The Stone of Knowing Complete Set, page 61
Ander turned, determined to keep the gap in the Rogandan line open. He soon realized that he was not alone—a solid wedge of Varasans had quickly formed on either side of him. Seeing them, the Rogandans melted away, and the last of his men stumbled wearily forward to safety.
The Varasans stepped around him, and he found himself behind the front line. He leaned wearily on his sword, sucking in great gulps of air.
A Varasan leader appeared before him. The dust, sweat, and blood that covered the man could not mask the unmistakable air of authority about him.
“Well met!” he said with a grim smile. “I am Karevis. I command these men.”
“I am Ander. My thanks to you, Commander!” Ander replied. “Your help was timely indeed. We were ordered to push through to your lines. Some others might need your help, too.”
“Your line bunched into four groups,” Karevis replied, speaking rapidly. “Yours was the first through, thanks to your own efforts. Two other groups have also made it through with our help. The fourth is in trouble. Can you come with me?”
Ander readily agreed. The commander led him swiftly to the left flank of the Varasan position where a large pocket of Ander’s comrades fought desperately behind enemy lines. They stood back to back, surrounded entirely by Rogandan soldiers. The Varasan line was driving forward toward them, but the pocket was slowly being pushed further away.
Karevis wasted no time. Barking orders rapidly, he drew together a sizable group of his soldiers. With a newly energized Ander at his side, Karevis led a vicious attack on the Rogandan line to the right of the stranded men. Such was their ferocity that they drove clean through the enemy line. The rescued soldiers raised a ragged cheer as the two forces merged.
Now the tables were turned. Their swift action had left a cluster of Rogandans cut off from their main force. About one hundred men on the extreme end of the flank were now stranded, and the Varasans surrounded them and pressed in hard against them. Fighting side by side, Karevis and Ander drew the combined line tight. They forced their way back toward the main Varasan force, driving the trapped men before them. The rate of their forward movement kept the Rogandans constantly off balance. None of them escaped.
“Take your men out of the battle line and let them rest briefly,” Karevis told him. “My men are fresher. And you’ve been having all the excitement.”
“We’re in your debt, Commander!” Ander told him gratefully, at once moving to follow his suggestion.
“Never fear,” said Karevis. “There will still be plenty of them left once your men are ready for another round.” Then he was gone, no doubt searching out the place where he was needed the most.
Rufe Sarjant commanded the main body of men facing the Rogandans along the face of Torbury Scarp. Will had ordered a pivot backward to form a new line—at right angles to their current position—that would seal off the northern end of the battlefield immediately below Will’s command post. The entire battle line, currently stretched out in front of the cliff face, would need to swing back in a sweeping arc. The men fighting at the leftmost, northern, end of the line would scarcely need to move at all. Those at the far southern end would have to retreat diagonally across almost the entire battlefield, fighting every step of the way.
Rufe knew he was in trouble as soon as Will’s order had been relayed to him. He trusted his commander implicitly, and he didn’t doubt that Will was fully aware of the risks attending this new maneuver. Will must have a compelling reason to issue such an order. He also knew that no help would be forthcoming to assist his men as they pulled away from the escarpment. They could not protect their right flank, either—Will would need to worry about that.
Rufe ran along the line, splitting his men into two parallel groups running the length of the battle line. The first group would need to stand and fight while the second group swung back a short distance. Then the second group would turn to cover the first group while they did the same. The pattern would need to be repeated until they reached their new position.
Such a maneuver would challenge the most disciplined of soldiers when they were fresh. Rufe’s men had already been fighting for hours, as well as being heavily outnumbered. If some of the men moved too fast or too slow, holes would open up in the line. There was nothing he could do to prevent that, though. Will would notice the problem if it began to develop. He would have to deal with it.
Rufe issued orders for the movement to begin. Then without delay he set out toward the right of the line, where his men came nearest to the Varasans. These men would need the most support, because they had the furthest distance to travel.
The maneuver began. His men immediately came under intense pressure as the Rogandans spilled out from their containment and moved to the attack. As the previously solid battle line began to dissolve, Rufe was forced to call upon all of his skill as well as his indomitable spirit to keep his men alive and moving. At first, every minute that passed saw his men inch closer to their goal. But before long the rate of progress slowed dramatically. The men were soon reduced to fighting for their lives.
Rufe fought on with all of his considerable might. Strong as he was, though, he knew he could not keep the entire Rogandan army at bay.
