Gamran regaled them with the tale of how the trio had climbed down the mountain face after they had finished securing the knight to his own horse. They had even gone so far as to gag him that he might not whisper secret commands to his horse, though Nemgas doubted he would do so. For some reason, he felt certain that he could trust this knight to maintain his vows. There was a singular authenticity in him that had been lacking in the other knights of Driheli that he’d had the displeasure of meeting. Whereas the other Knight Commander Sir Poznan of Bydbrüszin had been full of swagger, Sir Petriz of Vasks was full of duty and honour.
As Nemgas had hoped, Gamran, Pelgan, and Amile had no difficulty in scaling the cliff-side. In fact, to their great surprise, a small path wound down most of the mountainside, though they’d have to scale the last twenty feet across a jagged drop. It had proven fortuitous, as they were then able to spy on the knights quietly for nearly an hour before Nemgas, Chamag and Berkon had emerged from Vysehrad. Taking the squire captive had proven only slightly more challenging.
With the addition of their captive, they had changed their order slightly. Instead of guarding the rear, Nemgas led the bay mare upon which they had lashed Sir Petriz. The knight seemed to spend most of his time lost in contemplative prayer. He would grunt some at the jostling he underwent, but otherwise offered no complaint. However, they kept the bay mare in the middle of the procession. Nemgas was not inclined to take any chances.
He had never wanted a captive anyway. Unlike with Grastalko, they could not keep this man confined to a wagon. And they were vulnerable to the Driheli out in the open. He had no illusions that the three they set free would run back to meet the larger group. With luck it would take a few days for them to catch their fellow knights, but he doubted they would be afforded any more time than that. They would have to slip past the Driheli before then if they had any hope of reaching Yesulam.
Nemgas shielded his eyes from the evening sun. It had dipped low against the horizon, and would soon be beyond the slope of the dells. After that, the sky would darken and night would claim the land. They would stop after nightfall, preferably on the desert side of the dells. He doubted that armoured knights would risk the desert, especially at night. Even so, if he felt that disquieting sensation that had warned him of the Driheli hiding in the cave, they would move into the desert sooner. It was something of the Yeshuel he knew, and he would use it to his advantage.
The Magyars fell quiet after Gamran had finished their tale. Most regarded the knight suspiciously. Gelel especially had vicious eyes for the man. Nemgas saw something unsettled in the boy’s gaze, but it was little different than what he’d seen there since Hanalko had fallen to his death. The memory of it upset Nemgas. If only they had listened, they’d both still be alive. Hanalko had been such a bright vibrant lad. Few expected him to lead the Magyars as his father did, but all knew that he would have been a capable performer and thief when he’d come of age. Now all that was gone.
The knight who had killed him was dead, and Hanalko was avenged. Nemgas had to remind himself and Gelel of this. The younger Magyar had sighed heavily at that, but still he favoured the knight with a foul look. And so Nemgas had made sure that Gelel walked in front of him. He would not have the boy try to claim a vengeance that was already accomplished.
As the minutes trailed past, their feet carrying them one step forward at a time, Nemgas found his mind wandering. It was hard to concentrate, especially with the sun shining so brightly in their faces, but he felt no alarm, so allowed himself to think of finer things. He’d never lain with a woman until that day. Kisaiya, the woman that he’d loved for so long now had brought him into her wagon. For those few minutes that they had been together, it felt as if all the dreams and hopes that he’d had were fulfilled in one swift moment. They had been tender to each other, but their desire for each other was true.
The act of love itself had not been easy for two unsoiled as they, though they had managed in the end. The thought brought a warm smile to his face. When he returned to the wagons, they would be wed. He would miss the bachelor’s wagon. But not so much. A happy sighed scaped his lips. Turning his head to one side, he glanced at Sir Petriz, but the knight was still mumbling wordlessly to himself. It was just as well. He’d rather think of Kisaiya than talk to that man anyway.
But his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sound. It sprang into being as if it had not existed a moment before. It was a thunderous rumbling, like a storm cloud rolling in quickly over the plains. But instead of coming from the sky, they could feel it through the earth ahead of them. Nemgas felt a jolt of danger filling him only a few seconds later. Horses! Riders! Driheli!
