Daughter of Fate - Chapter 10
When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods.
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you. You can find my other books on my website.
Pela sat crouched amongst a cluster of barrels, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. In her mind, she could still hear the screams of the dying men, rising like banshees above the crackling of flames. She could still see the burning ships, still smell the stench of roasting flesh.
A shudder rippled through her body and she struggled to keep from crying. She couldn’t afford so much as whimper, lest they hear and find her. Closing her eyes, she prayed to the Three Gods for deliverance, for rescue, to be anywhere but the queen’s ship.
She still could not process what had happened. One second, the King’s Guard had been celebrating their victory, their cheers rising up from the defeated Baronian vessel. The next, someone had been screaming, and Pela had spun in time to see a melee break out on the queen’s ship, to glimpse the catapult crouched like a spider on the stern deck.
Then with an awful crack, the weapon had released, hurling a burning barrel high overhead. Up and up it had risen, until it reached the peak of its arc, and went tumbling back down. Down into the cluster of ships it had fallen, and with an awful boom, exploded.
Almost in slow motion, the Baronian vessel had lifted from the water, as though propelled upwards by the hand of the Gods. Men had been hurled screaming into the air as flames blossomed, then suddenly the five ships were gone, vanished amidst the flaming tempest now burning upon the waters of the Lane.
Pela had hurled herself to the deck as pieces of wood and debris rained down. A wave had swept across the queen’s ship and for a moment she’d thought they would all burn. Clenching her eyes closed, she had waited for death to find her.
But somehow, Pela had been spared, and the heat had gone racing away, to be replaced by plumes of smoke that went billowing across the river. The clashing of steel had rung out across the deck of the queen’s ship, but amidst the putrid fumes Pela could not see who was fighting.
Stumbling through the chaos, she’d searched for the queen, but the woman had vanished, and Pela had searched for a hiding place of her own. With the screams of the dying and the roaring of flames all around, she’d stumbled into the pile of barrels at the stern—and had crawled between them.
Only when she was deep in the depths of the pile, did Pela realise the barrels were the same kind the catapult had hurled at the Baronian ship. Crouching low, she cracked the top off one, revealing a strange black powder within. An acrid stench touched her nostrils and she quickly replaced the lid, the hackles lifting on her neck.
If one barrel could do so much damage, what would a dozen do? But silence had fallen across the queen’s ship now and there was no time left to search for a new hiding place. She held her breath, waiting to find out who had won.
“There’s men in the water!” a voice called out.
A soft thud followed, then another, before a second voice replied, “Not for long.”
Pela choked back a sob as she realised the men were firing on any of the King’s Guard who had survived. Stuffing her fist into her mouth, Pela scrunched her eyes closed and waited for the nightmare to end.
Except it never did. As the hours crept by, Pela found herself dozing, made drowsy by the heat beneath the canvas covering the barrels. Eventually someone spoke nearby her hiding place, snapping her awake.
“Anyone seen the girl?” a man’s voice carried on the breeze.
“Not since the attack,” another replied. “Probably jumped ship.
Someone cursed. “Then she’s croc food. I wonder who the third sacrifice will be now.”
“The Elders will find one. Maybe the Consort, or one of his companions. I hear they’re riding straight for the Cove.”
The first speaker laughed. “More fool on them,” he said, then after a moment had passed: “Have you ever seen such a sight?”
“The flames?” came the reply, the speaker’s voice touched by awe. “Never.”
“That black powder…”
“Not even the cursed Magickers could have done so well,” another added. “Truly, the engineers have outdone themselves. When all of Lonia’s ships possess the black powder and steam engines, no force in the Three Nations will be able to stand against us.”
“Praise be Alana!” the other exclaimed. “Her sacrifice finally bears fruit for our people.”
“Her sacrifice, and all those who have followed,” another chuckled. “The solstice approaches. How long until we reach the Cove?”
An icy chill spread through Pela’s stomach as she listened. Their words revealed them as members of the Order, but how had the infiltrated the queen’s ship? And where was the queen? Pela had not seen or even heard her since the explosion. Had she been caught in the melee?
