Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1) (33 page)

Everybody was sore and bruised, but due to the miraculous healing waters of the fountain, all were now able to attend this second supper, even the previously injured Sir Dollard Canes, who now occupied Sir Fostian Red’s seat. The large pudgy-cheeked fellow with short curly-brown hair talked little. His head bobbed up and down with a forced smile as the others ribbed him about his wounds. When they toasted to his health, he merely raised a glass of water, citing an upset stomach, which of course only increased the teasing.

Despite Fostian’s death, the group was in good spirits. By far the best moment was when Mya gave Augum a kiss on the cheek and thanked him for saving her life. Augum did not know what to say, but whatever his face did must have seemed very funny because both Bridget and Leera giggled into their hands.

When talk turned to the wolf-things, there were plenty of guesses as to what they were—werewolves, direwolves, or maybe even hellhounds.

Before the feast, Augum and Sir Gallows had seen to the two carcasses so that Mrs. Stone could look upon them with her own eyes. Gallows insisted Augum do the honors with him as the slayer. Augum was so tired he would have preferred to have been excused, but did not want to offend the old knight.

“It is like they are one again,” Gallows had joked upon tying them together, referring to the moment he saw one beast split into two. “I had never seen anything like it before; simply disgusting. Quite strong, too, even took down the Nightsword.”

“Sir, why is Sir Quick so quiet?” Augum had asked as they dragged the beasts downstairs.

“There are stories, though I doubt them true. Some say he was once a mercenary, seeking battle for coin. Others say he was a vicious masked brigand who now keeps quiet so no one will recognize his voice. One story tells of Jayson Quick eating a leg of chicken near a prisoner. The prisoner had quite the tongue, rambling on about his life, oblivious to Jayson’s desire to be left in peace. When the prisoner asked one too many questions, Quick stood up, unsheathed his sword and decapitated him. He then calmly sat back down and finished his chicken leg.”

“That doesn’t sound very knightly.”

“No it does not, but it is only a tale.”

“So why is he known as the Nightsword?” Augum asked as they exited the castle.

“That is another story, and an absolutely true one. On a moonless cloudy night, back when he was a part of the town watch, Quick went on a raid against a bandit camp. He became separated from his group and found himself surrounded by ten brigands. He killed the two torchbearers and then cut down the rest—all in pitch-darkness. He took one prisoner, who happened to tell the tale. King Ridian knighted Quick for it and offered him a place on the royal guard.”

Augum now peered down the table at the Nightsword, who just happened to be chewing on a leg of chicken. His pale face turned in his direction. Augum quickly looked away. Something about the man made him nervous. He wondered if the chicken leg story was true.

“I think we can skip the sword training tonight, eh brave warrior?” Sir Castor said from beside him, taking a swig of wine.

Augum nodded. He did not want to train with a bunch of drunken sword-wielders anyway, and the sour smell of wine on Castor’s breath reminded him of Mr. Penderson. He looked past and saw the Nightsword slurping his third tankard of ale. The more the man drank the more he leered at Mya. She kept her eyes on the floor, her usual delicate smile absent. It made Augum clench his fists under the table.

The crowd became rowdier with every refill.

“Let’s study the blue book after supper,” Bridget said amidst the loud talk, slicing up a baked potato.

“What? Aren’t you tired?” Leera asked.

“Exhausted, but Mrs. Stone told me working through exhaustion makes a good warlock great.”

Leera snorted. “Then we should be invincible by now.” She stabbed a boiled carrot with her fork and twirled it around a bit. “Fine, but we were supposed to sword train first, so why not with Fentwick?”

“That might work,” Bridget replied, salting and buttering the potato. “We’ll need more wooden swords though. What do you think, Aug?”

“Huh? Oh, why not just use my sword? The prince did.”

“Yes but that pea brain set Fentwick on the highest difficulty,” Leera said. “At a lower difficulty your sword would chop Fentwick’s in half. I’m with Bridget—let’s find more practice swords.”

“We can probably get them where we found Fentwick in the first place,” Bridget said.

Augum speared a wrinkly mushroom as the conversation from the other end of the table caught up to them.

“Young slayer!” called one of the red-cheeked Brack brothers. “Where is that fine blade of yours? Bring it forth and let us have a gander.”

