The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 3a

...Most mad and cruel of the Old Ones was Sir Bannus, who presided over an iron age of terror in Arkendia...Scholars credit the horrors of that time with the creation of the Blue Order, a small number of immortals devoted to controlling the madness of the Blood with the rigors of a strict monastic code...to oppose the tyranny of the Old Ones.

        —From Ten Histories, Sir Garlin of Tides

*

*

BURNT OFFERING

*

Harric lay on his back and stared at the beams on the ceiling above his bed. Pre-dawn light paled the arrow slip high on the north wall of his chamber; it wasn't enough to see by, but it gave a ghostly pallor to the mineral-streaks on the ceiling above—streaks like toothy mouths or racks of spikes.

Nightmares had waked him and he would not return to sleep. In them the empty-eyed vulture spirit pinned him with giant claws to the stone slab atop the rubble. Others opened him and tried to divine the future from his entrails, "What have you done?" they asked, while Fink simply watched with milk-white eyes and constant grin.

Three loud knocks sounded on the postern door at the head of the room

Startled, Harric rose in bed and stared at the dark outline of the door.

Enemies don't knock. Friends knock.

He leapt from bed and lit a candle. This could be their rescue. More than a week had passed since he sent the message doves to the Queen, calling for the aid of the Blue Order. Arrival of the Blue Order would virtually guarantee Ambassador Brolli's return to his people, putting an end to their flight from Sir Bannus.

Heart pounding, he threw on his clothes, cinched up his bastard belt, and climbed the steps to peek out the arrow slit. In the gray light he could just make out the shapes of the boulders in the rock moat below the slit. Nothing moved. Beyond the moat lay sixty paces of stony road and then the mountain of rubble he'd buried it with. The rockfall loomed in the darkness like a second fortress, facing the stone fort across no-man's land.

No one stirred outside the door. No enemy. No Blue Order. Only the lonely roar of the waterfall. Judging from the silence of the barracks, the watchmen hadn't heard the knock either, and were probably still passed out at their stations. A brief flare of panic lit his brain: if it weren't a friend after all, any enemy who knocked and found no watchman might decide to scale the wall to kill us in our sleep.

Harric hopped down from the stairs and crossed to the postern door. Forcing himself to slow down, he pressed his back against the wall beside the door. Though unlikely, there still might be an enemy outside, waiting for the view port to open so they could shove a spear in.

Holding his breath, he unlatched the view plate and jerked it aside. The roar of the falls poured through. His candle's flame wavered in a rush of cool air and the scent of the river greeted him, along with the odor of charred meat.

Meat?

He eased away from the wall to get a look out the port, ready to spring back at the first indication of danger. Something on the outside partially obstructed the view from the port. Inching forward, he raised the candle at arm's length till it illumined the obstruction. Charred flesh and feathers. His stomach growled. Someone had left food? Was it some kind of message from the enemy?

As he leaned in to examine the bird more closely, another sound—barely audible over the noise of the falls—tickled the edge of his senses. A distant buzz or hum.