Looking about, he saw that there was an alcove in between two larger dells just ahead. Perhaps they could slip into the desert before the knights arrived. How had they grown so close, he wondered in alarm. Gesturing to the entrance, he called out, “Chamag, there!”
The burly Magyar nodded and picked up his pace to a run, leading his horse inside the alcove. The others followed after him quickly. The sun fell behind the hillock as they passed through the mouth, and Nemgas had to blink several times before his eyes came back into focus. The back of the alcove was a narrow ten foot slope with the desert sands trailing over the edge. Between the dells was a good circular space roughly thirty feet across, tapering at both ends. It would be impossible to climb the dells quickly, though the incline towards the desert would not be hard to scale.
“Into the desert!” he cried, feeling the danger grow inside of him like a pounding hammer. It seemed to be making up for its tardy appearance with an intense ferocity. The sound of the hooves grew steadily louder and nearer. How many were there, he couldn’t tell. And had the Driheli seen them? He felt sure that they had. The southern knights had the sun at their back after all.
Chamag had no sooner reached the incline than the horses came around the corner of the dell and poured into the mouth of the alcove. Nemgas yanked back the head of Sir Petriz as he spun on his heels, gesturing for the others to move past him. “Do not come closer!” he cried out in the Southern tongue. “Stand back!”
The figure at the lead of the knights was dressed in chain mail, though he bore a shield with black falcon rising up over a field of flames. Upon the falcon’s chest was the emblem of the Driheli, the green cross on blue. The man’s hair was blonde and it seemed to shine despite the shadow. A large sword was buckled to his side, and his eyes narrowed as he saw Nemgas. He drew his steed to a halt, stony face impassive.
“I find it foul that a Yeshuel would stop to threatening a prisoner’s life,” the man intoned in acidic tones. “Release him now, and I will spare the lives of the Magyars.”
Nemgas narrowed his own gaze. He pulled back on Sir Petriz’s hair, but the knight did not even wince. “You are Sir Czestadt of Stuthgansk, Knight Templar of the Driheli.”
“That is my name,” the knight confirmed. He sat with back perfectly straight upon his white horse. “You speak my tongue very well, though you make mistakes common to one taught in Yesulam. You have two white locks of hair, and the complexion of a man born to the desert. I judge you to be Kashin, disgraced of the Yeshuel, and the one who must die.” He gestured at the six knights that flanked him, as well as a handful of squires that were at the back of the group. “You are eight on foot, and caught unprepared. You have bows, but you cannot draw them fast enough to stop my knights. You have nowhere to go but into the desert. You skin will be burned to cinders by the sun, you will die of thirst or of the shifting sands. Unless you surrender to me now.”
Nemgas felt the panic that was in his body. The other Magyars kept still, though their hands yearned to draw blades and bows. They were a roughly equal force. They might survive this battle, but they each knew that Sir Czestadt was correct. The chances were not in their favour. The air was heavy, and the shadow, which could have been comforting in its cool regard, was instead a heavy pall upon their backs.
“If you attack, Sir Czestadt, you will kill many of your own men. Most assuredly this one.” Nemgas twisted Sir Petriz’s head about on the horse. “If you truly did not care whether your men lived or died, then you would have attacked already.”
Sir Czestadt smiled, though there was no humour in it. “You are right, Kashin. I do care whether my knights live or die. But my first duty is to the Ecclesia. If you make me, I will sacrifice them all to see her will done. Will you surrender?”
“Will I let myself be unjustly killed. I am not Kashin, as I have said to all of your kind that have faced me. In the end, they have all believed me, for it is true. My name is Nemgas, and you will be guilty of murder before Eli should you chose to slay me.”
“A man can change his name,” Sir Czestadt said with contempt in his voice. “Just as he can regain an arm if he knows the right magic.” He smiled slowly and then called out in perfect Suielish, “Shouldst thee kill Sir Petriz, I wilt hunt down all Magyars in this land and butcher them like pigs.”
This rattled the Magyars, some of whom actually drew their weapons then. Nemgas spat. “Very well, Sir Czestadt, I will surrender to you, and only to you. But I will not go without a fight. Face me in combat. You alone. Your men will lower their blades, and mine shall lower theirs. If any of your men should interfere on your behalf, Sir Petriz will die. Should I defeat you, my people will be unharmed this day and this night.”
