Chapter XIII. Steel and Magic

A horse whinnied and the sound seemed distant, as if it came from a mountaintop. The sound of metal-tipped boot heels clacking on stone echoed like water drops plopping on the surface of a still pond. The sounds resounded through and filled the darkness that comprised Quillion's world. The darkness was so thick and strong that the Half-elf had an almost impossible time struggling out of it. Other than the sounds echoing from the darkness, the only other sensation Quillion could discern from the fog surrounding his mind was a feeling of motion, a sensation of swaying back and forth. He fought and clawed his way out of the blackness that befuddled him, and managed to open one eye just a crack.

What he saw almost made him wish to fall back in the dreamless dark. He was trussed up on a log borne between two large, armored Knights, and Preosha and Malaryn were being carried along in the same manner somewhat behind him. The Half-elf slowly swiveled his head about, hoping to see if Aramari was nearby. He saw no sign of her, and was forced to give up, since he had no way of looking to his right without attracting the Knights' attention.

Judging by the fact it was still the middle of the night, he knew he could not have been out for very long. He was extremely surprised that he had been affected at all by the sleep spell that had rendered his companions unconscious. Many a powerful magi had made the terrible mistake in the past, of casting spells that affected the mind on Quillion. Very few of them were still around to get a second chance. Whatever priest or mage had managed to put him asleep, for even a short time, must have been extremely powerful. Great. It looks like the companions were getting stronger enemies at every turn. If Quillion ever got his hands on Emiriak he would twist his head off like a melon from a vine.

He used the anger he felt to focus his attention past the murky darkness that still threatened to pull him under. He could not afford to be caught awake or the Knights would be sure to use a more direct method than magic to render him unconscious. He took stock of his situation. He could not feel his hands, but whether that was from the bonds cutting off his blood or the lingering effects of the sleep spell, he could not determine. Regardless, that effectively eliminated a physical confrontation from the list of options. Not to mention, he would have to face down at least six armed Knights and he did not even know where his sword breaker was.

He cast his mind around, searching for whatever spells he could remember. He could almost see the words, but the lingering darkness prevented full remembrance of the spells. To make the situation worse, most of the items required to cast his spells were unavailable while he was tied up like a pig on a spit. The few offensive spells he had that did not require him to use his hands would, at best, only stun his opponents, giving him just a short amount of time to free himself and the others from their bonds. The odds against such an attempt were extremely low. It looked as if his only option was to wait until an opening appeared and then make good their escape. That was fine with the Half-elf. During the eighty-seven years Quillion had been adventuring, he had learned to become a patient man when the situation called for it.

Adjusting his leather-bound wrists as best he could to stimulate blood flow, Quillion resigned himself to a long, uncomfortable trip. However, just as he began to focus on the words to one of his most potent spells, he heard a high, musical voice echoing from his right. "I say, that's not how you're supposed to tie someone up. Don't you Knights know anything? It's probably the lack of fresh air in those helmets that causes your brains to get addled."

It took every ounce of self control Quillion could summon to not open his eyes from surprise and shock. He recognized that voice. Bloody Tartarus! How could he ever forget it? Thimellan! The Half-elf let his head roll to the opposite side as if he had shifted due to the swaying. Through one half-closed eye, he saw two Knights marching along his pole, their visors lowered over their faces. Thimellan's voice came from a tall, well-built, bald man walking behind the Knights. The man was dressed in bright blue and white striped pants held up by a wide yellow sash. He wore no shirt and had a multitude of gold necklaces that bounced about on his chest as he walked.

The bald man became of aware of Quillion's scrutiny, and turned his head to look directly at the Half-elf. He flashed a wide, impish grin that seemed totally out of place on such a stern face, and gave Quillion an exaggerated wink. Rage filled Quillion as he suddenly pieced together what must have happened back at the temple. According to Tersiano's appraisal of Thimellan, only this color-enhanced creature would have the power to cause a sleep spell to work on a Half-elf with Quillion's resistant abilities. That meant that this was the son of a motherless goat who had put Quillion and his two friends under the magical enchantment.

His previous plan to wait for an opening was quickly abandoned as Quillion fiercely whispered the words to a spell. A blade of shimmering ice appeared in his hands and he quietly used its sharp edge to sever the bonds holding his wrists. Glancing back at the guard holding the back end of the pole, Quillion knew he was in luck as the man was preoccupied watching Thimellan torment his fellow Knights. Good. Quillion would use Thimellan as a distraction right up until the point where he drove his ice knife into the creature's brain.