The men had spoken of the Elders finding a third sacrifice. A cold breeze touched her neck as she realised the first must be her mother, the second the queen.
She was to have been the third.
Suddenly Pela was unable to catch her breath.
They planned to murder me!
Pela gripped the top of a nearby barrel, struggling to keep quiet, and only the tiniest of squeaks slipped from her lips. She felt as though she were suffocating. Then another thought struck her:
They know about Devon!
They knew her uncle was coming. She shuddered, the blood pounding in her ears as true panic took hold. What was she going to do? She was trapped aboard this ship, going who-knew-where! The rowers had taken to the oars not long after the battle; they could be anywhere by now.
I must warn Devon!
But she couldn’t even help herself.
No, she hissed in the silence of her mind. You are a fighter.
Her hand dropped to the hilt of her father’s sword. Derryn had fought for the king himself, had saved the man’s life. How could she do anything less? If she could get the queen away from wherever they were keeping her and over the side, Pela thought they could make it to the riverbank before anyone noticed. It was already growing dark, and it did not sound as though there were many men left onboard. And those that remained were relaxed, thinking the day won.
“Tomorrow night, I expect. I’ll not be sad to see this ship burn. Tired of rowing.”
The other laughed. “Can’t stand a little hard work?”
“Not when a bit of coal will do it for me.”
“Soon enough,” came the reply. “Come on then, the girl’s gone. Let’s put our backs into it. The harder we row, the faster we’re there. Then we can finally burn this archaic heap of timber.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
The voices retreated, and Pela crawled to the edge of the stack of barrels. She poked her head out from the canvas and saw the red light staining the horizon. The yellow orb of the sun was just visible through the wiry branches of the mangroves. The speakers were just disappearing beneath the deck to the oar banks. Pela had only been down there once and was in no hurry to return. It stank of rotting fish and sweating bodies, the air stifling in the summer heat.
Silently, she crept from her hiding place. The aft was raised, with a single flight of stairs leading down to the rest of the ship. Beside the stairs, a railing prevented anyone from accidentally falling from the upper to lower deck. Pela crept forward until she was positioned behind the railings and peeked over the edge.
Directly below her, two men stood with their arms folded, guarding the door to the main cabin positioned beneath the aft deck. She cursed silently to herself. That had to be where they were keeping the queen.
Pela loosened her sword in its scabbard, then thought better of it. Both guards wore plate mail armour and carried heavy broadswords on their belts. She wouldn’t stand a chance if it came to a fight.
I should never have brought you.
She shrank as Devon’s words whispered in her mind. Retreating to her hiding place, Pela crouched in the shadows and hugged her knees to her chest. Her uncle had been right. She should never have come. What chance did she stand against full-grown men, when they’d already cut down the best of the King’s Guard? She should just do as the men thought she had and jump overboard. She could swim to shore and head for Lane, and report the attack to…
Who?
There was no one left. The King’s Guard were all gone, slaughtered to a man. The queen was held hostage and Devon was walking into a trap. If she fled, she would be giving up her one chance to do something, to fight back against the Order and their Knights.
Pela sucked in a breath, thinking again about the guards outside the queen’s door. They were well-armed, but relaxed, confident of their victory. Their barrels of magic powder had won the day with them hardly having to lift a hand.
Remembering the awful explosion, Pela shuddered. Then an idea came to her. How much did the Order truly know about this magic powder of theirs? It was obviously dangerous. What would they do if anything happened to their supply?
She couldn’t risk a fire. Pela had seen the damage done by a single barrel; there wouldn’t be much left of the queen’s ship if a dozen took light. But if she made them think something had happened …
Studying the barrels, she tried to estimate their weight, but dismissed the idea. They must weigh eighty pounds each; there was no way she could lift them. But she might be able to knock one over. Putting her shoulder to the closest, she heaved with all her strength.
The barrel rocked on its base and started to tip, but she let go before it could fall. She sucked in a breath, wondering if she was truly game. Angrily, she shook her head. If she hesitated, she was lost. She shoved the barrel again until it tipped, teetered on the edge of its base, and then toppled to the deck with a crash.
“What was that?” a voice shouted from below.