Sir Czestadt rolled his tongue about his mouth for a moment, and then he dismounted. He took two steps forward, tossing the reins of his steed back to the nearest knight. “You will have your conditions, Kashin. But know this. Should your own men attempt any chicanery, I will slaughter them as promised. Do not make the mistake of believing me one who will not fulfill his word. I mean it to the last mote. There will be nothing left of the Magyars when I am done.”
Nemgas snorted and called back in the northern tongue, “Chamag! Take Sir Petriz back and hold thy blade to his neck. I hath agreed to face Sir Czestadt in battle. Shouldst any other knight intervene, thou art to kill Sir Petriz. Do not intervene on my behalf either.”
Chamag reached his side then, and his face was furrowed in a deep frown. “And if thee dies?” he whispered.
“Release Sir Petriz and continue thy journey to Yesulam. This shalt change nothing.”
Chamag nodded, and then he took both the reins to the bay mare and a lock of Sir Petriz’s hair. The knight’s face was quite placid when Nemgas saw it. There was no anger in it, only acceptance. Turning, Nemgas felt the two swords he carried with him. To his right was Caur-Merripen. On his left the Sathmoran blade. He drew Caur-Merripen and felt the blade dance in his hand. It was so light and nimble, eager for this fight.
Across from him, the knights of Driheli had backed up to the base of the dells, leaving Sir Czestadt plenty of room. He bore but one sword at his side, a broadsword of no particular distinction. He smiled once as he considered the Magyar before him. “Just so thee knows, Kashin. No blade can kill me. For I art the master of blades.” So saying, he drew his own sword. The metal ringed as it rang against the scabbard. But it was not the only blade to be drawn. The blades of the two nearest knights also were lifted free from their homes to hang in the air. Casually, they floated through the air until they hovered at Sir Czestadt’s sides. They turned, their edges pointing towards Nemgas as if held by another swordsman.
Even some amongst the Driheli gasped at seeing this. The Magyars became ashen, and even Nemgas was taken aback. This was not merely a knight of the Driheli. A stray thought that had once belonged to Kashin came bubbling up into his mind then. It had long been rumoured that certain knights of Driheli had once belonged to warrior mage clans in the Southlands, most notably the Kankoran. Apostles of chaos, those that accepted the word of Eli and became knights were some of the most feared and fanatical warriors that ever lived. There could be no doubt that this Sir Czestadt was chief amongst them.
Nemgas gripped Caur-Merripen tightly in his hands, even as those two swords sliced through the air, hurtling towards him at incredible velocity. He swung upwards, deflecting each blade, bouncing back and forth between them with the training that Kashin had once known. He let the energies and grace of the Yeshuel fill his body. He could feel the flow of air around him, and the hiss and tang of metal upon metal was a constant ring. Dancing in circles, he spun, those two unheld blades working around him, chipping away at where he was weakest. But with each swing he brought Caur-Merripen to meet them.
Sir Czestadt did nothing but stand and watch as his surrogates fought the battle, working the sinews of Nemgas’s flesh into mush. For several minutes he smiled as the wind picked at his blonde hair. Nemgas turned himself in a circle, trying to drive those two blades back towards their wielder, but Czestadt would have none of it. Every time he took a step closer, the blades would strike at him from one side. Only the minute turning of the thankfully light blade of Pelain enabled him to deflect those strikes.
As the minutes wore on, and he felt his muscles beginning to ache from the sheer concentration, he began to grow more accustomed to feeling the Yeshuel that Kashin had left him with. There was a sense of peace as he worked through the swing of metal against metal. The sharp hiss of the steel was a song and a prayer. He found old liturgical rites of the Ecclesia passing across his lips. The beat of his heart, at once excited and thunderous, began to soothe as it found the rhythm of the chant. Though Kashin had died on Cenziga, as Nemgas spun through those two blades, he felt the spirit of Kashin reborn in him.
