Octagon
Knights at the sacking of Raven Pass, but General Haith had no patience for the
scout's gawking. "Can you find it?" His voice jabbed like a spear.

Startled, the
scout leaned forward. With a shaking hand he traced a path along a narrow pass
threading through the Dragon Spine Mountains, stopping at a highland meadow.
"Here, m'lord, it happened here."

Too close for
comfort.
"How many dead?"

The scout met
his stare.

For the first
time, the general got a good look at the scout's fear-laden eyes.
Haunted
eyes,
the general knew that hollow-eyed stare, he'd seen it oft enough in
the Mordant's service. Soul-scarred, the scout's eyes were shadowed with
nightmares, proof he'd seen something far worse than just death.

Ducking his
head, as if to shutter the shame of his gaze, the scout mumbled. "It were
horrible, more of a slaughter than a battle."

General Marris
snapped. "Speak up! You're here to give a report, not to mumble."

The scout
cringed as if lashed, but he spoke louder. "Blood and guts everywhere.
More than a hundred, all of them killed." His hand groped at his empty
scabbard, as if seeking the reassurance of cold steel. "And they was not
just dead, they was butchered. Heads taken, entrails smeared across the snow,
bodies torn asunder," he cast a wary glance toward the general, "as
if an animal had torn them to shreds, hungry for meat, yet none of them was
eaten." He gave the general a dead-eyed stare. "This was not done by
no four-legged beast," the scout shuddered, "this were a nightmare
come stalking."

"And the
enemy?"

"That's
just it, m'lord. One horse, one set of enemy footprints. How could one man slay
so many?"

The others
murmured in disbelief, but the general knew the truth.
So the Dark Sword is
unleashed
, yet he kept his face stone-still. "You're sure of what you
saw?"

"By the
Dark God, I swear it were true, m'lord!" The scout cringed as if expecting
punishment. When no blow came, his voice strengthened with conviction. "I
didn't believe it myself at first. I know my craft, so I cast about, seeking
other footprints. Found them, I did, but they was on the ridgeline, as if they
watched the battle yet never took part. No," the scout shook his head,
"there was only one enemy...one man to slay a hundred."

"And after
the battle, where did this enemy go?"

"He
withdrew, mounted his horse and rode back into the mountains."

"And you
didn't think to follow?"

Terror flashed
in the scout's dark eyes. "No, m'lord, thought you'd want word of the
slaughter. Someone had to live to tell the tale." 

A murmur rippled
through his senior commanders, but the general silenced them with a harsh
glare. "You did well."

Relief washed
across the scout's face.

"Go and get
yourself a hot meal. And tell no one what you saw."

"Yes,
m'lord." Bowing low, the scout scuttled from the pavilion.

The general swept
his commanders with his gaze, settling on a young centurion.
"Hastings."

"Yes,
m'lord."

"See that
the scout is permanently silenced. I'll have no ill rumors spooking the
troops."

"I'll
get..."

"No, you'll
do it yourself." The centurion stiffened as if struck. "And dispose
of the body. The gorehounds are always looking for fresh meat."

"Yes,
m'lord." Bowing, the centurion rushed from the pavilion, leaving a grim
silence in his wake.

The general
surveyed his commanders. "Thoughts? Comments?"

General Marris
gave him a keen-eyed stare, but he declined to speak. His aid, Captain Jothson,
rushed to fill the void, his voice full of scorn. "The scout lies. One
lone man could never slay a hundred. I'll wager the scout deserted this squad
and told the lie to cover his cowardice."

"No."
General Haith cut off that line of reasoning like an executioner wielding an
axe. "Didn't you see the fear riding his eyes? Don't you know that look?
Most of you have served in the Bloody Cavern. We've all seen that kind of hollow-eyed
stare before...in the bowels of the Dark Citadel."

The others
looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

"That kind
of fear does not lie. So we need another explanation." His stare circled
his officers, prodding them to speak. "Well?"

Commander Trovis
spoke first. "There's only one answer. The knights have finally unleashed
their magic." His words met no argument. The  commander grew emboldened.
"I never believed those who said the knights have no magic. Castlegard is
steeped in magic, so they must have it, but why wait till now to wield
it?"

