Authors: John Marco
The Eyes of God (62 page)
“What people?” asked Gilwyn, almost laughing at the notion. “The stories say Grimhold is full of monsters!”
“Monsters? Like that giant you saw?”
“Well, yes, I guess so.”
“People, Gilwyn,” corrected Figgis. “They must be people. Magic, odd people, maybe, but still people. They’d all be in danger if Akeela and Trager discovered them. And that’s not all.” Figgis grew pensive. “What about you?”
“What about me?” asked Gilwyn.
“You’d be in danger, too. If I told Akeela your story, he’d pick you apart for information.”
“No,” chuckled Gilwyn. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Wouldn’t he? What makes you so sure? I told you, you don’t know anything about Akeela. You don’t know what he’s become. You want to talk about monsters, start with Akeela.”
A nervous dither began in Gilwyn’s stomach. He had never imagined that his encounter in the alley could lead him to danger, but now Figgis’ logic seemed terribly sound.
“So what do we do?” he asked. “If we can’t tell the king, and we can’t warn the Jadori ourselves, what then?”
The note Cassandra had given Gilwyn still lay on the desk. Figgis picked it up. “You’ve got a message to deliver, boy.”
“Figgis, are you mad? After all you told me you actually want to me to do the queen’s bidding?”
“It’s the only way,” said Figgis. “Someone has to get Cassandra out of Lionkeep, and someone has to warn the Jadori. I can’t do it. I’m too old, and if I left the library I’d be missed. Akeela would start asking questions, then everyone would be in danger. But if you leave, well . . .”
“I’d never be missed,” said Gilwyn sourly.
“Sorry, but that’s right. We need Lukien, Gilwyn. If anyone can get Cassandra to safety and warn the Jadori, he can.”
“But how? Do you even know where he is? Cassandra thinks you might.”
“The queen flatters me,” said Figgis. “I haven’t the slightest clue where the Bronze Knight has been for the last sixteen years. But there is someone else who might know. A man named Breck. He was a lieutenant under Lukien, a close friend. When Lukien was banished, Breck resigned his commission in protest.”
“Oh? And where is this Breck now?”
“Still in Liiria, living on the outskirts of Koth. The last time I spoke to him was five years ago. He made a promise to Lukien to stay close to Cassandra, to keep an eye on her for him.” Figgis smiled sadly. “There was nothing Breck could ever do for her, of course, but that’s the way Lukien wanted it. Breck told me to come looking for him if I ever needed him, or if Cassandra was in danger.”
“Well, looks like that day has finally come,” said Gilwyn.
“Indeed.” Figgis once more got out of the chair. He stood before Gilwyn and put his thin, bony hands on his shoulders. “I can’t do this alone, Gilwyn. It has to be you. But I won’t order it. If you agree, I’ll stay behind and try to stall Akeela. Maybe I can throw him off track somehow. But it’s up to you. You’ll have the hard part.”
There really wasn’t anything for Gilwyn to say. Part of him remained lovesick for Cassandra, and he had already given her his word to help.
“Will Breck take me to Lukien?” he asked. “I’ll need his help—I won’t be able to do it alone.”
“If he knows where Lukien is, he’ll take you to him,” said Figgis. “You won’t be alone.”
“I’ll need money. Queen Cassandra said she’d pay whatever I need.”
“I can arrange it. I’ll take the money out of the library’s funds. Anything else?”
Gilwyn thought for a moment, but his mind was a jumble. There were a thousand questions, and not enough time to answer them. “Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Can I take Teku with me?”
The old man laughed and hugged Gilwyn to his breast. “Why not? Ah, you’re a good boy, Gilwyn. I’ve always been proud of you.”
To Gilwyn, Figgis’ praise remained stronger than any magic.