Pela retreated as the barrel rolled across the tilting deck. Clearing her throat, she shouted in her deepest voice: “Fire!”
Panicked shouts followed, then the thump of boots on the stairwell. Pela reached the railing just before the guards reached the aft deck, and vaulted over the top. Lowering herself down, she landed softly on the main deck. There was a slight overhang and she quickly stepped beneath it so she could not be seen from above.
The cabin door was closed and Pela cursed under her breath. She hadn’t thought about a lock…but it was too late to turn back now. Casting aside the last of her caution, she gripped the handle and turned.
Her heart skipped a beat as it opened with a click. She quickly stepped inside, swinging the door gently shut behind her. Within, the cabin was dark and warmer than outside, but at her entrance she sensed movement. A glow appeared in the corner.
The queen blinked, holding out the lantern and sitting up in bed. A frown crossed her delicate features as she saw Pela standing in the doorway.
“Pela?” she murmured, and Pela could tell she was struggling to wake.
“Dim the light!” Pela hissed, glancing at the glass windows. “Before they see!”
Crouched on the hard earth, Caledan’s muscles were beginning to cramp by the time the Knights had finally ridden into view.
Devon had spotted the group the day before, while they’d been riding up into the foothills of Mount Chole and its two unnamed shadow peaks. They’d been a long way off amongst the mountain tussock, but there was no mistaking the shining armour and long white capes.
The Knights might have only been late to the gathering, but Caledan thought it more likely the men were hunting them. If that was the case, they had not sent enough men. He’d counted half a dozen—against Devon and Caledan alone they would have struggled. With Genevieve and the man Brenden adding their swords, the Knights might still have the numbers, but not the advantage.
Caledan glanced across the track, trying to spot where Genevieve and Brenden had hidden themselves amongst the trees. The forest was sparse here in the foothills, little more than a few wiry mountain beeches. Even so, his companions were well concealed, but Caledan was patient, and eventually their movement gave them away.
The huntress was crouched in the shadows of a jagged boulder, sword in one hand, hatchet in the other, while Brenden hid behind a narrow tree trunk with sword in hand. Caledan eyed the man, then shook his head. Their new companion might have fought beside Devon, but he was obviously out of practice—no veteran would have wasted energy drawing his sword so soon.
Devon himself stood in the centre of the trail, hammer in hand. The pounding of horse’s hooves slowed as the party galloped around the bend below and spotted him barring their passage. A voice carried up the mountain, ringing from the cliffs that rose at their back.
“Who goes there?”
“You know who!” Devon bellowed, raising his hammer. “Who are you, Knight, to follow me?”
The Knights drew up a few yards from Devon. “The queen asks you return to Lane,” their leader answered. “The culprits of the attack on Skystead have been found, and the woman Kryssa freed.”
For a moment, Caledan thought the hammerman would believe them. Their words seemed to stagger him, his hammer lowering half an inch. But finally he shook his head.
“I wish I could believe you,” he croaked. “But you are Knights of Alana, not the Queen’s Guard. Why would she send you?”
“My heart grieves for the hurt these radicals amongst my Order have dealt you, Devon,” the Knight answered. “We come to make amends.”
Devon shook his head. “You came for blood,” he murmured. “Is that not why your Order has come to these lands?”
“My brothers come on pilgrimage, to witness a ritual to the Saviour, to commemorate her sacrifice,” came the Knight’s response. “None of us wish for more bloodshed.”
“Then throw down your swords and remove your helms.”
“We cannot,” the Knight answered, his voice taking on a harder edge.
Devon hefted his hammer. “Then blood it shall be.”
The Knights exchanged glances, then as though suddenly realising they were wasting their time, they drew their blades. Caledan tensed as the hiss of steel whispered up the trail.
“You will not grant me the honour of a duel?” Devon asked.
The leader chuckled. “No, Consort. I’m going to ride you into the ground like the animal you are.” He lifted his sword and his horse reared. With a scream, he charged towards Devon.
Caledan braced himself, but the old warrior’s words rang in his ears—wait for my signal—and he forced himself to still. The Knights closed in rapidly, the steel-shod hooves of their horses tearing up the trail and filling the air with dust. The damp of the river lands was far behind them now and in the shadow of the mountains, the earth was hard.