Knowing full well he would only get one chance at this spell, Quillion began to softly chant the words that would mold the ambient energy around him into a field that amplified all sounds coming from Quillion with thunderous results. As soon as he completed the spell, Quillion could feel the radiant tingle that expanded his senses, allowing him to see that his molding of the magical energies had worked. He stopped himself short of breathing a sigh of relief that would have echoed like a lion's roar throughout the night. The Half-elf quietly inhaled as large a breath as his lungs could hold and released it in a shout that would have been impressive even without the amplification of his spell.

As it was, the sudden, deafening roar that exploded in the otherwise still night struck the escorting Knights like a physical blow. To a man, they all clapped their hands uselessly to their helmets and fell to their knees in agony. Only Quillion himself was protected from the force of his own spell. His magically enhanced scream halted abruptly as his back struck the ground, his pole having been dropped by the afflicted Knights.

The Half-elf sat up to free his feet and glanced over to see that even Thimellan had been affected by the force of his spell. As he used his ice knife to deftly slice though the leather holding his ankles fast to the wooden pole, Quillion watched Thimellan flop around on the ground like a fish gasping for air. With the Knights kneeling on the ground, trying to recover from his sonic assault, and Thimellan incapacitated momentarily, Quillion knew this would be his best chance to end the betraying little creature's miserable life.

He stood up with difficulty, stamping his feet on the ground to restore the circulation. There was no time to waste recovering from a little numbness, for there was a person who had to die. The white-hot anger that pulsed in his veins had clouded his mind and caused him to pay no attention to minor discomforts like numb feet. It was a blind rage that allowed no room for forgiveness. In Quillion's anger-clouded mind, there existed only one punishment for such a blatant act of betrayal: Death.

The Half-Elf approached the still-writhing Thimellan, stopping only long enough to pick up a longsword that one of the fallen Knights had dropped to the cobblestone road. He barely even noticed the sword he clutched in both hands as he stood over the form of the bald man who spoke with Thimellan's voice. Flipping the sword over in his hands to hold it inverted; Quillion raised the blade high in the air, intent on driving the point through Thimellan's chest.

A slight groan from behind him snared his attention just as he was about to strike. Had it been a Knight's voice that he heard, Quillion would have paid it no heed, but he recognized the voice moaning in pain behind him: Preosha. He turned his head briefly to see where she was, irritated at the interruption to his revenge on Thimellan. He saw Preosha under the log she was tied to; lying on the road where the Knights had dropped her when Quillion had cast his spell. His sharp Elven eyes detected a trickle of blood coming from his friend's ear.

Anger drained from Quillion like water from a pitcher, only to be replaced by cold fear and burning shame. That wound to Preosha had not been caused by the short fall to the ground, it had been caused by Quillion's own spell. In his rage and blind fury, Quillion had cast a spell that had caused damage, not only to his enemies, but to his friends as well. The very act went against all training he had received from his Wendiat, or teacher, as well as all the moral values he held dear. In his shame, he felt as if he had been struck a mortal wound and his life's blood was now flowing freely from it.

The sword that was previously poised to take Thimellan's life clattered unheeded to the ground as Quillion rushed to Preosha's aid. His hands quickly untied the straps binding her to the pole, as calm, rational thought slowly returned to him. He had let his Elven emotions storm over his logic, but he would not allow it to happen again. He knew it would take a clear head to get his friends out of this predicament.

As he pulled Preosha's body from under the log, Quillion looked around and assessed his situation. The Knights that had been disabled were slowly regaining their bearings and would soon notice two of their captives were loose. The noise of his spell woke everyone within a hundred lengths of their position, and either the people of the area or more Knight patrols, would soon come to investigate. Malaryn was still tied to one of the hand and a half thick poles and the big man and Preosha were still magically asleep, as well as injured, from Quillion's spell.

As much as he hated to admit it, Quillion knew there was only one path available to him if he was to get his friends off this street alive. He turned to regard Thimellan, who had returned to the form he had appeared in back in The Sinner's Cove: a small man with curly brown hair, wearing the most eye-wrenching colors ever imagined on Mer. He lay on his side on the ground, his head propped up on one hand as if he had never been affected by Quillion's spell. Thimellan eyed Quillion in a very smug way that almost triggered Quillion to change his mind. Instead, the Half-elf swallowed his pride and pressed on. He owed his friends too much to succumb to pride now.

"I don't have time to play games with you, Thimellan. I will ask you now, can you help me get my friends to safety?" he growled.