His answer
released a storm of comments. "Perhaps they hoard their magic in
Castlegard. Since the war goes badly for them, they've finally brought their
battle magic to the fray."

Commander Crull
scoffed, "Their king fought and died at Raven Pass. If the Octagon has
magic, why did their king not wield it?"

"Arrogance,"
Major Barker met the stares turned in his direction. "The Octagon Knights
never believed Raven Pass would fall, especially since we brought no siege engines
against their mighty walls. They underestimated the power of our dread lord. So
they left their magic in Castlegard, thinking it was not needed."

"But what
type of magic rends men to pieces?"

"Perhaps it
was a berserker?"

"A
berserker...or a butcher."

"One
against a hundred?" Scorn riddled the major's voice. "It must be
magic."

Arguments waged
back and forth, a storm of disagreement spiked with wild conjecture. General
Haith listened more than he spoke. Their ignorance told him much.
So they do
not know of the Dark Sword.
The general smothered a smile. Their ignorance
pleased him, proving he had another huge advantage over his fellow officers.
One did not rise in the Dark ranks based on skill alone. Advantage was needed
to evade traps, avoid blame, bind allegiance and climb the ranks on the back of
others. The Dark Sword was a dangerous and valuable secret. If his lord, the
Mordant, chose not share this plot with the others, then neither would he.

General Marris
said, "It must be magic. Nothing else makes sense."

Commander Crull
turned his way. "We should send a squad with duegars to confirm the
knights brought magic to the slaughter."

General Haith
responded with a tight-lipped smile. "Finally a sensible suggestion. Yes,
send a squad to sniff the site, but have Trantor choose the duegars."
Trantor, his personal snargon, would choose duegars loyal to the general,
ensuring he got an accurate report before any of the others.

Commander Crull
smirked, reading the underlying  message. "As you command." His
swarthy face sobered. "In the meantime, I suggest we withhold our patrols
and double the guard on our perimeter."

"No."
General Haith countermanded the suggestion. "Pressure must be kept on the
knights. By order of our lord, the Mordant, the Octagon must be harried to
extinction." He glared at his commanders, reinforcing the order.
"Double the strength of the patrols. Two hundred should prove more than a
match for this foe." In truth, the Dark Sword needed to be fed. Better it
be fed at a distance.

"And the
perimeter?"

"Triple the
guards and double the patrols. We'll meet again once the duegar return with
their report." He looked towards his aid. "Summon my horse and my personal
guard."

His aid leaped
to obey, rushing from the pavilion.

General Haith
tugged on a pair of fur-lined gauntlets.

While the
meeting broke into knots of conversation, General Marris sidled toward him.
"You called for your stallion? You're not sleeping in camp tonight?"

"I've grown
weary of mud and muck.  I'll sleep in the comfort of a king's bed tonight, such
that it is. These Octagon Knights put up a brave fight, but their sense of
luxury is shocking. Only a peasant would be impressed." He felt the
stabbing suspicion of the general's gaze, but he refused to engage. "I'll
be at the wall for the next few nights. Send a messenger with any
reports."

General Marris
scowled. "And I'm left here to face this riddle?"

"Join me on
the wall and put Crull in charge. Crull seems capable enough...and rank doth
have its privileges."

General Marris
hesitated.

General Haith knew
exactly what his second was thinking. Giving subordinates too much power was
ever a dangerous risk. The superior officer might avoid danger and blame...or
he might be overshadowed and miss the benefits of glory. He waited to see what
the general would choose.

"No...I'll
stay here for now."

So Crull is competent
enough that Marris will not give him a chance to shine,
the general stored
that observation away for future advantage. "As you wish." He strode
from the pavilion's brazier-heated warmth into a biting storm. A bitter wind
howled through Raven Pass, sleet mixed with rain. The north hovered on the cusp
of spring, trading snow for mud and muck. The general hated this time of year,
when the sky wept a river turning the land to mire, bringing misery and
sickness, but the timing of this war was not his to dictate. Pulling his dark cloak
close, he mounted his stallion, shouting orders to his guard. "We ride for
the wall." Putting spurs to his mount, he urged his horse to a gallop.
Bowing his head against the teeth of the storm, he rode north through the
conquered throat of Raven Pass.