Bellowing in the face of his attackers, Devon drew back his arm and hurled his hammer. His aim was true, and the heavy weapon struck the leading horse in the chest with a sickening thud. The beast screamed and crashed to the ground, hurling its rider from the saddle. Behind, the other horses reared, toppling several of their riders, while others furiously tried to regain control.
“Now!” Devon shouted. Charging forward, he swept up his hammer and launched himself at the nearest Knight.
Shouting a war cry, Caledan leapt from the trees. A Knight was just coming to his feet and died without ever drawing his sword. Leaping past the dead man, Caledan glimpsed Brenden engaged with a second, and Genevieve burying her hatchet in the helmet of a third.
Another man came at Caledan, sword raised and shield in hand. Cursing, Caledan parried the blow and riposted, but the man blocked the attack with his shield and then thrust forward. The shield caught Caledan in the wrist, almost jarring the blade from his hand. He retreated, and his feet became entangled in the dead man.
Glimpsing an opportunity, the Knight attacked again, and only a desperate flick of Caledan’s blade saved him from being impaled. Even then, he felt a slash of pain from his arm as the broadsword nicked him.
He leapt back, clearing the dead man, and blocked another flurry of blows from the Knight. Then he grinned. The man was good, but Caledan had his number now. Every time the Knight attacked, his shoulder dropped, exposed the joint in his armour at the throat. As the man lunged again, Caledan’s blade speared through his gorget, hard enough to sever his spine.
Blood spurted from the wound and the man fell. Caledan twisted his sword to free it, but the jagged tear in the man’s armour caught the blade, dragging the weapon from his hand.
Caledan leapt for the man’s fallen sword as a horse screamed behind him. Lifting the unfamiliar blade, he turned to see a horseman barrelling down on him. The broadsword was heavy in Caledan’s hands, sluggish as he tried to raise it. The Knight’s sword swept down…
…A shriek erupted from overhead as Brenden appeared in front of Caledan, his long sword leaping to deflect the Knight’s attack, then spearing up through the Knight’s armpit, where the joints in his armour were weakest. The horse’s momentum carried the Knight past, tearing the blade from Brenden’s grip, but after a few paces the Knight topped from the saddle with a crash.
Caledan looked around for the other foes, but Devon had already toppled the final man. The Knight’s steel plate armour had been caved in and blood now stained Devon’s warhammer.
Caledan shuddered at the sight. With the sword, one had to seek the weak points in an opponent’s armour—the throat or groin or armpits. Devon had no such concerns. It didn’t matter where he struck: one blow from his hammer and a man would be crushed within his own armour.
A groan came from the road beyond Devon, where the first Knight had fallen. His horse had landed on him in its death throes, but protected by his armour, he had survived mostly intact. The little good it had done him—he was still trapped beneath the beast.
Devon strolled over and crouched beside him.
“Help me,” the Knight croaked.
“Oh I will,” Devon replied. “Right after we’ve had a little talk.”
Devon groaned as he lowered himself onto a tree stump. The Knight of Alana lay on the road beside him, arms bound tightly behind his back. They had stripped him of his weapons and armour; without them he was a Knight no longer, only a man, and there was little sign of the defiance he’d shown earlier.
The Knight flinched as Devon tossed his hammer down beside the man’s head. They were alone on the road now—Devon had sent the others for firewood and to check their backtrail for signs of further pursuit. He hadn’t wanted to risk their hostage giving away the king’s identity to Caledan.
Not for the first time in the last few days, Devon sent up thanks to the Three Gods that Caledan had only ever glimpsed Braidon from afar before their meeting in the forest. But then, few would have recognised Braidon without his crown or armour.
“So…” Devon said softly. “You came to kill me.”
“Capture.” The Knight spat on the dusty ground. “Our Elders have plans for you, Consort.”
Devon chuckled. “Do they? What do those fools want from me?”
“Blasphemy!” the Knight snarled. “The Saviour would—”
He broke off as Devon leapt to his feet and planted his boot on the man’s chest. “Do not seek to lecture me on the woman I loved, Knight,” he grated.