32
F
or Will Trager, the most dreadful place in the world was his own memory. It was a palace of dark corridors and locked doors, rooms for which only he held the key. It was a place where the dusty portraits of heroes hung, watching him from across the years, mocking him. Will Trager was over forty years old now, and was considered without peer by the military men of the continent. They feared and loathed him and the war machine he had built out of Liiria’s riches, but their hard-earned respect was not enough for Trager. His memories pursued him, chasing him down like wild dogs. And the leader of the ghostly wolf pack, still and always, remained his long dead father.
or Will Trager, the most dreadful place in the world was his own memory. It was a palace of dark corridors and locked doors, rooms for which only he held the key. It was a place where the dusty portraits of heroes hung, watching him from across the years, mocking him. Will Trager was over forty years old now, and was considered without peer by the military men of the continent. They feared and loathed him and the war machine he had built out of Liiria’s riches, but their hard-earned respect was not enough for Trager. His memories pursued him, chasing him down like wild dogs. And the leader of the ghostly wolf pack, still and always, remained his long dead father.
Will Trager had come from a long line of accomplished knights. His father had fought at the first battle of Red-thorn when he was only sixteen, driven no doubt by the barking memory of his own father, Will Trager’s legendary grandfather. It was like a disease of the blood passed down through generations, and it had infected Trager badly. He could not hold a sword without thinking of his legacy, and he could not ride into battle without his dead father at his shoulder, whispering slurs. The older Trager had died young, forty-five by the time a Reecian arrow found him. He had been thirty when his young wife had given birth to Will, and by then he was already well-known throughout King Balak’s court. He was considered a very fine knight, and so had drilled his son relentlessly in the arts of warfare, forcing him to take up the family mantle. He had pushed young Will onto a horse almost before he could stand, had given him a dagger for his sixth birthday, and had taught him how to swing a sword rather than throw a ball. He had hounded Will day and night, toughening his body and his spirit, scarring his flesh with blows and his mind with insults. Will Trager had been an accomplished adolescent, and any father but his own would have been immensely proud. But Rory Trager was a man of small compassion. It was not enough that his son could ride a stallion or joust with men twice his size. There was an insatiable legacy to be honored, and only the best could carry the banner of the Trager family into the future.
Only the best.
Will Trager’s memory palace was full of trophies, but it was also laced with defeats. He had won ribbons at fairs and the adoration of young ladies, but he had never known the respect of his father.
Despite the abuse, the first years of Will’s adolescence had been good. He had been welcomed in Lionkeep by the friends of his father, good knights all. They had taught him the use of the lance and the bow, and they had given him the praise his father withheld, enough to sustain him. Even Akeela, bookish and lean, had been a friend to him. Before the bad times. Before Lukien.
Lukien had risen like the sun on Lionkeep. From the moment he’d been plucked from the streets of Koth, he had eclipsed Trager. He was younger, stronger, and better looking than any boy in the keep, and his martial abilities were natural, almost god-given. Where Trager struggled day and night to master weapons and techniques, all these things came to Lukien with easy grace. It was not long before comparisons were made between the two, and even Trager’s father saw the truth of things. His judgmental voice still boomed through the corridors of Trager’s memory.
“Too slow.”
“Too weak.”
And the worst of all, “Not as good as Lukien.”
Lionkeep fell under Lukien’s spell. The men adored him, the girls swooned for him, and even Akeela succumbed to his glamor. Though they could not be more different, Lukien and Akeela became like brothers. King Balak showered Lukien with gifts and affection, and when he had graduated war college there had been no question of the Bronze Knight’s path. Captain of the Royal Chargers. Remarkably, no one complained. Not even Trager. Instead he had remained in Lukien’s shadow, growing accustomed to the dark.
It had taken Trager years to break the bond between Akeela and Lukien, yet he still yearned for the sunlight. The attention of the crowds, the adulation of his men, a simple nod from Akeela—all these things soothed Trager’s burning memory and helped to quiet his father’s voice. He had made great strides in his life, and now that Lukien was long gone the comparisons had all but stopped; still Will Trager wasn’t satisfied. There was always someone still willing to question his abilities, and his father’s memory remained the most critical.
