The Trials of Gideon Book 2: Steal the Dark

Chapter 1: (Record Scratch...Freeze Frame) yep that's me

"What are YOU doing here?" I'm lying in the mud and dirt, looking up at a rapidly darkening sky. Sword at my throat. The great Henry V stands over me. When I last saw him he was sixteen and fresh off Shrewsbury. Now that scar is faded and set on his cruel face, dark hair now mostly steel grey. He's dressed in armor and wearing a coronet, ever the warlord king.
"What am I doing here?— What are you doing here?" He asks, because we said it unison. He lowers his sword enough for me to sit up.  There's battle sounds in the distance? I can hear the crack of cannons, they've clearly just been in a skirmish because he's covered in other people's blood.
"I—don't actually know, in fact you'd know better than I would," I say, scrambling to my feet, "Nice to see you again, your grace, I will get back to you on this—," I put a hand on my enchanted ring, to take myself back to Westminster. Nothing.
"What?" I stare at it.
"Saint, answer me, now, what are you doing here? How did you get here?" King Henry snarls, raising his sword again.
"I don't know! You would know better than I would—why—why can't I use magic?" I ask, raising a hand. Nothing. No light fills my palm. I can't draw magic?
"We're in a dead zone—why is Saint here now?" Ah, King Henry's lifetime plus one and perpetual shadow. Richard Courtenay, the prettiest human alive in any given situation, with wavy black hair and electric blue eyes as usually he looks more like a cover model than the priest he's supposed to be.
"What?" I ask.
"He won't say what he's doing here," King Henry says.
"What—if we're in a magical dead zone how am I here? And I didn't know those things existed?" I ask.
"They're incredibly complicated, and hard to perform honestly I've been blaming you for the past week," Courtenay says, raising an empty hand to show he's as powerless as I am.
"So how did you appear if you're as powerless as you say?" King Henry asks, voice as ever poison.
"I was following a trace! Long story short, some Templars were slightly bothering your son and we found out they had a spell—thing that your son and I were decoding and it took me here," I say, tugging on my necklace. And now I can't get home. And I'm guessing this won't summon Oisin either. Damn it. They'll all be worried.
"Harry?" King Henry asks, his voice almost softening.
"Yes—some Templars broke into Windsor, he's fine, they're all fine," I add, quickly.
"If the trace carried you here that's why it worked—but what trace that led to us?" Courtenay asks.
"Or here?" King Henry asks.
"Where are we?" I ask, shaking my head.
"France," Courtenay says.
"Still?" I nearly laugh. They were supposed to be headed for Jerusalem five years ago. They haven't even left France yet. They're not even going the right direction. Slow is an understatement. Well, it's hard to march somewhere when you're addicted to sieging castles—which is what it looks like we're doing right now.
"Are you on siege?" I ask.
"Very judgmental considering you can't even explain why you're here," Henry snarls, "And yes. We are in fact sieging Haut-Kœnigsbourg."
Why are they doing this? Like, definitely just because he just loves sieging things. Skipping for sake of time.
"And you're in a magical dead zone? How? Is there a wizard in there?" I ask, pointing up at the outline of the castle. I don't know it specifically. It's a pretty neat fortress no overly fun history. One of the easier ones to defend otherwise known as a challenge for His Royal I'm the Best At Sieging Things Majesty.
"Sorcerer we believed but now that you're here I suspect wizard," Henry says, very uncharitably, finally lowering his sword though.
"Oh my god, It's your fault I'm here it was his spell," I point at Courtenay.
"I left no trace spell," Courtenay who lies as a hobby, says.
"Father, the ghost soldiers are gone," a boy jogs up, sword in hand. Ah, prince Edmund. Our lost supposed to be Welsh Prince who favored following his father into chaos rather than just ruling part of the realm. We in Wales supported that decision.
"Gideon!" Edmund notices me and immediately comes over. I taught him a secret handshake, while he was in Wales. You know, make him feel part of the group. Prevent any complications due to people being possessed. Good stuff. He and I do the handshake then he embraces me. He's liked me ever since I enabled him running away from Wales to come here.
"What was that?" Courtenay asks, watching.
"Welsh thing," Edmund shrugs. He's a teenager now, and he's wearing full armor, but carrying a helmet. He's got nearly frizzy blonde curls and soft blue eyes like neither of his parents at all.
"Go settle your men, meet me at my tent, we have a Welsh spy to interrogate," King Henry says, shaking his son by the back of his neck. That doesn't sound affectionate but for them it really is.
"This is definitely to do with you," I mutter, but I let him lead me at sword point back to his tent.