“Loved?” The man sneered. “Hollow words, when you spit in the face of her sacrifice.”
Devon could only shake his head at the fervour in the man’s eyes, the absolute belief in his own truth. He was young, not even in his twenties. He had never lived with magic, yet the Order had taught him to fear it, to hate the Gods that had died with Alana. They said nothing of the miracles the Gods and their magic had performed, the peace and prosperity they had once brought to the Three Nations.
Letting out a long sigh, Devon sank back onto his stump. “I honour her memory by doing as she once did for me—giving my life to protect the ones I love. How do you honour her?”
The man’s eyes shone. “By following the preaching of the Elders, by renewing her Great Sacrifice, by burning the scourge of the False Gods from our land wherever I find it.”
“The Three Gods are dead, sonny,” Devon sighed. “They’re not coming back, however much some may pray for it.”
“Blasphemy!”
Devon waved a hand. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this line of questioning. “And what is this Great Sacrifice of yours? Where have they taken Kryssa?”
The man blanked. “Knowledge of the Great Sacrifice is not for non-believers.”
“How about we make an exception, given my prior relationship with your Saviour?”
The man opened his mouth, but before he could refuse, Devon picked up his hammer and twirled it in his hand. “Keep in mind, I’m only asking nicely this once.”
The Knight swallowed. “I believe in the power of the Saviour.”
“Alana’s not going to help you now.”
“The Saviour does not protect, only grants us the free will to live our lives.”
Devon chuckled. “Then you’d better get talking.”
The Knight swallowed, his eyes flicking from Devon’s face to the hammer. “You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man.”
“You’re right,” Devon rumbled. He drew a knife from his bag and moved behind the knight, cutting his bindings loose. The Knight sat up, looking confused. Devon tossed him his sword. “Get up. Let’s see how you fare against an old man.”
The man paled as he looked at the sword, but he made no move to pick it up.
Devon smiled. “I thought as much,” he said, crouching alongside the man. “Listen up, sonny. I’m not going to kill you, not unless you piss me off.” He nodded at the trees. “Now Caledan, he’s not so forgiving. I sent him out to look for firewood, to give us some time to talk. But when he returns, he plans to string you up by your neck.”
Colour fled the Knight’s face. He began to shake, his hands clenching into fists, though his lips remained tight shut.
“How old are you?” Devon asked.
The man swallowed. “Sev…seventeen.”
“A young age to die, whoever your Gods,” Devon commented. “You seem like a good kid. Misguided maybe, but you still have time to learn.”
The young Knight swallowed. “What do you want to know?”
Devon gave a cold smile. “What is the Great Sacrifice?”
“It’s…a renewal of Alana’s sacrifice. We…it has been performed every decade since her death, to keep the powers of the False Gods apart from this world.”
“And where will this sacrifice be performed?”
“This year…the Elders wanted a demonstration of our strength. They…the sacrifice will be held in Malevolent Cove,” he whispered. “Where the Goddess Antonia was struck down, where the False Gods first revealed their mortality.”
A cold breeze slid down Devon’s spine. Malevolent Cove was only a day’s march from where they sat, assuming they survived the journey. Once they crossed the plateau, they would be entering Dragon Country. A party of armoured Knights would be troubled by even one of the beasts—the four of them wouldn’t stand a chance. Even the greatest of Magickers had feared the creatures, in the times before magic was lost.
And then there was Malevolent Cove itself.
Legends told that the Old King Thomas had lost himself to darkness there, succumbing to the call of his magic and unleashing a demon upon the Three Nations.
And Devon’s ancestor, his great, great Grandfather Alastair, had been slain on its black sands.
A shudder swept through Devon at the thought, but summoning his courage, he continued with his questions. “How many Knights will there be?”
“It is the thirtieth anniversary,” the Knight replied as though that answered Devon’s question. When Devon only glared at him, he went on: “They will come from all over Plorsea and Lonia. Hundreds of Knights, and more still of our followers.”
A lead weight settled in Devon’s stomach. It was too many. Even with a distraction, how could they possibly hope to free Kryssa and escape?