"I say, you don't have to sound like you swallowed a bowl full of treiegh," said the little man. "If you really want my help, I think a proper tone of voice is required."

"Listen, Nightrene take you! We're going to be overrun by these Knights any moment now if we don't get out of here," replied Quillion heatedly. One of those very same Knights was just then rising groggily to his feet beside the Half-elf. Quillion dispatched him with a backhanded swipe with the flat of the borrowed longsword he had recovered, sending the Knight back to the ground in a clatter of armor. He continued to talk to Thimellan as if he had not been interrupted. "That means I need you to act quickly if you're going to help. I'll ask you nicely later."

"Well, all right, but I'm going to hold you to that," said Thimellan, a bit sulkily. He raised his light mauve colored sleeve pointing over Quillion's right shoulder. "I'd look out behind you first, though."

Quillion half turned to see a Knight swinging his sword at him with a wild, overhead stroke. Quillion sidestepped the fatal blow and gave a sharp kick to the man's wrists, sending the Knight's sword sailing across the street. The Half-elf used the pommel of his sword and brought as much force as he could against the Knight's helmet, smashing it with a loud clang that reverberated in the air as the Knight fell to the ground. If that Knight had not been still groggy from Quillion's spell, the Half-elf would have been split in two. He hoped that luck would stay with him.

Turning to see how many other Knights had recovered, Quillion ordered Thimellan to go and release Malaryn from the log he was under. The Half-elf then raised his sword and took up a defensive position in front of Preosha's sleeping body. After the pain he had already caused her, he would be damned if he let one of these Knights touch her again. The four Knights who had recovered the quickest were slowly arraying themselves into a semi-circle in front of Quillion. Spells were going to be useless now, Quillion knew, for the Knights had to know that he was the one who had cast the previous spell and would attack swiftly if they saw him begin to chant. He would have to rely on his wits, and his fighting skill, which probably meant that he had only a minute or two before he was overwhelmed.

The Knights began to clumsily probe at Quillion's defenses. Their steps were still a bit unsteady, but the slashes and thrusts of their blades were still enough to prevent Quillion from mounting any type of counterstroke. The Knights' training was readily apparent as, even in their weakened state, they moved together as a unit, each anticipating the others' movements. If they had been at their full abilities, Quillion knew he would not have stood a chance against their combined force.

Luckily, that was not the case, and Quillion was able to use the environment around them as a weapon. The cobblestone on the road was loose and uneven and did not give a good foothold. He parried a sword thrust from one of the Knights and gave a lunging feint towards two others, causing them to step backwards too quickly and lose their footing on the cobblestone.

Even with the temporary advantage of the Knights' loosened attack, Quillion could not spare a backward glance to check on Thimellan's progress in freeing Malaryn. Sending another of the Knights scrambling for footing, Quillion spoke with a loud voice in the Elven tongue, wagering on the odds that the magical creature would be able to understand him and the Knights would not.

"Magic-using-one, have you been able to free the warrior-man-friend from his captivation?" he asked loudly, grunting with the exertion of blocking a full arm swing by a Knight.

"Yes, pointy-eared-mage." The musical voice of Thimellan came ringing from behind Quillion, answering in the Elven tongue. "Big-muscle-for-brains is free from his bonds and we await your command."

The two Knights Quillion had unbalanced earlier now appeared bent on rushing Quillion, hoping that the sacrifice of a shot or two would not disable them before they overpowered him. As they charged, the Half-elf did not have time to do much other than hurl his body off to the side, blocking a slash with his blade and kicking out his leg in the hopes that he would connect with a leg or two.

His hopes were in vain, however, as the two Knights slowed their charge and decided instead to seize the unconscious body of Preosha. Quillion saw what was happening and began to rise from the ground in order to attack the Knights when a sword flashed in front of him, its point pressing against his riveted leather armor. Quillion stared at the blade touching his chest in disbelief, his mind racing. His eyes began to dart back and forth between the shining edge of the sword the Knight held pressed against him and Preosha's body, held outstretched between the two Knights who had charged. He had failed her again! There had to be a way for him to free her from their grasp.

A dangerous plan began to take shape in his mind, and he tensed for an attack that would most likely mean serious injury, if not death. Quillion was ready to sacrifice himself, if need be, to make amends to Preosha and Malaryn, who always had faith in him. Before he could attempt his risky gambit, however, the sword digging into his armor suddenly dropped to the ground and he heard muffled oaths coming from the Knights in front of and behind him. The sword clear, he looked up at the Knights holding Preosha, preparing to leap at them, and stopped short, his eyes widening in shock.