A cadre of a
hundred guards raced to keep pace, armor and weapons jangling around him. Even
protected by a hundred of his best, the general felt exposed.
The Dark Sword
is unleashed!
Such a dangerous gambit, yet he knew the reasons for it. But
once unsheathed, the sword would slaver for endless souls. The more it fed, the
more it would hunger. The general shivered and not because of the cold. Timing
was crucial. He prayed his lord the Mordant would not leave it till too late.
Better to spend the next few nights behind stout stone walls. Threats and
possibilities thundered through his mind, a calculation of risk and reward.
Feeling exposed, the general lashed his stallion to a lathered gallop. The
Mordant's promises of power and bounty meant nothing, if one did not survive to
reap the reward.

22

Master Rizel

Invictus,
the
name shimmered like a gong in his mind. Master Rizel carried the great sword
aloft, bearing it through the illuminated hallways. Dragons coiled on the hilt,
runes inscribed along the sapphire-blue blade, a sword forged at the turning of
an Age, a sword forged for heroes. Long thought to be lost, an ancient history
verging into legend, yet now it was here, in the mountain monastery, summoned
in the most dire of times.
Summoned by a sixteen-year old girl!
Had he
not seen the invoking for himself, he would not have believed it, yet the proof
was in his hands, real as steel.

A flock of
blue-robed masters followed close on his heels. Other masters tended to the
swoon-struck girl, bearing her to the healery. The girl was a treasure of
another sort, but the sword could not be left unattended. By unspoken consent,
he bore the blade from the acolytes' scriptorium through the illuminated hallways
to the doors of midnight-blue. Golden-robed acolytes gawked as he passed,
shocked to see a master bearing a blue steel blade, especially one of such
magnificence, yet the sword was only half the wonder. Whispers swirled through
the monastery, rumors spiced with mystery.

Master Rizel
tightened his grip on the sword lest it disappear.

He reached a
midnight-blue door. Stepping from the golden-yellow floor onto the
midnight-blue, he gained the serenity of the monastery's inner sanctuary. A
hushed peace greeted him, a privacy protected by the rule of color. Like the
outer hallways, the inner walls were steeped in learning. Calligraphy
emblazoned with color illuminated the corridors, every wall brimming with
ancient prophesy. He wondered if the founders had envisioned this very day,
when the power of illumination came back to the Order. The sapphire-blade
shimmered in the sunlight. He carried history in his hands, a legend come
calling.

Threading his
way through the twists and turns of the hallowed halls, he reached the inner
heart of the monastery. Passing through the rune-carved doors, he entered the
Great Archive. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, sunlight pouring through
leaded windows. In the monastery's inner sanctum, even the windows bore
writing. Text scribed on the clear glass panes cast shadowy words in pools of
light, a celebration of learning. Master Rizel breathed deep the heady scents
of parchment and vellum, ink and leather, the very bindings of knowledge. Dark
wood shelves climbed from the midnight-blue floor to the vaulted ceiling, every
shelf crammed with knowledge. The Kiralynn Order preserved and hoarded
knowledge from Ages past, history and prophecy sitting side by side. Revered,
stored, and studied, scrolls and leather-bound tomes filled every shelf and
cubby, a cathedral dedicated to learning.

His footsteps
slowed to a reverent hush. One did not lightly disturb the peace of the Great
Archive, yet it seemed to him there was no better place to discuss the sword.

Heads turned as
he passed. Blue-robed masters rose from their chairs, abandoning their studies
to follow the sword. He strode to the heart of the archive, to a large table
lit by sunlight, and there he placed the sword.
A sword summoned by an
illuminated scroll,
he shivered at the thought, proof the sword should be
discussed among the ancient histories.

Monks and
masters gathered around, a flock of blue-robed scholars.

He waited till
the gathering stilled and then he spoke, shattering the silence. "An
Illuminator has come among us."

Gasps circled
the gathering. Masters who were usually stone-faced, gaped. Little wonder they
looked amazed, for high magic of this sort had not been seen in the monastery
for nigh on four hundred years.