To say nothing of the beasts that would hunt them in the wilderness of Dragon Country.
For half a moment, Devon wondered if Braidon had been right. The threat of the Order could not be ignored any longer; if hundreds were willing to gather for this sacrifice, what else might be at risk? How many more innocents would be persecuted, if the Knights were not stopped? Only the king could gather an army great enough to crush this insurrection once and for all.
But what then of Kryssa?
Silently, Devon imagined telling Pela he had failed, that he had turned his back on her mother. He could almost see the judgement in her eyes, the accusation, a mirror of the day he had returned to Skystead with Derryn’s body. Kryssa had met him on the pier, the light in her eyes turning from joy to despair, and finally to rage.
You were meant to keep him safe!
Devon shuddered. No, whatever the odds, he could not go back now. Kryssa and Pela were family, and he could not let them down, not again.
Standing, he held out his hand to the Knight. “Give me the sword.”
“You’re…you’re not going to kill me, are you?”
“I gave you my word,” he replied.
“Even so…”
Devon’s eyes flashed. “My word is iron,” he snapped. “Now give me the blade, before I change my mind.”
The Knight flinched and tossed the sword on the ground. He scrambled backwards as Devon retrieved the weapon.
“Go!” Devon snarled, pointing the blade at the man’s chest. “Return to Lane and tell your masters of your failure. Or go home, I do not care. But do not come this way again, for if I see you, I’ll not hesitate to strike you down, armed or no.”
The Knight swallowed. “My armour, it’s sacred—”
“Go!” Devon bellowed.
He went.
Genevieve appeared from the nearby bushes a few minutes later. From the pointed look she flashed him, she’d been listening, but she said nothing when the others returned carrying an armful of firewood each.
“You let the bastard go?” Caledan asked.
Devon shrugged. “He told me what I needed to know.”
“Oh?” Braidon questioned. “So where are we going?”
Devon drew in a deep breath. “Malevolent Cove.”
Ikar breathed a sigh of relief as they cleared the last of the trees and emerged into the open. Ahead, campfires lit the night and the stench of smoke was heavy in the air. They had ridden hard all through the day and into the night to reach the safety of the Cove. Shouts carried through the darkness as figures moved in the shadows, and Ikar raised an empty hand.
“Hello, brothers,” he hailed them, “well met.”
“Who goes there?” came the response.
“Ikar.” He grinned as the shadows slowed. “The Elders are expecting me.”
A torch was lit and several Knights strode forward, the flames reflecting from their metallic helmets. Ikar shuddered—in the dark, his fellow Knights no longer seemed human. There was no expression to read in their steel faces, no warning as to their attentions, and for a moment Ikar saw what others must see when they looked upon him.
His hand was halfway to his helmet before he caught himself. Swallowing, he gestured at Kryssa. She sat on the packhorse, her eyes on the ground. Despite her threats, she had made no further attempt to escape since killing Putar. It seemed as though she’d finally come to accept her fate. Sadness touched him.
“Ay, you are just in time. We’ll send for them,” one of the Knights replied.
A brief discussion was held and then they ran off, clambering down a ditch laden with spikes before disappearing through the gates of a wooden palisade. Ikar was surprised at the span of the fortifications—the Elders must have been planning this for some time.
“Come,” one of the Knights said, gesturing them forward. “We have made the dragons fear us, but there are other creatures in these woods. It’s not safe to stand here in the dark.”
Ikar nodded. Taking up the reins to Kryssa’s horse, he followed the Knights inside. The gate groaned as it closed behind them, sealing them within. Dismounting, Ikar moved to Kryssa and freed her hands from the saddle. With his help she stepped down. After a moment’s hesitation, he untied her hands as well.
She rubbed her wrists and frowned at him, a puzzled look in her eyes, but Ikar only shrugged. A young boy appeared, bowed to Ikar and the other Knights, and then took the reins of their horses and disappeared into the darkness.
Ikar watched him go, and then turned to survey the rest of the camp. The smell of smoke was stronger here, and he saw that the ground was covered in soot. Fire must have been used to clear the trees. The Red Dragons would not be pleased, and he glanced over his shoulder nervously.