“Yes, let us see the blade that pierced and beheaded the beasts,” Sir Castor said, eyes shiny.

Prince Sydo quickly stood and smoothed his red hair. “No need, noble Sirs—you may gander at my fine blade.” He leaned near Lord Boron. “Lord Moron, where is my sword?”

“I had it placed in Your Highness’ room.”

“
Well,
get
—
it
—
then
,” Sydo said through gritted teeth.

Lord Boron flushed and mopped his brow, eyes flicking about. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He stood as gracefully as the situation allowed and strode out.

“Well then, get your sword too, Augum,” Gallows said, pink from the ale. “Let us compare!”

All the knights save for one added their voices in agreement, until a chant arose. Augum finally relented just to silence them.

He passed Lord Boron in the hall. The man stood on the lowest step, idly rubbing one of his large chins.

Augum retrieved his sword from his room, but on the way back, Boron still had not moved. His heart softened. “Lord Boron, why do you let the prince speak to you like that?”

Lord Boron’s face reddened. He wordlessly set off, abruptly stopping halfway up the stairs. “I swore an oath. I swore to King Ridian the Wise that I would do whatever his son asked of me. He was a good king. I am the boy’s minder. It is … my duty.” He sighed. “Not all of us have your courage, young man,” and resumed climbing before Augum could say anything else.

“Ah, there it is—” Gallows said upon Augum’s return, standing to take the blade. The moment he grasped the hilt the sword ceased shooting sparks. The knight did not notice. He stepped back and took a few practice swings. The blade hissed neatly as it sliced the air.

“Why, it is quite light, even for a short sword. Wait a moment …” He inspected the blade, the hilt and the crossguard. “Edrian, have a gander—”

Castor stopped laughing at one of the Brack brothers’ jokes and took the blade from Gallows.

Prince Sydo made a show of stretching on the throne. “It is probably cheap southern steel, Sirs. I would not give it much thought.”

“I have never seen anything like it,” Castor said, ignoring the prince. He took a long look at the crossguard. “It is quite impossible to forge something like this in a traditional smithy.”

The brother knights leaned in for a closer look. “Castor is right, this is superb work,” said one.

“I too have never laid eyes upon such a blade,” said the other.

“Let me see it,” said a deep voice Augum did not recognize. He looked around to find the source only to find everyone staring at the Nightsword.

“Well give it here now, stop dawdling—” the knight said, eyes gleaming. Sir Castor, wearing the same blank look as everyone else, yielded the blade. The room went silent. It was the first time Augum heard the Nightsword speak.

He turned the sword over in his hands and inspected it closely from top to bottom, then brushed his mustache with his thumb.

Gallows sat back down. “What do you think there, Jayson—?”

“A Dreadnought blade.”

Gasps and murmurs circled the table. Augum looked over at Leera and Bridget, but they both shrugged. The Nightsword stood and swung the blade in a vicious arc, almost taking off one of the Brack brothers’ heads.

The brother raised a hand in defense and laughed nervously. “Whoa there, Jayson, perhaps you have had too much of the drink—”

The Nightsword spun the blade with such velocity it blurred and made a sharp whistling sound. He then swung it in a figure eight to his left and right, before roaring a mighty war cry and slicing clean through one of the massive marble fireplaces, causing a shower of sparks. With hardly a pause, he then tossed the blade up, letting it cartwheel in the air three times, before gracefully catching it in his left hand—and in one smooth motion presented it hilt-first back to Augum.

For a moment, no one moved.

“What’s a Dreadnought blade—?” Augum finally managed to ask, accepting the sword.

“Arcanely-forged steel from long ago, made by a lost race known as the Dreadnoughts. They forged steel using ancient arcane ways unknown to us …
ordinary
men.”

“That is just legend, Jayson,” Gallows said, waving dismissively. “Stop filling the boy’s head with stories. Sure the blade is old, but a Dreadnought blade?”

The table plowed into animated discussion.

“What is the name of the blade?” the Nightsword asked amid the roar of conversation.

“Name? Oh, um, I don’t know.”

“All Dreadnought blades have names. It is unbecoming of a warrior to not know the name of such a sword.” He gave Augum one last cold look before sitting back down, leaving him standing and gaping at the sword in his hand, the blade once again sparking. What
was
its name?