Even so, he could find no way to break free of the whirlwind those blades presented. Sir Czestadt stood there, not even the heat of the day tiring him. Nemgas felt his exhaustion quite keenly, though the air sucked the sweat from him as soon as it pooled on his skin. He thought perhaps that if he could strike below the guard of the swords he might injure some invisible grip, but though he smacked and pierced them from every side, they continued their assault unhindered.
Nemgas gritted his teeth even as he continued to recite those liturgies in his mind. He interspersed them with his own chants, the songs of the Magyars and the tales he had learned in his life on the Steppe. Strangely he found his strength renewed by them all, and he was able to stop several deadly attacks. A few times he felt the blades nick into his flesh, but the flow of blood was small. Even so, he knew that it a hundred such cuts would surely kill him just as would a sword through his gullet.
He danced the blades across each other, even as they spun about him. They stayed at roughly chest height, making him wonder just how much control over them the Knight Templar truly had. If he meant to kill him, why not animate three or four swords? Nemgas was barely holding his own against just two. Surely a third would have been able to slip past his defences and skewer him like a boar. There must be some weakness to this control. It was merely a matter of finding it and exploiting it.
It was unfortunate in some ways that the Kankoran were not officially sanctioned by the Ecclesia as a mage clan of the Southlands. Kankoran were certainly welcomed into the fold, but their order was not viewed favourably. So it was that what was known of their powers and abilities was second hand. The Sondeckis were a mage clan that was supported by the Ecclesia, and so their abilities were well known by those to whom it was important to know, such as the Yeshuel. Not so with the Kankoran. Here, he had no choice but to guess as to what to do.
A certain fire came to him then. Nemgas spun about on his heels and brought Caur-Merripen sharply against the guard of the sword before him. It recoiled but a moment, and then Nemgas dashed against it, gripping the hilt with his left hand. He twisted it of its own accord, and deflected the other sword that had swung around behind him. The blade that had once struck at him no longer had any power of its own. He grinned and cracked both it and Caur-Merripen against the base of the third blade. The metal shattered with a screech.
Turning about, he heard the ring of more blades being drawn. Two more swords slipped free of their scabbards and began to sail through the air towards Nemgas. He laughed and rushed towards them as well. No longer did he feel the interminable exhaustion that would lead to his death. Now he felt a thrill, a sudden energy that coursed to his very bones. The secret of Sir Czestadt’s blades was his own now. They may tax him, but they would not defeat him.
As if sensing this confidence, Sir Czestadt stepped forward, raising the sword in his hands to strike as well. Nemgas felt his momentary elation fail him, though he did not let despair take its place. Instead, he concentrated all the harder, singing in his mind the songs of the Magyars, feeling their power fuelling him and focussing him. The three blades of Sir Czestadt met his two. The ringing of them echoed from the hills until the air was filled with nothing but the chiming of metal.
Sir Czestadt alternately smiled and frowned as he drove his sword into Nemgas’s two. Nemgas had little opportunity to stare at him, as the air held blades came at him from both sides at once, forcing him to move faster than he had ever thought himself capable. All the world beyond the knight and he was a mere blur, a patch of light and dark that blended together into a continuous and meaningless whole. Nothing else mattered but the bite of swords, and the songs of the Magyar in his mind.
When both swords swung at him from behind, Nemgas ducked low and rolled to one side. The Sathmoran blade bunched beneath him, but he twisted back up as those two blades drove down at his back. One struck the Sathmoran blade and was deflected aside, while the other nearly buried itself into his side. Nemgas sucked in his breath at just the right moment, and it merely grazed his tunic.
Leaping back to his feet, Nemgas stepped on the hilt of the blade that had glanced from his own, and ground it into the dirt. As soon as he touched it, it went inert and lifeless. He kept his foot firmly planted upon it as He parried Sir Czestadt’s next blow. He twisted the knight’s blade back behind him and caught the tip of the other blade still held in the air, and then spun it around, until he could press it between both of his own. As before, when Caur-Merripen and the knight’s blade struck at its hilt, the metal shattered in a mechanical scream.
Sir Czestadt laughed at that, but summoned forth no more of the knight’s blades. Perhaps he did not wish to risk the few those that remained. Or perhaps he judged he no longer needed them. Nemgas leaped backwards, and slammed the edges of his two blades against the base of the one he’d stood on, shattering it as well, before he flipped his arms back up to parry the knight’s next blow.
