Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series Page 2

  “Don’t you have a meeting scheduled for me…?”

  “They’re still waking up; it’s at least another hour until dawn—or a couple of candle stripes. We really need a clock.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “So talk.”

  Under her urging, I did. I left out no detail, not even the torture. I made sure she was especially clear on the orb’s involvement, too. When I finished, she simply stared at me with an expression of horrified fascination.

  “You’ve been tortured for all this time?” she asked, softly.

  “Time runs differently between worlds,” I replied, “and somewhat irregularly and possibly unpredictably. It’s only been… um… three or four days? At least, over there. I kind of lost track.”

  “And they aren’t dead?”

  “Not yet,” I said. She flinched away from me as though zapped with a cattle prod.

  “What the hell was that?” she demanded.

  “What was what?”

  “Your voice. It did a thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The creepy monster thing!”

  “What creepy monster thing?”

  “You know!”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “What happened?”

  “It… it had the quivery, echo-y reverb thing and… and… a twist on the bass control, and… something. It was… startling. Unexpected.” She shivered a little, my undead lover, which told me more about my tone of voice than a six-hour lecture with slideshows. “It was kind of scary. And sexy, too.”

  “You have a one-track mind.”

  “I do not,” she answered, affronted. “I have at least two.”

  “Oh?”

  “Work and fun. Although,” she admitted, “not always in that order.”

  “And sometimes they overlap.”

  “I feel sunrise starting,” she replied, changing the subject. “Waterfall?”

  “And then to work?”

  “Eventually.”

  “I’m not really in the mood for that. Not even for dealing with bureaucratic nonsense. I’ve had a really bad time,” I admitted, “and I’m more on edge than I like to think about. It’s dangerous to be around me, or I’m afraid it is. I’m torn between curling up in the dark until I feel better, or plotting vengeance and carnage.”

  “What sorts of vengeance and carnage?” she asked, pulling me to my feet. I suffered myself to be led to the bathroom.

  “I’m not sure, yet. I don’t have any ideas, aside from nuking them from orbit—which might not work. Maybe cracking the planet. I’d rather not commit genocide, though. It strikes me as indiscriminate.”

  “I hear nuking them from orbit is the only way to be sure, but they weren’t talking about magi, were they?”

  “No. The magi have a spell-dome of unknown properties over their territory and it’s irritated some governments. I don’t know for certain, but someone may have already tried nuking them from orbit. That leaves planet-cracking, and I’m resisting the idea.”

  “I imagine it takes a lot of effort.”

  “Yeah. It’s a constant temptation.”

  “I mean, a lot of effort to do it, not effort to resist it.”

  “No, it’s actually pretty easy to destroy a planet. There are very few legitimate reasons to do it.”

  “Oh,” she said, in a very small voice. I think she regretted asking.

  We stepped into the waterfall. It is a measure of my mental state that all her subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to distract me failed. Maybe it had something to do with being subjected to intense and prolonged pain. Maybe it was being chained down and treated like a talking piece of meat. Maybe it was being manipulated into being a murderous monster. Maybe the trickery, the personalized deception, the galling feeling of being used so contemptuously—those could have something to do with it.

  And, let’s be honest, maybe it was the fear.

  It’s not really the fear of their power. I’ve met things that can pretend to be gods. I’ve been that sort of low-order deity, possibly an angelic creature, although only briefly. Johann and his family may be of a similar order of power, but they have a major weakness—physical bodies. Flesh.

  People with immense power scare me. The fact I have power scares me. I live in a sea of fear and swim in the currents of terror, and I can barely dog-paddle. The best I can do is not let it bother me.

  Whee.

  None of this changed the fact I was disturbed on several levels. I’m only glad I was conscious of it. Being angry and afraid is something I’m used to—much too used to. But there are psychological aspects to torture I simply do not understand. I know my head isn’t working the way it usually does and I’m not sure how it’s different. I really need to keep a tight grip on myself. No snap decisions, no angry orders, no commands without thinking. Calm, cool, and controlled. I better start working on that, or take a while off to cool down.