Lord Boron suddenly came huffing back inside, holding a jewel-encrusted long sword in a finely decorated scabbard.

“Your Highness—” he wheezed, mopping his brow, “I have your sword here—”

“Oh stuff it, Lord Moron.”

The Map

After supper, Augum arcanely repaired the mantel the Nightsword had sliced, hoping Mya would notice, but she was too busy attending to the knights.

“Peasant showoff,” Sydo muttered to Lord Boron.

Leera overheard the remark and opened her mouth to speak, but Bridget interrupted by standing. “Would everyone excuse us?”

The knights immediately stood in response. Bridget reddened like a summer apple.

“My young lady, you certainly may be excused,” Gallows said, raising his glass to the trio. Augum and Leera stood and gave a kind of half-bow that generated a snort from Sydo. The trio ignored him and exited into the dark hallway, where they lit up their palms.

“So, up to Fentwick’s battlement?” Bridget asked.

“Right, the practice swords,” Augum said. “Let’s go then.”

“Wait, let me see it,” Leera said. Augum handed her the sword. She examined it carefully, nodding to herself like a sage. “I see what they were on about. This is unlike any sword I’ve ever seen.” She gave it back to him.

Bridget kept a smile at bay. “Oh please, Lee, as if
you
know anything about swords.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You know that I—”

“—once wanted to be a knight,” Bridget said, dropping her eyes. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Leera pursed her lips, smiled, and punched Bridget in the shoulder. “All’s forgiven, Bridgey-poo.”

“Don’t call me that—”

Now it was Augum’s turn to keep a straight face. “‘Bridgey-poo?’”

“Oh, shut up,” Bridget said, sweeping the hair from her eyes and marching up the steps to the fourth floor.

“It’s what her mum used to call her,” Leera said, growing somber.

He guessed what Bridget was thinking—Sparrow’s Perch was still fresh in their minds, and little things like pet names were painful reminders.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be a knight,” he said.

“I did, but I would have started training too late. Also, mum didn’t approve. Dad
did
get me a short sword though.”

“I remember. You named her Careena. I didn’t start young enough either, you know.”

She shrugged. “I prefer arcanery anyway.”

“Me too.”

“Found some—!” Bridget said when they caught up. She was rummaging through a pile of wood in the southwest battlement. The structure had archer slots spread evenly around the five-foot thick stone walls. Two broken chests sat opposite each other.

“What a grim place to stand for two hundred years,” Leera said. “Waiting all that time to train the next prince or princess, and none came but us …”

Bridget stopped what she was doing and glanced at Augum. “Could it be that Leera actually put herself in someone else’s boots?”

“She takes after your example,” he said.

“An arcanely-animated suit of armor doesn’t count,” Leera said, grinning. “But I’ll consider that a compliment.”

Bridget smiled as she passed a wooden practice sword to each of them, grabbing one extra for good measure. “Hey, while we’re here, whose turn is it to repair the map?” She withdrew the wrinkled parchment from her robe.

“Mine, I think.” Augum took the map from her, placed it on the ground, and concentrated. “Apreyo.”

Nothing happened.

He sat there for a while and was about to give up when a piece of parchment came fluttering from behind one of the broken chests, re-attaching itself to the map. They had failed so many times the girls had not even noticed the success.

He held up the map. “You’re not going to believe this, but I think we got it.”

Leera almost tore the map swiping it from his hands. “I’ll be damned, he did it …” She splayed it on one of the chests.

“The passage is in the cellar,” Bridget said. “Southeast corner, the area we haven’t explored yet.”

Leera took a few steps. “Come on then, let’s go!”

“Go where?” said a familiar sneering voice from the stairs.

Augum hastily shoved the map back into Bridget’s hands, who promptly hid it in her robe.

Sydo smoothed his hair. “You three think you are so clever, always getting one over on the poor prince. So where are you sneaking off to this time? What, plan on opening
another
door so more beasts could try to kill me?”

Bridget straightened. “We would never—”

“Well who else would do it?” Sydo strolled forward, smirking. “My knights and servants are completely loyal to me; they would never put me in danger. It must have been one of you.”