“I am glad I did not underestimate you,” Sir Czestadt called out. He did not sound in the least winded. He swung his sword so hard that when Nemgas deflected the blow he felt his head ringing. Stumbling backwards a pace, he found himself on the defensive again. Czestadt drove him relentlessly back with such power and force that he could scarcely believe he was fighting the same man as a moment before. Czestadt’s blows were always clever and well-timed, but they had never before been so strong. It was as if he’d stepped from a summer day to a winter night.
Nemgas fell back with each new blow, and he found himself inexorably being driven towards the dell to the east. The edge of shadow was slowly creeping up its side, but if he reached it now, he would still be blinded by that orb. And int hat moment, he knew Sir Czestadt would kill him. He tried to move to the side, but each time, Czestadt was there. With but one sword, he seemed an ever greater master than with three. Nemgas found no openings, no purchase, and no hope.
And so, Nemgas did the only thing he could think to do. He jumped backwards several paces more than he needed to, and then spun around to his left with one step. Sir Czestadt followed after him. Nemgas could feel the sun brushing just over the top of his head. He lifted Caur-Merripen high into the air, tilting it ever so slightly forward. The sun caught upon the silver tang, and shone brilliantly into the knight’s eyes.
Sir Czestadt snarled in agony, stepping quickly to the side to escape the blinding rays. Nemgas drove forward then, and put the point of the knight’s blade into the man’s belly.
And then something strange happened. He was not sure if Czestadt had managed to turn at just the right moment or not, but the blade slid along the side of his chain mail and harmlessly passed beyond him. Thrown off Balance, Nemgas stumbled forward, thrusting Caur-Merripen backwards to deflect the blow he knew was coming.
The blow was so hard that the blade was knocked from his hand, and he fell rolling to his feet. He passed the unremarkable steel blade that he’d snatched from the air into his right hand and stood back up facing Sir Czestadt. “I will confess,” the Knight Templar said with droll humour, “that you did surprise me there. But now you will die.”
And with the first swing of his blade, Czestadt sent Nemgas’s sword spinning free into the sand. Feeling his heart pound, all the songs of his people fleeing from his mind in that moment, Nemgas scrambled backwards as quickly as he could. Caur-Merripen was a good ten paces away, and no other sword was in reach. He had no choice. He put his hand to the Sathmoran blade, the ceremonial blade that had slain Patriarch Akabaieth a world ago.
Sir Czestadt paused in his advance to regard the golden jewelled blade. “That sword is too soft, Kashin. It will break as soon as I strike it. Good bye.”
Nemgas held the blade in his right hand. Even as Sir Czestadt advanced on him, his eyes looked past him to the other knights and squires who watched with bated breath. His gaze settled for the briefest moments upon the squires, and he felt a song blossom once more in his mind. A smile grew upon his lips, and he prayed that he was right. He held his left hand tight as if he were gripping the pommel of a sword. Czestadt came forward, swinging at chest height from Nemgas’s right. Nemgas lowered the Sathmoran blade and leaned backwards. He felt the point nick his collar, and then Czestadt’s broadsword had finished its swing. The Knight Templar’s chest was exposed for a single moment of time.
His left hand, the empty hand, thrust upwards straight at the man’s chest. A blinding light coruscated from the knight’s armour and face, and he was flung backwards even as the scent of singed flesh came to Nemgas. A stunned look fell across Sir Czestadt’s face as he landed upon his back. And then his eyes stared emptily into the sky above. A deep gash had been rent from the knight’s abdomen all the way up his chest, through his jaw, ending just beneath his right eye. No blood flowed, for the wound had been instantly cauterized. The flesh inside was black and burnt.
Nemgas breathed heavily. The knights of Driheli stared dumbfounded at their fallen leader. He called out in a ragged voice to them, “I have won! I am leaving. I hope I never see any of you again.” Leaning down, he picked up Caur-Merripen and walked back to the Magyars. His eyes caught Sir Petriz’s, who merely stared in disbelief at the spectacle. They faded though, and the strange serenity was once more there.
