The Tomb of the Dark Paladin (6 page)

The other wolves were getting anxious, pacing back and forth seeking a way through the magical flames. Carym knew could not hold them off much longer. Having felt so safe in Obyn, he had not been adequately prepared for an exhaustive use of the Tides. Morgon had helped Carym hone his skills using a particular spell called 
empower
 which enabled a Sigilist to store the magical power of the Tides in a physical object. Such an object would be very welcome to Carym right now, but he had not prepared anything. And he was quickly tiring from the incredible effort of maintaining a magical wall of flames. The wolves must be creatures who somehow existed on the power of the Shadowtides, Carym struggled to think of a way to use that against these attackers. He was keenly aware of the presence of the oily black stone in his coat pocket, yet he was loath to use the vile thing, but he was beginning to see no other choice. The wolves paced back and forth, angrily snarling and growling, awaiting the moment that Carym's strength failed. Carym didn't know if the bloody woman behind him was dead or if these creatures were even capable of being killed. Still he had to try, had to fight. These werewolves seemed nearly impervious to physical assault. But something changed in the demeanor of the two remaining wolves, they seemed more frantic as they paced back and forth beyond the flames.

A distinctive horn blast sounded, signaling that a patrol of the Cavalry of the Hand was nearby. Carym was torn, he knew that a large patrol of the riders of the massive bulls would be enough to intimidate these evil creatures, he only hoped there were enough of them to do the job. If not, they would all be dead soon.

Carym could hold the wall of flames no longer. As the flames that comprised the blazing wall guttered out, he and Genn were again facing the two nasty looking wolves. Carym glanced to where the first werewolf had fallen. As with the death of the first werewolf, a filthy human, this one male, was left in its place amidst a pool of blood and fur and gore. From behind the werewolves came the welcome sound of a thundering charge, the Cavalry of the Hand was coming to the rescue, their lances down and their pennants whipping in the air.

The wolves suddenly surged in and Carym braced for attack, but the wolves gave way around his horse and raced away from the fray into the city beyond. Shocked at their flight, Carym looked back to see where the bodies of their fallen were, hoping one had survived to be interrogated. But the bodies were gone. He turned back to Gennevera, glad to see she was safe, if a bit subdued. The knights arrived at the scene of the battle and thundered after the fleeing wolves, their polished armor gleaming as they went. Carym had an uneasy feeling that the capable knights would not catch the dark creatures, and he somehow knew he had not seen the last of them.

"Damn," he swore looking at the carnage. He grieved for the men of the city guard. Despite their grudge against the knights of the Hand, these were just men doing their jobs, some of them just boys. They were those whose duty it was to fight, and if necessary, to die for someone else. He hated that that someone had to be himself. Gennevera put a hand on his shoulder and Carym watched numbly as another detail of city guard arrived and began to clean up.

"Carym, we have to leave." Gennevera's words struck him as he stared numbly at the carnage. She was right, it was time to leave Myrnwell before anyone else got hurt. Carym nodded and two began the long ride back to the Tower of the Hand.

The unusually warm winter day had been a welcome one for the knight, but now that nightfall was near, it was growing rapidly colder. Ederick had been out in the field training in military maneuvers with other knights and men-at-arms of the Hand. It had been a grueling week of living in the dreary cold of the Myrnwell forests with mock battles that left wounds all too real. Every step that his horse took jarred his weary joints and he could not wait to get back to the Tower and avail himself of a hot meal and a bath.

The day had been the finest day he had seen since coming to Myrnwell, though the unseasonable weather and the unusual sun did little to cheer the knight's spirits. Certainly Ederick had much to be grateful for, having escaped punishment at the hands of Delfyd Rhi by the graces of the Hand of Zuhr. Still, he felt a sense of misplaced resentment toward his benefactors. He was a distinguished knight, an accomplished warrior who had holdings in two countries granted him by their respective monarchs. He had once been decorated and held in high esteem, but that was before he left the continent to fight in faraway Al-Zocar.

The memory of that war-torn island seemed a distant dream. He had been wounded many times, to the point of death at least once, and his heart would not let him forget. He had suffered at the hands of the enemy, tormented and tortured in an enemy prison. After a rescue by his comrades, Ederick had been sent back to friendly territory to recover from his injuries. He had never expected to find that his beloved order had been disbanded and its members imprisoned. Zuharim lands and fortunes had been confiscated, his own included. And worse, another order stood proudly in its place, mocking the demise of the once favored knights of Zuhr.

Ederick exhaled deeply. If he had been nothing else in his life, he had always been faithful to Zuhr. It pained him that he could not see Zuhr's wisdom in the madness that had become the world he once knew. While the state of the Zuharim troubled the gallant knight deeply, he took comfort in the fact that he now knew Zuhr truly had a plan for him. That plan would unfold before him when it was good and ready and Ederick was determined to see it through as it happened.

