Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1) (32 page)

Augum’s arm stung as if it had been plunged into a molten vat. Just don’t look at it, he told himself.

His vision tunneled, shrinking down to the size of a grapefruit. He descended a few steps, stumbled, and fell down the rest. He felt around the landing before becoming dimly aware he was gripping his sword.

Standing up was difficult. The black tunnel widened and closed as if breathing. He could barely feel his body as he staggered to where Gallows rolled with the beast. He raised his sword over what he judged to be rotten fur and thrust downwards with all his strength. The sword plunged deep into flesh. He placed all his weight on the pommel. It pressed against his stomach. Something strong flailed underneath and promptly tossed him aside as if he was made of straw. There was a long moaning shriek and then quiet.

“Is … it … dead …?” Augum slurred.

Gallows rolled away from the furry mass, covered in blood.

“Unnameable gods … it bit me. The vile thing bit me! Where’s the other one—?”

Augum, too tired to inform him the other one was dead, simply shuffled off holding his left arm, leaving the sword embedded in the beast. Gallows called after him but he just kept going. There was no time; he had to find the fountain.

He careened through the black door of the forest room. “Shyneo,” but his palm did not light up. “SHYNEO!” Still his palm refused to light. He was vaguely aware that what had actually come out of his mouth was probably gibberish. He stumbled forward in the dark, determined to find the fountain anyway, but tripped and fell face-first into the foliage. He knew he needed to stand but it just felt so good to rest, like curling up beside a warm fire after trekking all day in the snow.

He did not know how much time had passed, but when he became conscious that he was not doing anything, he fought to stand. Then something fantastic happened—he could see the path! Ever so dimly, the moss on the trail glowed, lighting his way.

He barely felt his feet squish into the moss. He passed through waves of hot, cold and nausea. Shakes came and went like the light of a teetering lantern in a storm.

Sir Westwood’s face swam before him. “When you do not have a torch, use the light of the moon. When there is no moon, use the stars. When there are no stars, use the moss. When there is no moss, disappear …”

His vision narrowed down to the size of a plum as he stumbled through the bush, grabbing branches for support with his good arm, the injured one dangling uselessly.

Suddenly there was the fountain, right before him. He wavered, trying to recall why he had come, when his vision closed completely and he fell. He did not feel the impact with the ground however, only a cold sensation as his head plunged into the shallow pool of water. Thirsty and delirious, he took a large gulp. Water had never tasted so fresh. The cool liquid invigorated him instantly. His senses roared.

He sat up, dripping. “Shyneo.” His palm fluttered to life. The light and pain faintly pulsed to the beat of his heart.

He had come here for something, but it was like trying to think through a fog. The water’s clarifying effects already began to wear off. From some distant place came the thought he was dying.

He glanced at the fountain. He could rest here, just a little nap …

The stone statue of the bald man peered at him, serene and calm. Did it just smile—?

He thought goose bumps rose on his skin. He lifted his arm to check if it was so, only to see torn flesh and oozing blood. Bile rose up his throat as a wave of nausea blackened his vision. Before complete unconsciousness overtook him, he plunged the arm into the basin of water. There was a prickly sensation, as if a thousand ants began nibbling. It was strangely soothing. When the sensation went away, he removed his arm. The bleeding had stopped and the wound seemed to be slowly closing. He gawked at it, unsure if he could trust his eyes.

Although the wound became less of a worry, flushes of heat and cold surged. His entire body ached. There was still the poison, and it was winning. Vision once again narrowed as a distant field of yellow grass flickered below. All he wanted to do was go to sleep.

Must … stay … awake …

He loosened the waterskin and with a shaking hand filled it in the pool.

“So how are things coming along, Augum?” Sir Tobias Westwood asked, a straw of wheat in his mouth, curly gray hair unkempt as usual. He sat cross-legged on the ground across from him, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, mustard hose, steel gauntlets and field boots.

“Not so well, Sir …” The voice in his head somehow did not match what came out of his mouth.

Sir Westwood spat on the ground. “Oh? Why is that?”

“I can’t seem to get my thoughts together …” The dark closed in.