Will was keenly aware of the need to protect his right flank. Both ends of the original position had been sealed with cavalry, but now Torbury Scarp was becoming the left flank of the new position. That meant that the bulk of the men originally positioned on that flank—led by Lord Eisgold—could be redeployed. Many of the mounted soldiers had long since reverted to fighting on foot. Will therefore sent immediate orders to Lord Eisgold to remount as many of his men as possible, and lead them in support of the protruding right flank. The outer extremities of the right flank were already hanging dangerously out into blank space.
The efforts of the Varasans in support of his men to the south was not lost on Will. Witnessing the effective way they had been absorbed into the Varasan line was a source of immense gratification to him. As the day wore on, the debt owed by the allies to the Varasans only continued to increase.
However, it was immediately apparent to Will that Rufe’s men were facing very serious problems. He could see that they would not be able to reach the new position assigned to them. Dangerous rents were already developing in the front line as different groups of men moved at different rates. If Will could not find an answer, and find it soon, his men would be engulfed.
21
As the door opened once again, Thomas began to tremble uncontrollably, completely incapable of mastering his anxiety. He glanced across at Brother Vangellis. How did he manage to stay so calm?
Lord Drettroth walked in, Simon trailing along behind him.
The Rogandan stood facing them, hands on his hips. “The moment of truth has arrived for you, Thomas.” He held up a bunch of keys. “You can both be free in a matter of minutes. Or I can call in my team of assistants.” He gave them another of his nasty smiles.
“Before we begin, though, the stone needs to be secured. Simon, bring it to me.”
Simon approached Thomas and retrieved the stone. This time Thomas did not attempt to resist him. Simon brought the stone to the Rogandan and handed it over.
Drettroth grasped it with a gloating smile. “What is your decision, Thomas?” he asked. “Have you chosen common sense, or would you prefer for me to arrange painful and lingering deaths for the two of you?”
Thomas shook his head, unable to trust himself to speak.
“I will make it easy for you,” Drettroth told him. “Just nod your head if you have decided to relieve yourself of this burden.”
His face set stubbornly, Thomas shook his head firmly once again.
“I told you I am not a patient man,” the Rogandan said, an angry scowl appearing on his face. “I will offer you one last chance. Take it while you can, or things will become very unpleasant. When your turn comes, you will beg for death, Thomas, but it will be denied you.”
Thomas finally managed to bring his shaking under control. “I will NEVER give you the stone!” he replied defiantly.
Drettroth glowered at him. “We shall see, young man. We shall see. Simon, call for my assistants!”
Simon did not leave the room. Instead, he leaned closer to the Rogandan and whispered something into his ear. Then he drew back swiftly, putting distance between the two of them.
A look of utter astonishment came over Drettroth’s face. Then he went purple with fury. “What have you done?” he screamed. He drew his sword, and strode menacingly toward Simon. The youth closed his eyes, but held his ground without flinching.
The Rogandan raised his sword high, ready to strike. Then abruptly he began to convulse, his body bending and twisting repeatedly, until his backbone began to arch, snapping backward and forward. He fell writhing to the floor, wracked with continuous spasms.
Simon stepped up to Drettroth and placed a foot firmly on his wildly twitching sword arm. Then he reached down for the sword. Prizing it from the Rogandan’s fingers, he took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, then raised the sword and ran him through. Drettroth gasped a few choking breaths, then released a final rattling sigh. His body slumped, then lay still.
Thomas watched it all with mouth agape, too agitated to make a sound.
Simon flung the sword away as if it had stung him. It skidded across the room, coming to a halt not far from the monk. Then, apparently remembering his audience, Simon turned toward them. “He was going to have both of you killed,” he told them passionately. “Whatever you decided. You do realize that, don’t you?”
He stared down at the body of the late tyrant. “It’s only fifteen minutes since he had his goblet of wine,” he said, his voice beginning to tremble. “He swallowed a large dose of poison with it. It was his own poison—I took it from his collection. He told me that it came from the seeds of a tree with some weird name.” He tore his eyes from Drettroth and looked at them once again. “His death would have been extremely painful if I hadn’t finished him. I showed him more mercy than he ever showed to anyone else.”
Neither Thomas nor the monk could find a word to say.
Simon passed an unsteady hand across his brow. “As his wine taster, I prepared his wine. He trusted me not to tamper with it because he always made me drink it first. I had to drink it this time, too, of course.” He smiled weakly. “So I don’t have long myself. Once the spasms start I need to make sure I go quickly as well.”