It was then he noticed the great catapults lining the interior of the palisade. Barrels lay stacked alongside them and men stood nearby, their eyes on the starry sky. Ikar swallowed, recognising what they were. He wondered how the Order had gotten hold of the black powder. But it gave him at least a small measure of confidence that the Red Dragons could be handled.
The rest of the site was similar to the military encampments of the Lonian army. Rows of canvas tents stretched away from the gates, with a single avenue leading deeper into the camp. At this late hour there were few members of the Order awake, but those he saw wore the armour of Knights. He noticed with distaste that most carried large crossbows on their belts. They were the weapons of cowards, though he supposed they were needed to keep the beasts at bay.
A distant banging could be heard, as of hammers striking wood, along with the faint crashing of waves on a sandy shore. Ikar found himself wondering about the Cove, and what waited for him on the infamous shore. It was said his ancestor Alastair had died there, though few knew of the association. The man was despised by the Order for his magic and his service to the Gods.
The association shamed Ikar as much as his family’s other secret—that they had inherited the man’s magic, at least until the Gods had fallen. He prayed to the Saviour that tonight he would finally help put that past behind him. It was the reason he had joined the Order in the first place, to purge the darkness from the world, to make amends for his family’s past evils.
Now, remembering the Elder’s sick joy at Kryssa’s pain, and his own treatment of her on the ship from Skystead, Ikar found himself wondering…
No, he thought, clenching his fists tight. The False Gods must be kept from this world.
He looked up and caught Kryssa staring at him. Warmth touched his cheeks, though she could not see beneath his helmet. The whisper of a sigh from her, and she turned away, casting her eyes over the camp.
The thud of hooves announced the approach of a new group of men. Ikar edged closer to Kryssa as Servo rode up, surrounded by a large party of Knights. He was surprised to see the Elder here. The man had been intending to remain in Lane, when Ikar had departed. How had he come here so quickly?
“Ikar,” the Elder announced, “well met.” His eyes flickered to Kryssa and his voice took on a hard edge. “Where is Putar?”
“He caught up with us on the road to Lane. But...we were set upon by a Raptor,” he lied. “The Elder…died well.”
Servo stared at him for a long while. Ikar held his gaze, and finally the Elder nodded. “His wisdom will be missed,” he said, then smiled, and Ikar sensed the fabrication had not gone unnoticed. “You did well to defeat such a beast, without even a scratch to your armour, Knight. I thank you for delivering the woman safely.”
Inclining his head, Ikar spoke without thinking: “What is to become of Kryssa now?”
A stillness came over Servo. Without speaking, he dismounted and strode to where Ikar stood. “As you know, Knight, the woman is to be one of the three for our Great Sacrifice,” he said dangerously. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Ikar replied, though his heart was racing now. “And what of the others?”
“We already have the first,” Servo said, his voice growing light once more. “Fate has conspired to deny us a third. But fear not, the Saviour plays to her own tune. The third comes.”
“Who?”
“Our scouts report the Consort and his companions are within a day’s ride from our camp. They have evaded our forces until now, but they cannot remain free forever. If our people do not find them, the dragons will.”
“Devon is close?” Ikar asked, a weight lifting from his shoulders. Surely this was a sign from the Saviour. “Good. I will put an end to him.”
“No,” Servo shot back. “He must be taken with the others. If the Saviour wills it, her Consort will join her in the heavens.”
Ikar clenched his fists, though his armour revealed no other sign of his anger. For a long moment he stood staring at the Elder, struggling to push down his rage, to gather the will to agree. Finally he bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Very well,” he rumbled, his voice betraying him despite his best efforts. “If it pleases you, my Elder, I will wait here. I would ensure my cousin receives an appropriate greeting.” He glanced at Kryssa, feeling the need to say something, to bid the woman farewell, but the words died on his tongue. “I trust you will see the woman safely to her cage.”
With that he turned away, but not before he caught a last glimpse of Kryssa. She wore a look of disappointment on her face, as though she had expected more from him. Shame burned his throat, though he knew…knew in his heart he was doing the right thing.
Head bowed, Ikar marched slowly back to the gates to wait for his rival.
Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.