The old knight squinted up at the sun, sweat glistening on his brow. “It is rather hot out. Maybe you should have a drink of water.”

Birds chirped, grass rustled softly. Augum put a hand between his eyes and the bright sun, thinking it indeed was hot out. “All right … one drink … don’t let anyone know …”

Sir Westwood crunched the straw in his teeth. “Focus, Augum.”

Augum let his head fall into the fountain and this time, like a man lost in the desert, drank as much as he could. When he raised his head, cool water dribbled down his chest. The black tunnel retreated, but not completely. His arm tingled.

“Ah, that’s better. Sir, do you think we could rest now?”

Sir Westwood picked at dirty fingernails. “Of course not, we are in the middle of training. Now tell me, Augum, what did you come here for?”

“What did I come here for …” The question seemed deep and profound. Indeed, why was he here? What purpose did his life serve?
Who
was he really? It was such a good question; Sir Westwood always asked good questions …

Suddenly it hit him.

“I came here for … I came here for an herb! You showed it to me once …”

“I did indeed. You remember—it was a grassy knoll and there was a large spruce bent at an awkward angle.”

“I remember … it was a grassy knoll … there was a large spruce bent at an awkward angle … and you showed me a plant … black shoots and blue leaves.”

“Black shoots and blue leaves.”

The tunnel tightened.

“Was it … was it oxy, Sir?”

“Oxy.” Sir Westwood spat on the ground.

Augum followed to where he spat and saw black shoots and blue leaves everywhere. “Oxy …” He began scooping it with his good hand. After he grabbed all he could carry, he turned to Sir Westwood.

“Thank you, Sir.”

The old knight smiled.

Augum crammed an oxy shoot in his mouth and chewed. It had a milky, acidic tang. His heart immediately quickened and Sir Westwood disappeared, briefly leaving an afterglow. Had that all been real? How had he found his way without his palm being lit—?

“Shyneo.” His palm sputtered to life, weak and still tied to the beating of his heart. He examined his injured arm. It had almost completely healed. There was no time to gawk at the miracle of it though; he had to save the others.

He raced through the wild growth, through the black door, and on down the hall, skidding to a halt as he spotted a bloody Nightsword slumped against the library doors.

“Hello—? Anyone here?”

From behind the door came the muffled voice of Gertrude Grinds. “One of them is still alive! Seek shelter, Augum. Seek. Shelter!” It was followed by muted cries from the servant girls.

The bodies of Sir Gallows, Sir Castor, the Nightsword, and the brother knights lay motionless around one of the wolf-things, still pierced with Augum’s blade. He wondered if he had killed it or someone else had; his memories of what had happened were murky.

He ran up to each of the knights and stuffed an oxy shoot into their mouths, followed by a splash of fountain water from his waterskin. With his hands firmly around their jaws, he made each of them chew the herb. The entire time he could hear Ms. Grinds’ cries of warning, but he worked on, hoping the thing would not attack in the meantime.

Sir Gallows was the first to stir when Augum heard rabid growling from somewhere below.

The girls!

He did not wait for the rest to come around. He stuffed the remaining oxy shoots into his belt, ripped his sword free from the dead beast, and scrambled downstairs, almost completely lucid now.

When he reached the landing where Mya and Sir Fostian Red lay, he stopped to help them too. After administering to the burly knight, whose skin was cold to the touch, he cradled Mya’s head. He placed the oxy into her mouth and gently made her chew it, feeling a tingling flush in his cheeks. Then he poured the fountain water. He wished he could stay and hold her until she woke, but the growling urged him on. He splashed some fountain water on her wound before laying her back down onto the floor, a pang in his stomach.

He then raced down to the second floor. His pulse quickened as he witnessed the wolf-thing he had shocked earlier square off against Fentwick. The beast was trying to get past the animated suit of armor, but Fentwick was as graceful as an old dancer, giving it a firm whack on the head with his wooden sword every time it tried to get by. With each strike, the wolf-thing would yelp and stagger back, sniffing the air.

Augum remembered the lightning tearing out its pupils—the beast had to be blind!