"Who?"

"An
acolyte, a sixteen-year old girl."

Amazement
rippled around the table.

Master Carlisle,
a half-blind ancient with pale wisps of white hair haloing his wrinkled face,
raised a quavering voice. "We should not be so surprised."

The others stilled
to listen.

"The
turning of an Age is upon us. Wonders and terrors will abound."

"But a mere
child of sixteen?"

Master Carlisle
answered. "One of the very reasons we keep the young ones sequestered is
so they do not know how much has been lost. We teach them the ways of
Illumination and then give them the chance to try.
They
believe it is
possible, while
we
, with all our learning,
believe it is not.
That is why a child has succeeded where so many masters have failed."

"Where is
this prodigy of a child?"

Master Rizel
answered. "Smitten by a deep swoon after the invoking, Master Adelbart and
the others are carrying her to the healery, to the care of Master Garth. High
magic always exacts a great toll."

"Why this
sword?"

"Master
Adelbart said the child was drawn to the Sword Codex. She said the swords of
old are needed in the Darkest times."

"Out of the
mouths of babes."

"The gods
work in mysterious ways."

A murmur of
assent rippled through the room. 

Master Felix
bent over the sword, examining the runes. "I see from the maker's mark,
this sword was forged by Orrin."

The masters
stilled for all were well familiar with the name of the last great wizard of
the Kiralynn Order.

Master Rizel
felt their stares fix on him, potent with questions. He lifted the sword so all
could see the details. "The sword does indeed bear Orrin's mark. When the
Illumination was read in the scriptorium, the child Named this sword in the
summoning." His gaze circled the others. "This is
Invictus,
the
last blue steel blade forged by Orrin Surehammer."

Many masters
blanched pale, recognizing the name...yet not all remembered. 

"Forged by
one of our own."

"The sword
returns to its true home, sent to protect the monastery."

Anger blazed
through Master Rizel. "This sword does not belong here! It was never meant
to be wielded by a blue robed monk. Knowledge, magic and quarterstaffs, these
are our weapons, not steel. This sword belongs in the hands of the Octagon
Knights."

Master Felix
bristled. "Yet it is here, within our cloistered walls, a boon of the
Light."

"It came to
us because we hold the sole knowledge of Illumination."

"Exactly!"
Felix pounced, his eyes aglow with conviction. "And that precious
knowledge must be protected at all costs!"

"At the
cost of all of Erdhe? I think not!" His gaze roved the others, finding a
mixture of support. "While we dither, Darkness conquers!" His voice
sparked with warning. "Those who serve the Light often fail because they
watch rather than act."

Felix countered.
"Exactly! We dare not let the last bastion of Knowledge fall."

Rizel glared.
"Knowledge unwielded is wasted. We must take the fight to the Mordant.
This sword must go to the Octagon." He held the sword aloft. "You are
all steeped in history and lore. I trust you recognize the name if not the
blade's design? This is
Invictus,
" the name alone sent a chill down
his spine, "the sword forged for the end of days, for the Battle
Immortal!"

Many monks
startled at the revelation, but Felix continued to bluster. "All the more
reason to wield it in defense of the monastery!"

Arguments
erupted among the gathering, a discord of voices.

Master Carlisle
rapped his cane on the table. A startled silence returned. The ancient master
gave them a baleful glare. "Arguments will not avail you. While we debate,
Darkness acts, Darkness prevails. Summoned by Illumination, this sword, wrapped
in legend and prophecy, comes to us at a time when the red comet hangs low in
the sky. This sword is a matter of the Battle Immortal, a matter only the Grand
Master can decide. May his wisdom ever be guided by the Light."

An uneasy truce
prevailed.

"By the
Light." Agreement rippled through the gathering. The others began to
disperse.

Felix gave him
an angry glare, but he quelled his arguments...for now.

Master Rizel
stared at the sword, certain in his soul it belonged in the hands of the
Octagon Knights, yet Master Carlisle had the truth of it. The sword's fate
would be decided by the Grand Master...may his wisdom ever be guided by the
Light.