The Magyars said nothing to him as he approached, though relief was clear on their faces. Nemgas turned back once. The Driheli had not moved at all. All except for one. Sir Petriz’s squire came forward then, his flesh trembling. “Release my knight! You have won, now release him and be on your way!”
Nemgas pursed his lips, feeling a sullen agony beginning to fill his muscles. “Tell me the name of the Bishop who ordered you to kill Kashin. Tell me and he will go free.”
One of the knights who had been with Sir Petriz snarled. “You still intend to kill him! We will never tell you that!”
“Then I cannot let him go.” Nemgas turned his back to them and nodded to Chamag. “To the desert. Ja!”
Chamag nodded, his face unable to smile just then. He let go of Sir Petriz’s head. Nemgas gripped the reins of the horse, even as the burly Magyar led them into the sands beyond the dells. Nemgas looked down once more at Sir Petriz, but the Knight Commander of Vasks had closed his eyes in prayer. It was just as well. He felt like praying then too.
He looked back one last time before he stepped into the sands and sun. The Driheli still had not moved. The shattered remnants of swords littered the field. Nemgas flexed the fingers of his left hand, thought fondly of Grastalko, and then continued on. They had a long way to go still before they reached Yesulam.
Kehthaek was silent in his cell. Though he was bent on his knees in prayer, his mind was not on the words. All the things that he had seen that day played back through his thoughts. Grand Questioner Mizrahek’s remonstrations for Kehthaek’s manner of questioning came first. He examined the words, the nuances, even the way that the older man had petted his dog. The selection of Mizrahek was not one made wisely he decided. Though what could be done about it he did not know.
And then there was Father Felsah. He had clearly been changed in some fundamental way by his nightly sojourns with the mechanical fox at Metamor. Something that had lurked in the back of the Questioner’s mind that he had once forgotten was springing forth again. Kehthaek had to uncover what that was, and see what it might mean. Felsah could prove to be an ally, if only he knew precisely what was in his fellow Questioner’s mind.
The selection of Geshter of Pyralis to be Patriarch did not disturb him so much as Geshter’s decision to allow each of the Questioners to write their own report of their venture at Metamor. He had no illusions about what Akaleth would write. It was possible something could be done to prevent Akaleth from making a mistake, but he was not yet sure how he could move the younger Questioner properly. Though their methods were vastly different, Akaleth did what he did because he believed that it was the right thing to do. Somehow, he had to find a higher purpose than merely showing the shortcomings of pagans for Akaleth to embrace. He would contemplate this.
At last, Kehthaek came to visions of the day that would come soon, when Vinsah would return to Yesulam. Arrangements would have to be made. He knew that Vinsah’s welcome would not be a kind one.
His mind finally ordered, the elder Questioner began his nightly prayer. Yesulam may have changed, but Eli was forever.
“Come here, Bryone,” Dazheen’s voice softly crooned.
The young girl approached the blinded seer. The linen was bound tight around her eyes as she reclined before her table. The cards were still in their drawer, untouched since the face in them had been destroyed. Bryone was still shaken; he hands could barely keep the candle steady as she approached. All of the lights in the wagon had been extinguished at Dazheen’s request. All but the one that she carried clumsily in her hand.
“Aye, mistress?”
“Didst thee put the cards in the second drawer on the right?”
Bryone felt a chill crawl like a spider up her spine. Her lips quavered, and a bit of wax dribbled onto her fingers. “Aye.”
“I canst feel them, Bryone.” Dazheen said. Her face was pointed out towards the mountains outside. The wagons had stopped for the night, but they had not yet been able to reach the grasslands to the east. She had heard the driver say that they would be there sometime around noon tomorrow. Perhaps the better air to the east would help Dazheen regain her strength. And perhaps it would take them beyond the range and notice of the man infesting the cards. The sound of his voice still haunted her.
“The cards?”
“Aye.” Dazheen turned her head. One hand reached up to the cloth that covered her eyes. She tugged at it but could not dislodge it. Bryone took the three steps to reach her and helped slide the cloth over her gray wizened hair. He eyelids slid open to reveal orbs blackened apart from a horizontal strip of red. Like cats eyes, only sideways. And horrifically demonic.