“An unworthy attempt, sir,” Fentwick said in that high nasal voice as he nimbly cuffed it on the side of the head again. The beast must have been trying to get past Fentwick for a while because its head was a bloody mess.

Augum crept forward, waiting for the right moment. When the creature took another blow from Fentwick’s stick, he raised his sword and charged. The beast turned just in time for the blade to slice off its head.

“Wouldst thou care for a duel, mine lord?” Fentwick asked as Augum ran past to where Bridget and Leera waited.

“Augum—!” Leera said when she saw him, her lip quivering. “I don’t think she’s breathing—”

His heart squeezed as he saw how pale Bridget was. He raced to her side, stuffed an oxy shoot in her mouth, and poured some fountain water in. He handed the waterskin over to Leera and grabbed Bridget’s jaw, forcing her to chew.

“Pour some of it on her wound.”

Leera scrambled to unwrap Bridget’s bandaged arm before pouring the water on the gash.

“Is this fountain water—?”

“Yes.”

Leera gasped. “The wound! But … but healing water is the stuff of legend …!”

He could not care less how legendary or rare it was, all that mattered was that it worked. Color began to return to Bridget’s face. When she stirred, they both breathed an immense sigh of relief, Augum slumping against a wall, Leera plopping into a chair.

“I’m going to go and check on the others,” he said after catching his breath. “You’ve got a great guard though, so you’ll be fine.”

Leera smiled. “Aug—”

“Yes
—
?”

“You did great.”

He smiled. “Thanks,” and ran upstairs to see to Mya and the others.

The Nightsword

Stars twinkled through the arched dining room windows by the time everybody sat down to a second supper. Everybody but Sir Fostian Red that is, for Augum had been unable to rouse him.

“The bite was too severe, young man,” Sir Gallows had said upon finding him kneeling beside the red-haired knight. He rested a gauntleted hand on Augum’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Augum remembered Mya, who had recovered enough to examine the fallen knight, nodding in solemn agreement, her breath labored.

That’s not entirely true, Augum thought, staring at his food—he could have run faster, taken less time at the fountain, concentrated harder …

He glanced up and down the table. He and Sir Jayson Quick—the Nightsword—were the only ones not smiling. The knights had repaired the ovens and the servants certainly made use of them—broiled duck and roast chicken were the highlights, but as hungry as Augum was, he hardly noticed.

“A victory feast!” Gallows said, raising a slopping tankard. “And here’s to our noble companion, Sir Fostian Red, Knight of the Royal Guard, who fell bravely in battle.”

“Hear hear!”

“And now a toast to Augum Stone, Savior of Souls and Slayer of Beasts!”

“HEAR HEAR!”

Bridget and Leera beamed at him as they raised goblets of winter cider in his honor. He forced a terse smile and a quick bow of his head. Earlier, Bridget had given him the biggest hug of his life for saving them all. He had to remind her he had failed because Sir Fostian Red died.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Aug,” she had said. “You can’t always save everybody.”

“I should have run faster …”

“You did your best.”

Tales of his so-called heroism began to circle the table. He pretended to eat, trying not to make eye contact, feeling the heat of both hearths on his back.

“You have no idea what you did tonight, do you?” Leera asked quietly from across the table.

“I was extremely lucky.”

“You were extremely brave is what you were. I’m proud to be your friend.”

That made his insides tingle, but not enough to eclipse the hollow feeling of failure. His father had taken countless lives. He had many lives to save to make up for his father’s many murders.

He remembered Meli’s breath leaving her body as Mr. Penderson’s whip kept coming and coming. That old mule was the only thing that had gotten him through those dark days. He wondered who could no longer count on Sir Fostian Red returning home. What kind of family did he have? Would they now go hungry?

The scars on his back began to itch, but rather than subtly scratch against the chair as he usually would, he let the gentle torment continue.

The prince, meanwhile, took the compliments directed at Augum as some kind of personal affront. He tried to get as much attention as possible, boasting how he had saved the Nightsword with an expertly timed shout of alarm.

As the Prince blathered on, Bridget rolled her eyes and Leera gave Augum a
can you believe him
look. Augum smiled half-heartedly and glanced over at the empty queen’s chair, wondering when Mrs. Stone would return.