The army is impressive, I mean, Henry would have it no other way. But still. He's got an absurd amount of supplies and men, it looks like he's nearly five thousand strong. That's remarkable considering he's supposed to be dead. This is a volunteer army. He pretended to be raised from the dead, formed a cult for himself, to go and take Jerusalem. Imagine how utterly disappointed he was, after all these years paying an army and doing financial back flips to fund it, that all he had to do was claim to be the Messiah and people would fight for him, for free, and give him money. He was so disappointed. I found it funny. Like he was really mad he did not know how well this would work. It's kind of sick that it worked, but I'm choosing to ignore that.
I return with them to a reasonably ostentatious tent, complete with a minstrel who Henry dismisses, a couple of his favorite war dogs, and a full desk set up for his precious correspondence. Courtenay moves to come and help him take off at least his chest plate of armor. I pour us all three a glass of wine because it's going to be a long night.
"All right, story a bit longer. Templars had a coded message of yours, and were trying to break into the palace to get what they thought was a piece of it. This did not work because of Lancaster home security, and the Templar got caught. Harry decoded the message and I followed the steps which weren't at all at the palace they are at—your," I point to both of them, "Tomb, and King Richard's. And then I wound up here. Your tomb, your message. So now I think it's time to tell me why you wrote thing? Because I'd like to get home."
"You can't we're in a dead zone, and I left no—coded spell," Courtenay shakes his head.
King Henry looks at him.
"I left no coded spell that you'd have found. Or would lead here," Courtenay amends, picking up a glass of wine.
"Everyone's settled, all's quiet," Edmund says, coming in and bowing to his father swiftly.
"Let me help you get that off," Courtenay says, beckoning him over to help him with the armor.
"Very good," King Henry nods at his son, appreciatively, before turning back to me, "What was this message? Which had nothing to do with us?"
" 'Find us where the four saints meet, six apostles gather, behold the six that lie above the lion down below, find the seventh and I'll sleep no more.  Hands joined in rest below the sun, Where angels dance, there your heart lies'," I read, setting the scrap of paper on King Henry's desk. It's the one Harry and I were working off of, and is in French beneath the English.
He frowns, looking down at it, "I didn't write this." But he sounds, like, surprised like he fully expected it to be his.
"No, nor did I, that isn't ours," Courtenay says.
"Well it's your cypher, Harry knew it," I say, "He decoded it, not me."
"Tempus nefas nequiquam terreo," King Henry reads, his eyes scanning it quickly.
"Steal the Darkness' fear?" Edmund asks, accepting a glass of wine, "What does that mean?"
"Ask them, not me," I say, folding my arms.
"Gideon, this isn't mine," Courtenay says, a little urgently, "I did not write this—and I certainly placed no spell on the chantry it wasn't even built when we left."
"Then why does it reference your collective tomb—'us' is pretty obvious and only about ten people even know it's a joint tomb," I ask. These two lie to me as a spectator sport. Nothing has ever not been their fault.
"He's right," King Henry is frowning like trying to make sense of it, "And this is my cypher."
"But if you didn't write it—who would know that?" Edmund asks.
"Yes, Harry recognized YOUR cypher he said, of course I didn't," I shrug, "And the trace led me here, to you."
"But you activated it?" Courtenay asks, frowning, studying the note, "You—you followed the steps?"
"Yes," I say.
"That's not an ordinary trace—oh god," Courtenay puts his hands to his face.
"What?" King Henry asks, looking up at his companion.
"Steal the dark—this wasn't meant to be a trace to lead to you—this was a trace meant to raise the dead. You should have been killed—not dark, death, dark meaning death that is—you were trading your power to raise him from the dead," Courtenay says,
"Except he's not dead—he's right here, so I got brought here," I say.
"Precisely—if he had been reanimated you'd have likely been killed—this is extremely dangerous magic," Courtenay says, shaking his head a little.
"But by whom?" King Henry asks, "You didn't do this, and we both know we didn't write this. And who would be trying to raise me from the dead?"
"Someone who hasn't met you?" I offer.
"The cult maybe?" Edmund offers, looking between his two dads who are looking at the note then each other. Like drunks trying to retrace steps but in this case it is a lifetime of shitty and chaotic power-hungry decisions.
"Being raised like that—isn't ideal you're not yourself when you come back, you're bent—no it's not desirable, and they'd have only gotten him, not me," Courtenay says.
"So was this to punish him? So someone who has met you?" I offer.
"You're not really a lot of help," King Henry informs me.
"Well, I'm not feeling very helpful! Templars had this and from what I'm hearing you're expecting me to believe a rogue wizard or sorcerer chose to raise you from the dead just to—whatever interrupt your afterlife—mysteriously using your personal cypher to do it? Meaning only your descendants could crack it and do the spell anyway?" I ask.