“I canst see them too, Bryone.” There was a haunted quality to Dazheen’s voice. Bryone plunged her knuckles into her mouth, biting down in fright. “‘Tis all I see.” Her voice ebbed for a moment, and then she turned back to the wall of the wagon. “Good night, Bryone. We shalt speak again tomorrow.”
“Dost thee... feel pain?” She looked away. If she did not see those eyes, she could imagine that they were not there.
“Nay. I feel only the cards. Only the cards.”
Bryone trembled, nodded slowly, biting at her knuckles again, and then raced from the wagon tears streaming from her eyes.
The vaulted room with nine pillars that stretched to the ceiling was far beneath the city of Yesulam. Basalt lined the walls, and lines in the clay drove straight from the base of each pillar towards the central stone altar. Upon each of those pillars a symbol was etched a chevron. Each chevron was different, ranging in complexity from a simple curve with two short lines through its centre to a mass of circles and twisting lines that the eye was incapable of following it.
The room thrummed with energy and an alien beat that made the minds of men incapable of maintaining a thought other than the beat. Bishop Jothay smiled. The golden blade fit warmly into his hand. He felt the nine sides of its pommel, and the thirst and chiming of the haft. The blood he’d sucked from his lip drained from his belly into the sword’s essence.
Upon the altar a child of ten lay, bound hand and foot. Eyes were wide at first with fright, but soon the ever present cascade of magical throbbing stilled any fears the boy had. Jothay laughed merrily as he drew the blade across the boy’s face, letting him feel the cold metal. He felt the blade lurch in his hands, the tip pricking into the boy’s cheek. Jothay held it there while the blood flowed up the curve of metal.
“Do you like feeding the sword?” he managed to ask. The boy stared in stupefied grace, unable to comprehend anymore who he was. Jothay laughed once more, as he felt his arm lifted high into the air. The tip of the blade moved of its own will, until it found the boy’s chest. His laugh exploded into cackles and paroxysms of mirth as his arm was drawn downwards. The boy lurched as the sword of Yajakali punched through his chest to the stone beneath.
The very air was drawn inward, and his robes all pulled taut around him, yanked towards that blade. The boy’s body crumpled, until it was nothing more than a desanguinated husk. Jothay’s laugh matched the rhythm of the room, a thundering march that threatened to crush all who heard it.
And then the Bishop collapsed across the boy’s lifeless form, the sword finally sated.
Slowly, after several minutes, he rose, able to think once more.
The sword was soft and warm to the touch, like a cat who had just eaten a mouse. He stroked his hand across its length, smiling in childish delight. “It won’t be long now.”
The Sword of Yajakali purred.
“How didst thee do it?” Pelgan finally asked.
The Magyars had remained quiet after they had entered the desert. The sun had few moments left to the day, and after only half an hour’s walk, twilight had fallen upon them. The Driheli had kept to their word and made no pursuit, but still they looked over their shoulders at the line of hills that kept the trackless sands from sweeping into the Steppe.
Some of the desert was shifting sands, but a lot of it was cracked earth. Jagged rocks thrust out of this parched land, and it was in the lee of one of those fulgurites that they made their camp for the night. Sir Petriz had huddled in one corner while the five horses had been tethered, watered, and fed. They lit no fire that night, but instead ate only a little bread to give them strength. They took the extra linens they packed and huddled beneath them for warmth.
Nemgas sighed and looked to his fellow Magyars. He was exhausted, and doubted he would be able to stay awake much longer. “The Sathmoran blade hast a twin. When I doth hold it in my right, I hath a blade in my left as well. I dost not know how this is possible, but I know it to be. ‘Tis how Grastalko burned his hand.”
“Well, whatever magic thee used, ‘twas a fight that I hath ne’er seen the equal of,” Chamag announced. “It shalt be told amongst the Magyars for generations hence.”
“When we dost return to the wagons,” Gelel pointed out distantly. The boy was staring out across the horizon. The sky was full of stars, and the moon was bright over head. A hint of melancholy entered into his voice and Nemgas wondered whether he was regretting his decision to come.
“Ah, but we shalt do so,” Gamran replied optimistically. “We hath nothing left to fear except the desert herself ere we reach Yesulam.”