  Can I afford to wait until I feel better? Or should I rush into plans for vengeance and destruction, hoping my friends can spot any flaws? Come to that, what kind of plans can I make—or should I make? —when I know my brain isn’t running at optimum?

  I hate people messing with my mind, directly, indirectly, or simply as a side effect. Hate it. It alters the very thing I feel is the nature of being. It’s one thing to remove body parts. Whether they grow back or not, I’m still myself, driving a flesh-vehicle which may or may not malfunction. But when people start screwing around with the guy doing the driving—the fundamental me….

  The best decision I could make would have to do. Fortunately, I trust the judgment of the people around me. If they think it’s a bad idea, I’ll have to listen. Maybe they’ll have some good ideas I can use as examples of how I should be thinking!

  I decided to try and recover some mental and spiritual equilibrium before choosing my tactics for horrific vengeance. This plan involved finishing my shower, sitting under the waterfall, rocking back and forth in the dark, and getting a grip on myself. Mary sat with me, holding me while we rocked back and forth. I think it says something fundamental about her that she stayed with me until I settled down.

  Karvalen, Saturday, February 21st

  I have a council chamber.

  When did I get a council chamber? Nobody told me I had a council chamber. I wasn’t too clear on having a council, much less a chamber to put them in. To be fair, I try not to get in the way too much and let other people get on with the whole running-the-kingdom thing, but maybe I ought to pay more attention.

  Then again, the palace in Karvalen is almost ridiculously large. I might have missed it, or the mountain might have grown one at Seldar’s request. Mary pushed on the door to spin it and I wondered if we should get some more normal doors put in the place. There were lots of them in the overcity, mounted to doorframes simply by asking the mountain to hold on to the hinges. We could do that up here, too. The mountain wouldn’t mind.

  And I realized my mind was wandering. I made a deliberate effort to focus and put my game face on. I can sit in the dark and rock back and forth anytime; right now, it was time to pretend to be a king.

  Would it help, I wonder, to have actual hats to reflect the number of metaphorical hats I have to wear? Interesting psychological question—for later.

  The council chamber is more complicated than a simple open space. It has a waiting room, a couple of private rooms off to the side of the waiting room, and some other chambers off the main chamber. In the waiting room, we encountered a pair of massive, black-armored ogres. At least, that was my first impression.

  They stood up as we came in, which caused the optical illusion of the room shrinking. They towered to about seven feet tall. Broad-shouldered and thick, I wondered how well they would do as walls. Pretty well, was my guess. They might also do well as asteroids or dwarf planets; they could eclipse small suns. They made me think about half-giants, basketball players turned weightlifters, and how to approach someone with so much reach. Four hundred po
unds? Five hundred? Men that big might weigh as much as I do. If they were as fast as they were strong, I wouldn’t want to face them during the day without a bazooka and surprise.

  There followed some clicking and unlatching as they removed their helmets. It hurt me a little that I didn’t recognize them instantly. The last time I saw them, they were nine years younger and considerably smaller. Back then, they didn’t need to shave often, so the changes in their faces were almost as drastic. It was a good thing the super-high-tech suits of armor were enchanted to adapt to the wearer over time.

  They threw the latches on their scabbards and drew swords I recognized. It hurt me a little more to realize I recognized the blades more quickly than I recognized them. Then again, the blades hadn’t changed. They laid the weapons on the floor and the armored figures went to one knee, which put their heads slightly below mine.

  Did I mention they were huge?

  Torvil and Kammen, all grown up. Way up. And sideways. Those grow-your-own-warrior spells apparently had considerable cumulative effect. I hadn’t intended them for long-term use, just as a temporary aid. If we started earlier, what kind of results would we get? Maybe we could try them on a dazhu and extrapolate; anyone too young wasn’t allowed to volunteer for human experimentation.