Ederick was alone this day, he had been sent ahead by the general to ensure that the proper arrangements were made to receive the battalion as it returned from maneuvers. He stopped his horse at a place where a small creek passed under the road through a natural cave. It seemed like a good place to rest and so he hitched his horse to sit by the creek, drinking some of its crisp water and rested his weary bones. The sun had not set, but darkness was no more than two hours away. He heard the sound of an approaching wagon, perhaps two or three, their wheels noisily trundling along the difficult road. Voices carried through the still air of the wood but the knight could not tell what they were saying. They were angry, their dialog seemed heated. Though not yet in sight he knew the wagons would round the bend soon and overtake him.

He led his mount through a stand of white birch trees alongside the road and into the woods beyond. A tall thicket allowed him to remain concealed yet still allowed him a good vantage point from which he could observe the road. In minutes, a horse-drawn wagon rumbled past the knight's hidden location. One wheel struck a rock in the road and jarred the wagon severely knocking loose a few bundles as well as a small box. They tumbled from the back of the wagon. The driver was heavily cloaked despite the mild weather and his hood was drawn low preventing the knight from seeing a face.

But Sir Ederick Shieldsmoore had seen that arm before, he recognized the ugly gray skin on that spindly arm; a sense dread filled him. His eye moved to the box lying in the muddy road.

None but the driver were visible from the outside of the wagon, yet the knight heard several harsh voices from within as it passed. The faded wagon was enclosed and its wooden planks had been painted black. All the windows were closed and Ederick could see nothing of the inside. The door was closed and the knight thought he saw the faded red symbol of a skull upon crossed swords upon it. 

Before he could ponder the meaning of that, two more wagons came after. These wagons were flat, probably designed to haul hay or other cargo and not people. Yet each wagon was carrying at least a dozen people. Villagers, he assumed by their dress. They all carried farming implements, like pitchforks and scythes and staves, and they all wore grim faces. 

When he was certain no one else was following after the wagons, Ederick led his horse back onto the road and bent down to examine the box lying on the muddy ground. It, too, was black with a red skull and swords symbol upon it. He plucked it from the mud, holding it as though its touch were poison. Ederick carefully opened the box and peered inside; it was red-gold Hurkromin coin.

"Hurkin cursed gold," he muttered. He shoved the box into a saddlebag and swung up onto his charger. Without a second's hesitation, he rushed back into the woods and raced his steed along narrow game trails as fast as the beast would go. The going was treacherous, but this way to the Tower would be quicker than taking the road. 

The temperature dropped noticeably the deeper into the woods he went, both he and his horse were breathing heavily. Though he was bone weary and tired, and getting colder by the minute, urgency and impending danger drove him on. He had to reach the Tower before those wagons did. After what seemed an eternity to the weary knight, the trees began to thin and the trail widened. The sun was now low on the horizon and dusk was not far off, and winter's chill grew as the daylight faded

As the darkness slowly overtook the daylight, small beacon lights appeared in the distance ahead of the racing knight. As he drew closer to the large compound where the Knights of the Hand of Zuhr lived and trained, it seemed there had been no sense of alarm yet. He urged his steed on, not slowing the harsh pace until he and his horse skidded to a stop on the loose ground before the keep's portcullis. A pair of men-at-arms stood guard at the entrance and several bowmen lined the wall above.

"State your name!" shouted one of the bowmen from above, a sergeant. Ederick walked his horse in a circle for a moment, hoping to allow it and himself moment to catch their breath. 

"Shieldsmoore," he said harshly, still trying to bring his breathing under control. "Let me through and sound the alarm!"

"Alarm?" demanded one of the guards on the ground before him. "What for?"

"Hurkin!" he said urgently. "There is a hurkin-mage coming to the Tower! Sound the alarm before it's too late!" The guards did not seem concerned and the ones on the parapet above snickered in derision. As Ederick wheeled his horse in frustration, he saw through the bars of the portcullis that the wagon was already there.

The portcullis creaked as it was raised and Ederick watched the expressions of the men-at-arms who manned the gate. It was unlike them to be insubordinate to a Knight of the Hand. Angrily he drew his sword and trotted under the portcullis and into the courtyard beyond. The black wagon was on the far side of the courtyard, as were the other two wagons the knight had seen earlier. The cloaked driver stood nearby, ominously holding a long staff. The path Ederick took should have brought him to the Tower first; he sensed dark magic at work. 

He slowed to a walk and stopped in the middle of the courtyard, something didn't seem right. Men-at-arms and knights stopped where they were and watched Ederick, their faces intent. Up on the parapets bowmen watched, seeming to be waiting for a command. Everyone was watching him. Dark clouds filled the rapidly darkening skies, an angry storm was brewing, perhaps one that would mirror whatever was about to transpire here. 

The massive wooden door at the base of the Tower opened and Bishop Rohan walked out into the courtyard. He walked with stately purpose, garbed in the official robes of his office, carrying a golden shepherd's hook. Each time he set the shepherd's hook down, the metal foot struck the cobbled stones of the courtyard with a resounding crack. Finally, Bishop Rohan arrived near the knight. Ederick knew he should get down from his horse and bow to the bishop, but he did not want to lose the advantage that his horse would give him if things went badly.

It was clear that something very bad was happening but he didn't know what. The air was thick with tension and his horse snorted and stomped. A hurkin wizard had entered the Tower, had been allowed to enter the tower. It seemed the Shadowfyr's hunters had found them after all.