"He's right that doesn't make sense. That's completely needlessly complicated," Edmund says.
"Someone would need a lot of time on their hands, and knowledge of your cypher, and the desire to just mess with you for no reason, in such a deep seated way that they're wanting disturb your afterlife?" I ask, shaking my head, "I get hating you enough but that's overly dramatic."
"And complicated— it nearly defies belief the extent someone would go through for such oddly specific torture..," King Henry frowns, wondering who would have enough malice to try to raise him from the dead, separating him from Courtenay.
"Oh hell," Courtenay says, the color draining from his face.
"What?" King Henry looks at him.
Courtenay raises his eyebrows.
"That makes sense—he's dead though," King Henry says.
"Yes but—," Courtenay shrugs.
"What—you know who could have done it?" Edmund looks between them.
"Yes—but it's of little consequence this person died years ago," King Henry says, quickly.
"Wait, who is this? That you professionally irritated enough to do this AND had the means?" I ask, my mind racing.
"You'll never guess it. I have, many enemies," King Henry says, coolly.
"Also he's dead," Courtenay says, "You wouldn't know who it is."
I stare between them. They're making obvious eye contact.
"The Bastard of Vaurus?" I choke, "THAT'S who you think did this?"
"Oh, wow, he got it the first try," Courtenay says, tired more than disappointed.
"Why would you know of him?" King Henry asks.
"For reasons I should be examined for, I studied most of your greatest victories and battles because despite the murder attempts I still think you're cool, and you have saved my life twice now," I say.
"Three times," he frowns.
"Harlech then—wait twenty minutes ago doesn't count! Not killing me doesn't count!" I cry.
"Yes, it does—wait two is Harlech then twenty minutes ago—,"
"No, not twenty minutes ago we don't count that," I say, stuffing my fist in my mouth to make my point.
"What—who is this? That you think sent the message?" Edmund asks.
"The Governor of Meaux, I sieged it, this was before you were born—it was when Harry was born," King Henry eloquently sums up the winter he spent in a trench being Mean to French people instead of meeting his newborn son.
"Known only as the Bastard of Vaurus, the fact that he knowingly goes by the epithet 'bastard' tells you about all you need to know. He was quite dedicated to Meaux, and quite clever," I tell Edmund, "I never could find out his name."
"He never gave it," Courtenay says.
"He—was aware of the cypher, this cypher I used in correspondence to him to check a theory. He responded in kind," King Henry says, staring down at the paper, almost—wistfully? Like a message from a dead friend.
"He cracked your code, and used it back to you, the theory was what? That he was a worthy opponent?" I ask.
"Yes," Courtenay says, nodding, taking a long drink of wine.
"I wanted to judge him," Henry says, icily, "He was—quite the strategist. Too clever by half."
"Clever enough to cheat death," Courtenay says.
We all look at him.
"That spell is new, it relies on the chantry, that means the Bastard has somehow returned, as a ghost, something," Courtenay says.
"That's not good," I say. Nothing comes back the same. And someone who died in warfare, with a terrible grudge against Henry? Oh, no. No. Every person in England is at risk, let along the rest of the royal family.
"No, it is not," Henry says, holding the paper still.
"What happened to him?" Edmund asks.
"I had him beheaded. He lost, it was the terms of surrender," Henry says, shaking his head a little, "Very typical, and painless."
"Yes, tell your son what you did BEFORE cutting his head off so painlessly?" I say, dryly.
"I don't know what Saint is talking about," King Henry says.
"You're saying you, didn't, have his right hand cut off and him dragged through the streets naked before disgracing his colors?" I ask, pleasantly.
"How do you know all this?" Courtenay asks.
"Which is a very painful unethical way to go and a great reason to come back?" I ask.
"He's looking for his hand?" Edmund asks, horrified.
King Henry has to put his hands over his face.
"No. He's not looking for his hand," I say, "He's looking for revenge."
"Anyway, I don't have the hand anymore," King Henry says.
"Yes, you do," I frown.
"Not with me."
"Do we think he'd stop if we gave him his hand?" Edmund asks.
"No, no we don't," Courtenay says, "This man doesn't stop."
"Which is why it's a good thing I killed him," Henry says.
"But it didn't take," I say, tapping the note.
"Clearly not," Henry says, looking back down at it.
"So—you're saying that this—Bastard, is a ghost somehow, and his plan for revenge was to lay a spell that would lead one of your descendants who knew the cypher, to raise you from the dead, just you and not the Archbishop, just to mess with you?" Edmund says.