  “Your Majesty,” Torvil said. His voice was deeper, more rumbling. Mature. No longer a teenager, but a full-grown man well into his twenties.

  “I think you meant to say ‘Halar,’” I corrected.

  “As you say, Sire.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” I asked, toeing one of the blades carefully. Anything sharp on an atomic scale deserves to be treated with respect.

  “We goofed,” Kammen said. Technically, the word he used was currastalt, which is a combination of failure and foolish. The best translation might be failure compounded with foolishness. Goofed.

  “The story I heard,” I replied, “was how you stayed with me—well, with the person you thought was me, the Demon King—despite the atrocities and depravities involved. You minimized the awfulness as much as you could, as well as protected my body, for which I am duly grateful. What makes you think you failed foolishly?”

  “Seldar told us how, when you broke the Oath of Kings, you freed us from our oaths as knights,” Torvil answered. “Kammen and I disagreed with him. We swore. If you broke your oath—which, now that we know what truly happened, we can say you did not—well, if you break your word, is it reason to break ours? We were supposed to be… to make you a better person? To encourage you to goodness? To be good examples? All of that. Yet, Seldar reports he is not chastised for his choice.”

  “Makes us the wrong ones,” Kammen finished.

  “What makes you think there was one right choice?” I asked.

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “I’m not going to get into that. It’ll take a textbook and a philosophy professor. Instead, let’s look at you guys. You were supposed to be good examples,” I reassured them, “and I’m sure you were, within the limits of your capabilities. I don’t remember, but I believe in you. I trust you. I’m sure you did your best.”

  “Are we in trouble, Boss?” Kammen asked. I expected Firebrand to pipe up, but it was still in Carrillon, probably…

  “Don’t call him that,” Mary chimed in. “Firebrand doesn’t like it.”

  “I can’t get away with nothing,” Kammen complained, but smiled as he said it. He favored Mary with an appraising look. Mary returned it, along with a sultry smile. I ignored it.

  “First off, Seldar isn’t in trouble,” I said. “He did what he thought was right. That’s one of the things about knights in my personal retinue; they have a lot more leeway for initiative. Second, he came to me and took responsibility for his actions—he didn’t try to justify himself. He explained, yes, but he was also willing to accept whatever judgment I rendered.

  “You two could have done similar things. You could have quit to join various clergy, or start rebellions, or just raise social awareness about the monster on the throne—if you’d thought it was called for. I trust your judgment. I trust you. You’re kinder, nobler men than I will ever be, and I believe you can help me be something better than I am. So, no, you’re not in trouble. You did what you thought was best, according to the principles of knighthood, as did Seldar. Thank you.”

  I crouched and picked up the weapons by the flat of the blades, very carefully. If I lost fingers, we could reattach them, but it would be awkward until after sunset. I held out the weapons to Torvil and Kammen.

  “Don’t repeat it,” I told them. “You never forgot your oath.”

  They took the hilts, gingerly, cautious of my hands, but I didn’t let go.

  “While you serve me,” I said, softly, “I will honor you, respect you, and ask no service of you that will bring dishonor to my house or to yours. I will heed your councils that we may find wisdom together. I will stand with you to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship. I will uphold justice by being fair to all. I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven.”

  I let go the weapons. They saluted, sheathed them, clamped them in place, and rose like avalanches in reverse.

  “Now, I hear arguments beyond the door. Does it lead to my council chamber?”

  “It does, Sire.”

  “Let’s go see what the fuss is about.”

  Torvil and Kammen glanced at each other before locking their helmets on again. I took it as a warning.

  When we entered, there was a lively discussion going on about armies, navies, negotiations, and ultimatums. There were fingers pointed, voices raised.

  It’s disconcerting to walk into a room and watch the whole place fall silent to stare at you. I’ve had it happen when bringing graded test papers to class and it’s always disquieting. This was a smaller group, but their gazes seemed to have more weight. Everyone stood up.