The two Knights holding his friend were clothed in nothing but bright blue pairs of women's bloomers. Quillion blinked his eyes once or twice to reaffirm that he was not seeing illusions. The Knights saw Quillion's astonished expression and followed his gaze towards the clothing they now wore. Their own eyes widened in shock and they dropped Preosha to the ground, needing their free hands to cover themselves. Quillion did not fully understand what was happening or why the Knights were reacting the way they were, but he was not about to let another opportunity slip by him. He sprinted for Preosha, sweeping her up in his arms, and dashed for where Thimellan sat on the ground next to Malaryn, rocking back and forth in hysterical laughter.

"This is your doing I suppose," gasped Quillion, coming to a halt and attempting to catch his wind.

The brightly-dressed man had to wipe tears away from his eyes before he could answer. "It most certainly is, Quilly. There's nothing that can disable a Knight faster than hitting them where it hurts, in their pride."

Quillion had to admit that the Knights had been effectively taken out of the fight. A couple of them had taken shelter behind a row of hedges beside one of the shops while the others scavenged around vainly for any scraps of cloth with which to cover themselves. Unfortunately, the distant thunder of footsteps echoing from down the street meant that the reinforcements Quillion had predicted were fast approaching.

"Thimellan, I think it's time you get us out of here. Otherwise we're going to be right back where we started," said the Half-elf.

"Speak for yourself, amateur. I would never be caught like you were, all trussed up on a stick like that. I mean, that would be truly degrading," said Thimellan glibly.

"Listen, you little colored bastard! It was your fault that the priest's spell even worked on me to begin with. I know you're the one who bolstered its effects" replied Quillion angrily.

"I suppose you do have a point there," sighed Thimellan. "I guess I can do you this one small favor, but don't be thinking I'm going to make a habit out of this."

As Thimellan stood up, his clothing changed to an oversized purple robe and he had an enormous circular hat sitting on his head. Quillion could feel his eyes trying to pop out of their sockets attempting to focus on the lurid color. He was forced to turn his head away as Thimellan spoke. "Where do you want to go?" asked the brightly colored trickster.

"Take us to Lysinthia. She'll know where the others are," answered Quillion. He could see the Knights' reinforcements appear around the corner of a shop just as the liquid sheet of light that indicated a teleport spell was being cast, rose up all around him.

Sitting in the warmest room of the palace with his feet propped up on a rosewood table, Emiriak sipped his blood red wine and pondered his next move. Lord Sortinst's orders were precise: Those bloody companions, as the people Petyon tortured in Two Sands had called them, were to be captured or killed. Unfortunately Emiriak still had no idea as to their whereabouts. If the bloody Rivanwraith was still lurking in the city, Emiriak was certain he could find them in a matter of hours, but the monster had left shortly after depositing Emiriak at the palace.

The creature had been somehow altered by what happened to it in Ravenwood. Emiriak recalled when he had just left the ground from the forest and was flying towards where the Czak Myar were marching when he felt the Rivanwraith's powerful spirit leave its body. A short time later he felt it return, but the creature had begun to act strangely. It seemed to be indifferent to the hunt suddenly, and not as fiercely combative in its continual fight for domination with Emiriak. When the leader of the Czak Myar asked the Rivanwraith what had happened, the creature had just ignored him. Well, it was no concern of Emiriak's now. The Rivanwraith was not here, and would not be until it was called for.

Emiriak's thoughts shifted back to his troops. The Czak Myar were now camped out on the northern shores of Lake Windsong, safely out of the normal scouting reach of The Knights of the First Order, but that would soon change, based upon Emiriak's new orders. If things were going as Sortinst planned, Emiriak had only a short time in which to find the cursed Half-elf and his friends. Though he needed only to find the Half-elf, Quillion, Emiriak's teachings showed him that if you cut the head off the rastier, the rest would die soon after.

His contact in The Knights of the First Order had done an excellent job of spreading the companions' descriptions. With an entire legion of Knights searching for them, that blasted bunch of Freier-spawned travelers would soon be under Emiriak's thumb. By the time Emiriak arrived in Haven, Lord Sortinst's spies already had false reports of the companions circulating throughout the city. Just a few days ago, Emiriak received a report that they had been spotted attempting to gain entrance to the city. In fact it was just shortly after that demon-driven storm had forced him to forgo his search for the group. The gatekeeper, Rickoos, or Reendus, or something like that, had informed Emiriak that the companions had not entered the city. Emiriak knew better, though. He could feel them lurking about, not where they were, but just that they were nearby.