"Yes. You now know everything you need to about his character," King Henry says, dryly.
"Which is awesome—what? I mean come on you have to admire the sheer drama of that as a plan," I say. This man was raised somehow, and his decision to torture his mortal enemy was to make his mortal enemy act  out the plot of The Mummy. That's a very specific way to fuck with someone honestly it's pretty funny. I like this guy already. Gideon, you like all this historical villainous people. Yes, I know. Also the Bastard is no villain. He's ruthless, yes but he was defending his home and his country during the siege.
"It's in character," Henry nods, finally picking up his wine.
"All right, so, we agree it could be him?" Courtenay asks.
"It's him," Henry taps on the note, "This was meant for me. I know it."
"And he's back in London, being summoned by Templars or something," I say.
"Hell bent on revenge," Courtenay says.
"Would it help if we gave him back his hand?" Edmund asks.
"No," Henry sighs, "He wants me."
"He could hurt Harry though," I say. To be clear, Harry is king now, but Henry is here ergo I'm referring to his kid by the shortening of his name, for clarity.
"He's an honorable man, he wouldn't stoop so low," Henry says.
"Even though you cut off his hand?" Edmund asks.
"He's not going to come back—as he was. Things that are raised, are not as they once were, they're twisted, his few morals are likely long gone," Courtenay says.
"Okay but by this, he thinks you're both dead—like everyone else. He won't know of you doing this let alone the truth that you are quite alive—so he'd have no reason to threaten anyone," I say.
"What if he goes looking for his hand?" Edmund asks.
"Forget about the hand!" Henry says, nearly choking on his wine.
Edmund winces, obeying. He's not used to any measure of his father's famous wrath directed at him.
"It's about me. It's always about me with him. He's obsessed with me," Henry says, then proceeds to spend the next 50,000 odd words of this story clearly obsessed with the Bastard.
"Tell me everything you know about him," I say, "All I know is pretty much what I said. Meaux, siege, you guys won, took seven months, but you did it. He didn't want to give up and hung on quite a while. What else? I'm possibly going to run into this guy or his ghost."
"He only has one hand," Edmund says. We all look at him.
"He's just an ordinary man. You wouldn't know to look at him, all that he is. He acts simple, you'd think him an idiot, but he's not it's all part of his tricks. He's tall, not as tall as I, and he speaks with a, well his manner is distinct, he was probably my age. Fair, eyes were light nearly green," Henry He's Obsessed With Me Not The Other Way Around The Fifth, says.
"He's a wizard, he was," Courtenay says.
"Really?" In this reality he had magic?
"Yes, you didn't hear of that?" Courtenay asks, "It's why I couldn't ruin the walls as I did at Harlech. He broke two of our cannons as you did our warships. It was the only other time I saw near that power."
"Ah," I nod, "Out of pure curiosity—if he was a wizard did you do any less than ethical things with his body after death? Keep any spare parts?"
"They kept his hand," Edmund volunteers.
"I couldn't, prior to surrendering he did a spell of some sort, stripping his own powers and rendering himself useless. That's how uncooperative and vile this man is," Courtenay says.
"Ah yes I can see that, actively stopping you from chopping him up for disgusting black magic horrible man," I say, very sarcastically.
"Yes, we need to stop him. Immediately, he'll not wait for me to make a move," Henry says, picking up the note.
"All right, he's in London, so I need to get back there, question the Templar, see what she thought was going on, where they got this, maybe they just summoned his spirit briefly," I say.
"Perhaps," Henry says, was that disappointment in his eyes?
"You can't go back, we're in a dead zone," Courtenay says, "Created by—whoever is holed up in that castle, we were blaming you to be honest."
"Innocent this time, seems we were both innocent this time," I say, drumming my fingers on my thighs amiably, "So to be clear we both have a new enemy and we were just blaming each other?"
"Let's call it old rival, he's likely hoping I will return to London," Henry says, "Which I will—Harry can never handle him—,"
"Give your son and his new wife some credit," I say.
"She's what—fifteen?" Henry asks.
"Yes, but she's already found your wizard slaying blade AND weaponized both Exeters," I say.
"They may be alright for the present. Even so, the Bastard will want us," Henry says.
"Agreed," I say.
"I really want to know I'm sorry—Father what did you do with his hand?" Edmund asks, wincing a little.
"Used it as a candle stick holder why is that relevant?" Henry asks, "It was in my office at Windsor you've seen it?"
"I thought that wasn't real!"
"Of course it was real, why would I have a fake hand?" Henry asks, confused.
"Why would you have a real person's hand is also a valid question, but we'll move on," I say.