Trager was proud of his accomplishments, though. The world credited him with spreading fear and propping up Akeela’s tyranny, but Trager knew the truth of what he’d done. He alone had made Liiria the dominant power on the continent. He had taken a good army and made it great, swelling its ranks slowly, careful with his improvements. Liiria didn’t just have their vaunted Chargers anymore—she had divisions of men, painstakingly trained, well fed and well quartered. Trager’s innovations had been the marvel of the military world, not unlike Liiria’s great library was to the world of scholars. Figgis brought education and enlightenment to the country, and those were good things. But Trager had never been a learned man. He was a soldier, and his best innovations were among fighting men. He had revamped the training of recruits, choosing only the best and making great knights of them, and he had built facilities for his burgeoning army, gutting the abandoned buildings of Chancellery Square and turning them into useful war schools and barracks. If there was a man of renowned fighting skills, Trager learned from him, and he spared no expense in bringing trainers to Koth for his knights. He had hired horsemen from the steppes of Marn and archers from Ganjor, weapon makers from the smithies of Dreel and mercenaries from Norvor, all for the sake of turning the Liirian military into the greatest fighting force in the world. In sixteen years he had risen from lieutenant to general, displaced Lukien as Akeela’s favorite, and remade the armies of Liiria. Now he was older and he guarded his accomplishments jealously, just as he guarded access to Akeela. And yet, despite the years and accomplishments, he still heard his father’s voice mocking him.
General Will Trager heard his father’s voice now as he looked out over his gathered troops. He was on a battlement of his headquarters, the former Chancellery of War. The battlement overlooked an expansive parade ground where his personal brigade, the Royal Chargers, were drilling and making ready for the long trek to Jador. Three hundred Royal Chargers had been rallied for the mission. They were Liiria’s elite, and would lead the regular cavalry into battle with the Jadori savages, putting the total number near two thousand. Trager’s eyes gleamed as he watched them, satisfied. It was late but his men were dedicated, and there were still many preparations to make before their departure. They worked by the light of dozens of torches, shoeing their mounts and polishing their long lances. To Trager’s tired eyes, they looked brilliant. They were beautiful in the moonlight, and because they knew their general was watching them they worked with proud smiles on their faces. Trager could feel their adulation, even high up on the wall. He was as meticulous as ever in his silver armor and crimson cape, his head naked, his beard and moustache trimmed perfectly. His silver gauntlets curled around the stone of the battlement as he leaned forward, nodding happily at the men below. The Royal Chargers were better than they’d ever been under Lukien. They were better trained and better led, and because they knew this they were prouder. Liiria’s elite force was envied across the continent, and this was another feather in Will Trager’s hat. If only his father had lived to see it. If only the bastard hadn’t died so early. He would have seen the strong man his son had become, a hair’s breadth from the king. He would have seen how he’d become Akeela’s closest advisor, closer even than Figgis or Graig. And he would have seen the lordly horsemen on the grounds of the square, looking up at Trager with admiration, calling him “sir.”
But his father could see none of it. Will Trager cursed the Great Fate.
It had not been easy to live in the shadow of so many accomplished men, first his father, then Lukien, but Trager felt he had done an admirable job. Now he was about to spread his greatness to a foreign land. At last he would live out his great dream and lead men in an epic struggle. Jador was unarmed and peaceful, but that didn’t matter to Trager. Proud people always fought, and he was sure that Kahan Kadar and his desert folk would resist. The thought made Trager wistful. Finally, he would use this famed weapon he had forged. Finally, he would test its blade.
The lateness of the hour made General Trager yawn. He had been up since before dawn, checking supplies for the journey and making inventory, and he longed for sleep. But Akeela was awaiting him. The king was impatient and wanted constant updates on his progress. Sleep would have to wait a few more hours. Trager waved down from the battlement, signaling Colonel Tark. Tark was three years his senior but hadn’t let the age difference irritate him. He was a good and loyal man who followed orders implicitly. It had fallen to Tark to lead the Royal Chargers and, therefore, the Jadori mission. Though Trager still had ultimate control over the brigade, Tark oversaw its day to day operation. He was in a circle of officers when Trager shouted to him from the battlement.
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