done and our
lives returned.”
Benai, Andry thought. A city of hammered gold and amethyst, nestled on the green banks of the Nkon.
The homeland he had never seen took shape, his mother’s stories a song in his head. But it could not
last. The rain fell cold, reality impossible to ignore. Knighthood was three or four years off. A lifetime,
Andry knew. And there is so much else to consider. My position in Ascal, my future, my honor. His heart
sank. Knights are not free to roam as they will. They must protect the weak, aid the helpless, and above
all serve their country and queen. Not sightsee.
And there is Mother to think of, frail as she has become.
Andry forced a smile. “When all this is done,” he echoed, waving as Okran went down the hill, his steps
light on the dampening grass.
Have faith in the gods.
In the foothills of the great mountains of Allward, surrounded by heroes and immortals, Andry certainly
felt the gods around him. Who else could have set a squire on such a path, the son of a foreign
noblewoman and a low knight? Heir to no castles, blood to no king.
I will not be that boy tomorrow. When all this is done.
At the edge of the clearing, the immortal prince of Iona joined Cortael. His Elder senses were keenly
focused on the forest. Even from the hill, Andry saw the grim set of his jaw.
“I can hear them,” he said, the words like a whipcrack. “Half a mile on. Only two, as expected.”
“We should take our precautions with a wizard,” Bress called out. The ax over his shoulder flashed a
smile against the sky.
The immortals of Sirandel turned to stare at him as if facing a child.
“We are the precautions, Bull Rider,” Arberin said softly, his voice accented by his unfathomable
language.
The mercenary pursed his lips.
“The Red is a meddling trickster, nothing more,” Cortael called without turning. “Ring the temple; keep
your formation.” The Corblood was a born leader, well accustomed to command. “Taristan will try to slip
through us and tear open a crossing before we can stop him.”
“He will fail,” Dom rumbled, drawing his greatsword from its sheath.
Okran thumped the butt of his spear on the ground in agreement, while the North cousins rattled their
shields. Sir Grandel drew himself up, his jaw hard, his shoulder squared. The immortals fell in, their
bows and blades in hand. The Companions were ready.
The skies finally opened, the cold, steady rain turning to downpour. Andry shivered as the wet worked
down his spine, needling through the gaps in his clothing.
Cortael raised the Spindleblade to the road. Rain spattered the sword, obscuring the ancient design of
the steel. Water ran down his face, but he was as stone, weathering the storm. Andry knew Cortael was
mortal, but he seemed ageless in that instant. A piece of a realm lost, glimpsed only for a moment, as if
through the crack in a closing door.
“Companions of the Realm,” Cortael said, his voice carrying.
Thunder rolled somewhere up the mountains. The gods of the Ward are watching, Andry thought. He felt
their eyes.
The rain doubled its onslaught, falling in sheets, turning the grass to mud.
Cortael did not waver. “That bell has not tolled for a thousand years,” he said. “No one has set foot inside
that temple or passed through the Spindle since. My brother intends to be the first. He will not. He will
fail. What evil intent drove him here ends here.”
The sword flashed, reflecting a pulse of lightning. Cortael tightened his grip.
“There is power in Corblood and Spindleblade, enough to cut the Spindles through. It is our duty to stop
my brother from this ruin, to save the realm, to save the Ward.” Cortael looked at the Companions in
turn. Andry shivered when his gaze brushed over him. “Today, we fight for tomorrow.”
Cortael’s resolve did not quell the rising fear in Andry Trelland, but it gave him strength. Even if his duty
was only to watch and wash away the blood, he would not flinch. He would serve the Companions and
the Ward in whatever way he could. Even a squire could be strong.
“That bell has not tolled for a thousand years,” Cortael said again. He looked like a soldier, not a prince. A
mortal man without a bloodline, only a duty. “It will not toll for a thousand more.”
Thunder sounded again, closer now.
And the bell tolled.
The Companions startled as one.
“Hold your ground,” Dom said. Wind tore at the
| | |
|