"Yes," Courtenay agrees, eager to stop father and son who are clearly content to talk about the hand, "Saint needs to get back to Windsor and see whom left this note. In all likelihood the Bastard was merely summoned briefly, and he gave the message and somehow tricked someone into casting the spell."
"I don't know if you'd have to trick them," I mutter. It's not like this pair are short on enemies. If you want an idea of how distasteful they are on a daily basis, consider the severed hand conversation then aim lower.
"The point remains, yes, Saint, return to London then report back here to update us on what you find, if all else fails we'll simply return we're weeks out," Henry says.
"I don't know if it's that drastic. Your son is just incredibly hard to be mad at once you meet him, I'm pretty sure if the Bastard is raised somehow if we point him in your direction he will happily meet you halfway," I say.
"Yes, well, I'm not taking that chance, as the Archbishop said he's not going to come back as he was," Henry says.
"He's not going to have a hand?" Edmund asks.
We all look at him.
"How can you expect me to forget you cut off this man's hand for a candlestick holder?" Edmund asks.
"Not even in the top ten sickest things they've ever done," I say, shrugging, "Agincourt? Melun? Rouen and the ditch incident? Atrocities against deserters?"
"Stop helping, Saint—just ignore the hand," Henry says, dismissively to his son.
"We're agreed Saint needs to return to London to find out where this came from," Courtenay taps the paper, "But that's not happening at the moment. He's as handicapped as I am."
"How far can this magical dead zone last?" I ask.
"I went a couple of miles south, nothing," Courtenay says.
"We assume there's a perimeter but, the sorcerer line has yet to find it," Henry says, shaking his head, "We've been at siege two weeks. Obviously we'd prefer to use magic to help break it."
"Damn it," I sigh, chewing on my fist. I'd really like to go home, tonight, right now. For one thing everyone will be worried I simply disappeared. For another if the Bastard is even influencing someone somehow that's not a great situation. The magnificent seven back at Windsor aren't incapable but their worshipful leader tends to choose peace and forgiveness which is only effective when the person he's negotiating with hasn't been professionally driven to distraction by his father.
"All we can do is break the siege, restore the magic, then Saint can return," Henry says, shaking his head a little as he tries to come up with a better option.
"In theory the dead zone ends somewhere—but yeah I'm not fond of the idea of a three days walk through french countryside, with no magic and no plan," I say. I'm not used to being this handicapped without magic, and I'm not at all fond of it when my friends are likely back in danger hundreds of miles away in London. Oisin is with them, which is a comfort, but unfortunately he's got no idea they're in danger he'll likely be looking for me.  And I've got no way to warn him.
"No that would be counter intuitive, looks like you're joining our ranks, Saint," Henry almost pleased because his third favorite hobby, next to earning money and setting things on fire, is ordering people around. Specifically me, ever since that time I destroyed three of his warships.
"I pledge myself to the cause all right, how are we breaking this siege?" I ask. I'm not going to lie I don't hate the idea of sieging with them. I wish it were under better circumstances. As a rule I prefer infantry warfare to siege warfare, but sieging is Henry's forte. Why? Well, Infantry warfare, in the Middle Ages, is basically like a duel, right, like it's basically a couple groups of people agreeing to fight it out, now it's down to wits and skill at using your resources and the land. All good fun, right? The Black Prince and Edward III, my idols masters at infantry warfare. Henry V prefer's sieging. To win a siege, you have to be stubborn, patient, and rather mean. His top three qualities. Sure you can dig mines and stuff, but at the end of the day it's about out lasting your opponent. Sieging is the warfare where bring a book along for company.
"They've had no supplies go in or out, tonight I was going to go and check the north wall for myself," Henry says.
Courtenay looks at him dangerously.
"Saint you'll come with me," Henry says, "Archibishop, remain here with my son waiting for my signal."
"Why are you taking him?" Courtenay asks, not jealous, just like very suspicious.
"I don't trust him," Henry says, coolly.
"Wow I've pledged loyalty you to like six times," I breath.
"And your talents aren't useful at the moment, Edmund and I aren't affected, best to split those of you used to relying on magic up, especially if the dead zone breaks," Henry reasons, calmly, picking up his cloak, "I'll show Saint the perimeter, while some of the men search the woods."
"And you'll just walk around the perimeter? Well away from their arrows?" Courtenay asks.
"Yes," Henry says, insulted his friend doesn't trust him not to immediately endanger himself, "Come, Saint," he snaps his fingers like I'm a dog.
"Yes, my lord," I say, immediately obeying. Don't look at me like that.
"Twenty minutes," Courtenay says.
"Or less," Henry nods, "I'll just show Saint the perimeter."