Tossing the wineglass carelessly to the velvet carpeted floor, Emiriak stood and walked to the window facing the Knights' barracks. He took up position there, leaning against the windowsill, stroking V'cir's ebony pommel. The black blade's magic was what made Emiriak feel the companions had not left Haven. Occasionally he would feel the blade responding to his enemies, an unseen feeling right between his shoulder blades, as if someone were standing behind him that he could only sense, and not see. When he touched the blade, the sensation strengthened, causing him to almost visualize the person the blade was responding to.

Emiriak closed his eyes and could sense a whisper of dark brown robes flashing across his vision. He could feel the serious demeanor of the mind he was brushing against, sense its frustration at whatever it was doing. Suddenly the person became aware of Emiriak's intrusion. A flash of startlement was quickly covered up with concern and ultimately concentration as the person closed his mind up to all contacts. Emiriak himself was surprised at the power and discipline the person had to close himself off to V'cir's power, even at a distance such as this.

Unfortunately, there was no time to search further for another contact as the door behind him opened, creating a crosswind that whipped his cloak about him, sending its tips fluttering out the window. Emiriak turned to see a man dressed in the traditional armor of The Knights of the First Order: polished plate armor with the jagged edges along the shoulder line that would catch a sword blade, preventing it from reaching the wearer's throat. The shining steel armor of this man was accented by bronze and gold trim along all edges that caught the torchlight from the back wall, and splintered it, sending a cascade of reflections along the ceiling. His gray hair and piercing brown eyes were enough to let a trained man know this man's station, but there were also four gold bands along the man's right arm, indicating his rank in the Knights: Lord General.

"Close the door Barterrin," commanded Emiriak with a bark. He smiled to himself briefly as he knew that Barterrin hated being commanded and hated being addressed by his first name. "You're going to let in the flies that always cloud about the air in this filthy city."

He watched his insults strike home as General Barterrin's faced darkened, and the man slammed the door behind him with unnecessary force. The General stode forward towards Emiriak, intent on showing no fear to the black soldier that he had invited into his quarters. When he spoke it was in a strained voice, pushed to the edge of cracking. Emiriak's smile deepened upon hearing it.

"Don't dare presume to give me orders under my own roof, Czak Myar!" he growled. "Show some regard for the way civilized people live, heathen"

"Your own roof?" Emiriak laughed. "Exactly when did Rendron Alshien die and you become Arch-General of the Knights? Maybe I missed a messenger."

Emiriak watched General Barterrin bite back the rejoinder he had been about to utter. With visible effort he composed himself and regarded Emiriak coolly before walking over to a nearby table to pour himself a glass of wine. "I take it there is no word on the location of the companions?" he asked Barterrin.

"Nay, there is nothing. However, the rumor you have planted about troops massing North of the city has taken root in the city's underground." Barterrin's face blanched as he spoke of it. After a glance at Emiriak, he attempted to cover his discomfort by looking hard at his wine, as if it were bitter tasting. "The people in the taverns and common rooms are talking of little else."

Well, at least someone around here is doing their job," snapped Emiriak. He was not surprised that the inept Knights had not found the companions yet, but he would give good coin to see Barterrin's face when he found out that the rumors he spoke of were, in fact, not rumors, but the truth. Of course, Emiriak had spread a bit of discord, by fabricating tales of the army's size, ferocity, speed, and other refinements, but the army was actually there. However, because of the fact Barterrin did not believe it was, the man would advise the Arch-General to ignore the rumors, just as Lord Sortinst planned.

The Knight was about to utter a scathing remark, no doubt, when a rap on the door distracted him. Glaring at Emiriak, he walked quickly to the door and opened it. A young Knight stood outside the door, snapping to attention and saluting his General.

"Pardon, Lord General, but you left orders that you were to be informed when any of the outlaw band was captured," said the young Knight.

"Ah yes, well done Knight. Tell the jailer I will be there shortly," ordered Barterrin.

The Knight saluted and was about to make his departure when Emiriak spoke. "Wait, boy!" he shouted. "How many were captured?"

"I don't know, sir. I was only told that some had been captured. I was not given a number," replied the young Knight.

Emiriak was at the door in a flash of movement and he grabbed the Knight by the arm, forcing him to look into Emiriak's eyes. The Czak Myar's voice was like thunder when he spoke. "Take me to them now, or die tonight!"

© 1998 C.A. Lutke