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

Chapter 19

In the time of King Farnor, our Queen's royal father, Sir Willard offered a fortune to any smith who could craft a sword that was both strong enough for a Phyros-rider, and pure enough to chime a perfect C sharp. After many blades and smiths, an apprentice horn maker named Geromey Till presented him with a blade of star-iron and steel that a man could tune a lute by. Willard named Geromey Swordsmith to the Blue Order, and named the sword Belle.

—From Court Fools and Heroes, by Timus of Warbeton

19

FIRE & SACRIFICE

Heat from the blaze overhead warmed Harric's scalp and forehead as he pulled on his left boot and grabbed for the right. Spots of ash drifted like snowflakes among the smaller trees of the grove and dusted the trail beneath the spoke-limb. He coughed as a whiff of wood and resin smoke filled his throat.

"Hurry, Harric," said Brolli, peering at the flames only four fathoms above. It had spread to more branches and part of the trunk, doubling its size.

As Harric pushed his foot into his right boot he felt a stab of pain in his left shoulder blade, reminding him that the red knight's sword had left a nasty gash there. In all the excitement, he'd been able to forget it, but now that it had his attention it throbbed and he could feel his shirt sticking to it.

Another horn sounded from the ridge as he snugged his heel into place.

The sound sent Molly into fits. She'd been restive before the horn, pawing the earth and snorting and wheeling so Willard had to keep a tight rein; now she reared and lunged at the air, violet eyes fixed on invisible foes.

Harric lurched to his feet and hurried away from her.

"That's the horn of their baggage train," Willard said. "Get me a lance."

Caris jumped from the boulder. Harric cinched his bastard belt around what remained of his pants and jogged to the bronze knight's horse, which had moved down the path to get clear of the burning tree.

"What are you doing, boy? I said fetch me a lance."

"Caris has the lance." Harric pulled a silver horn from the saddle bag and blew it in answer to the one on the ridge.

"Har!" Kogan beamed. "They'll think their friends won the field! They'll skip on down as fresh as boys to a spring dance."

Willard gave Harric a grudging nod. "I expect no more than grooms and squires. Short work. Follow when you see it's clear. Leave the fallen. Bring their horses."

Harric could see through a gap in the trees to a line of horses starting down the switchbacks. "Looks like at least a half dozen riders and laden packhorses."

"Come to your reckoning, boys," said Kogan.

"Sir Willard," said Brolli. "We must stop the fire or the fire-cones—"

"Hang the fire-cones!" Willard snapped. "A fire at this point is more friend to us than to our enemies. And if these men escape to report, we're worse off than before. What do you bet Bannus is riding up this pass this very moment to meet them? Kogan, fetch me a shield!"

Through the smoke, Harric glimpsed the fire-cone trees on the ridge above, their tops drooping with ripe resin cones. If they caught fire, the explosion would light up the sky and be seen for miles. Had Willard considered this? Such a fire made an ideal distress signal. The resulting forest fire would also cover their escape, and cover their tracks. Depending on the wind, it might even drive their pursuers back down the passes.