  Mary ushered me to the head of the table. I sat down. Mary sat on my left; Seldar remained standing on my right. I recognized Beltar and Dantos. The rest were unfamiliar to me. Torvil and Kammen took up station behind and to either side of me, standing like… like… like really huge guys in super-high-tech enchanted armor. There’s really nothing I can compare them to. Tank turrets, maybe. Artillery pieces.

  Seldar looked at the towering figures. They nodded, just slightly. I was looking at his face, so I saw the effort it took not to smile. He shifted his gaze to me.

  “Sire,” Seldar said. Everyone saluted.

  “Be seated.” They sat. “Before we get on with whatever else is planned, I presume you have a sword for me?”

  “Several, Sire.”

  “Do you have one with you?”

  “I do, Sire.” He stood and brought out a sword and tackle from behind his chair. He handed it to me wordlessly. I examined it; it had the same mechanical setup in the scabbard. My suspicion was Seldar had come up with the idea—or, if someone else had the idea, he implemented it. It was only a suspicion, though.

  “Do you remember your oath, Seldar?”

  “My ghost will remember,” he informed me, solemnly. He saluted, closed fist over his heart, and recited:

  “To my King I swear loyalty and bravery. To the Crown I swear to be just and fair as far as my mortal wisdom will allow. At my King’s command, I swear to grant mercy, or to withhold mercy; to take life, or to grant it; to harm those from whom my King shall lift his grace; to heal and help those upon whom my King’s grace shall descend.”

  I didn’t ask him to repeat it, only whether or not he remembered it. I had intended to ask him if his duties as a priest or reverend or minister of Justice would interfere with being a knight in the service of the King, but either it wasn’t a problem or he was quitting the religion business.

  “While you serve me,” I replied, “I will honor you, respect you, and ask no service of you that will bring dishonor to my house or to yours. I will heed your councils that we may fi
nd wisdom together. I will stand with you to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship. I will uphold justice by being fair to all. I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven.”

  I handed him his sword. He took it, ignoring the tears streaking his cheeks, and belted it on rather than hang it behind his chair.

  “You’re a better man than I am, Sir Seldar,” I told him. “See to it you help me improve.”

  “It will be my honor, Sire.”

  “Speaking of which, do I have a castellan?”

  “Sir Dantos has been fulfilling the role, with some assistance from your…?” he trailed off, questioningly, as he gestured at Mary.

  “Consort?” Mary supplied, smiling her amused smile.

  “Consort,” I agreed. “Very good. You are now my seneschal in Karvalen. I’m not sure how that’s going to work with a Baron in residence in the city, though. I’ll want to you to talk to the Baron of Karvalen when you have a moment.”

  “I am honored, Sire.”

  “If you keep demonstrating all the great virtues, you’re going to get honored a lot. Try to get used to it. Now, perhaps we should have introductions. I trust everyone here knows who I am?”

  They acknowledged such was the case.

  “Good. I know Mary, Seldar, Beltar, Dantos, Torvil, and Kammen. Around the table, please. Who are you?”

  First of the four strangers was Sir Nothar, a knight to Baron Gosford. He was a handsome fellow, blue-eyed and blond-haired. He was present to represent his aged father.

  Percel was the local priest of the Temple of Justice. Maybe his presence was why Seldar could be so confident about being a knight versus being a priest. Someone else could be in charge of the Temple of Justice, assuming they had one in the overcity, somewhere. Percel was a small man with a keen gaze and a way of looking at you that seemed to imply he knew what you meant, rather than what you said. Fitting, considering his career choice.

  Liet rounded out our attending clergy as the representative of the Grey Lady. She was surprisingly young, no more than thirty, with a wide smile and more laugh lines than I expected. Her hair hung loose, unbraided, in the manner of young girls. I wondered what it meant in ecclesiastical circles.