“Thee dost not think the Driheli shall strike again?” Chamag asked incredulously.
“Nay,” Gamran replied, juggling two balls in one hand. “With their leader slain, they wilt not attack again. Nor will they risk the desert. So we art safe until we reach Yesulam!”
“How wilt we bear the sun?” Amile asked, turning to Nemgas. “Or shouldst we travel by night?”
“I shalt tell thee after I hath slept,” Nemgas replied blearily. His eyes cast over the Magyars one last time. Exhaustion was claiming him more quickly tan he had realized. How long had he fought with Sir Czestadt anyway? As he felt his lids beginning to descend, he saw that the knight Sir Petriz was smiling far too widely for his comfort.
“What gladdens your heart, Sir Petriz?” he asked, wishing that the other Magyars could at least understand the Southern tongue. So far, Sir Petriz had refused to speak any Suielish.
“Do you honestly think that you have broken the will of the Driheli?” Sir Petriz asked. Though he smiled, there was a simple peace to him. He did not say what he said with any malice. It was as if he were discussing the weather.
“No. But with the Knight Templar slain, they are going to be disorganized and uncertain about what to do.” Nemgas lifted his head from the rock, fighting his body’s urge to sleep.
Sir Petriz shook his head almost regretfully. “You did not listen to Sir Czestadt closely enough. He told you, no blade can kill him.”
Nemgas blinked once at this, but could offer no response as the claws of sleep finally claimed him.
The Driheli had not left the alcove between the dells, but had made their camp there that night. The body of Sir Czestadt had not been moved. They had no priests amongst them. A messenger had been sent to their forces further west. A priest would be brought back to attend to the body in the proper Follower manner. In the meantime, a cloth had been draped over the form to protect it from scavengers.
The knights were quiet, and most had succumbed to drink inside the tents. Only two figures lurked beyond their safety in fact. Two boys who were trying to become men. One knelt over the shrouded form, while the other approached softly from behind.
“Hevsky?” Karol asked, looking down at the kneeling squire.
“Karol. What brings you here?” There was a long agony in the voice, a bitter regret and an anger too.
“The same as you. We have both lost our knights this day, Hevsky. I’m sorry.”
“Yours lives still,” Hevsky said with bile, but he then hung his head lower. “Forgive me, Karol. That was rude of me.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Karol replied, bending down on his knees before the corpse. “I think we both know how Skowicz feels now.”
Hevsky nodded, crossing his arms over his chest tightly. A cold wind came down through the desert pass. His eyes were red and puffy. He’d been crying. “He’d kill me if he could see me.”
“No, I do not think so,” Karol assured him. He put a hand on his fellow squire’s shoulder. “Chastised perhaps, but not killed. Sir Petriz said that he never had an uncivil word for you.”
The corner of Hevsky’s lips twitched briefly into a smile. “Do you think we’ll ever see Sir Petriz again?”
“Yes,” Karol replied. He knew it in his heart. His knight would return.
And then a cold chill passed through him. He felt incredibly weak and fell to his knees clutching his stomach. Hevsky felt it too, and sucked his breath in ragged gasps. The air was stale and putrid. He could smell the charred flesh hidden by the shroud. The fabric seemed to pull inwards as well, as if some force were taking a long inhalation.
A moment later, all was still again. Hevsky and Karol breathed slowly, their faces ashen and confused. Karol was about to ask what that had been when he felt the edge of the shroud pulling underneath his knees. He scooted back on his hands, as did Hevsky, as the figure beneath the cloth stirred.
Slowly, Sir Czestadt sat up, pushing the cloth free of his face. Where the gash had rent his flesh apart now only a jagged pink line ran from his face and down his chest. His eyes were cold for a moment, but they warmed ever so slightly upon seeing the two squires kneeling next to him. “Knight Templar!” Hevsky cried out in surprise, his voice choking in his throat.
“I told him,” the voice was cold and distant, but it was the voice of Sir Czestadt. “No blade can kill me.” Slowly, the Knight Templar of Stuthgansk, Volka wei Stuth, and purple Blademaster of the Kankoran stood and breathed of the air again.