The fingers of Drettroth’s left hand were still clasped around the stone, and the youth unbent them until the stone tumbled out. He retrieved it, then hunted for the keys, which Drettroth had dropped when he unsheathed his sword.
Simon went to Brother Vangellis and bent over him, speaking quietly into his ear as he fumbled with the locks. The monk looked across at Thomas, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. What was Simon telling him? Thomas couldn’t think of any secrets he’d kept from his friend.
Finally Simon managed to release the chains. Freed at last, the monk stood up and stretched his limbs, wincing as he moved back and forth. Thomas felt cramped and uncomfortable; no doubt the monk’s muscles were in even worse condition given his long imprisonment.
Simon stood up and turned toward Thomas. The effort seemed to trigger a reaction, and he began to convulse. As the spasms intensified he urgently wrestled a small wineskin from his belt. He unstopped it and began to swallow noisily, fluid spilling around him as he hastened to get it down. A bitter almond smell tainted the air.
The effect was immediate. All at once his breathing became very rapid. He convulsed one more time, then he collapsed.
The monk hurried to him and bent low over his prostrate form. Then he straightened and turned to Thomas with a tear in his eye. “He’s gone,” he said.
Brother Vangellis stood respectfully before Simon’s body for a few moments more, then he brought the keys to Thomas and worked at his manacled right hand until he managed to unchain it.
Then the monk stretched out his own left hand. On his open palm sat the stone. “Take it, Thomas. It’s yours. I give it to you gladly and freely.”
Thomas frowned, puzzled by his words and surprised by the look on his face. He slowly reached out his freed right hand and took the stone.
The impact was staggering. He was entirely unprepared for the unrelenting onslaught that assailed his senses as the stone blazed into life in his hand. The intensity of it rivaled anything he remembered from his early experiences with the stone.
His mind reeled as he struggled to bring order to the chaos of thoughts, impressions, and memories that flooded to him from the monk. Even so, many things at last became clear—baffling oddities that for so long had completely bewildered him. He closed his eyes, desperate for a pause in the flow, at least for a moment.
Chains rattled as the monk unsuccessfully tried one key after another in his attempt to remove the ankle irons from Thomas. Then a knock sounded at the door of the room, tentative at first, then with more force. Thomas snapped his eyes open in alarm. The monk froze.
With no response forthcoming to the knocks, the door opened a crack, and a head appeared. With the stone in his hand, Thomas immediately saw that it was a dispatch rider with information from the battlefield. He sensed that the overall report wasn’t bad, but something had nevertheless gone wrong, and the messenger was presenting himself in mortal fear of the possible reaction of his master.
The door opened wider, and a cloaked figure came in. The messenger was immediately confronted with the body of the Rogandan lord sprawled on the floor before him. He stood there paralyzed with shock, a jumble of emotions washing over him as he stared down at his former lord. Wavering between relief and indignation, he looked up and saw first the body of Simon, then the discarded sword. Finally, he looked across at the monk, still kneeling over Thomas.
Thomas watched with mounting anxiety as the messenger drew the obvious conclusion that the monk had killed both Drettroth and his food taster, and was now attempting to free the prisoner. Thanks to the stone, Thomas knew the messenger’s intent as soon as the man knew it himself—he would satisfy his growing outrage by taking revenge on his lord’s murderer. He would first kill the monk, then forever frustrate his attempts to liberate the prisoner by killing him as well. The dispatch rider drew his sword and stepped toward them.
Thomas whispered an urgent warning to Brother Vangellis, who dropped the keys and stood to face the Rogandan. Thomas saw his friend glance across at the sword lying nearby beside Simon. Then a memory flashed into the mind of the monk: a memory of a young girl fleeing, glancing back over her shoulder as she ran. Of a lecherous nobleman turning his back on the younger Brother Vangellis, who immediately reached down for a rock.
His friend turned his face away from the sword, rejecting it emphatically. Instead he began speaking to the Rogandan in his own language.
Thomas could not focus on what was happening, though. The face of the young girl had filled his mind and was haunting his thoughts. Her beauty stamped her unmistakably. The monk’s long, slow slide into despair had been triggered by his act of violence in defense of a young Elena. Thomas knew beyond doubt that it was her, that he had not somehow managed to substitute a younger version of her face into the story.
“Thomas, free yourself!”
Brother Vangellis’s hissed warning snapped him out of his reverie. His friend’s attempt to talk the Rogandan out of his intention was apparently proving futile. Thomas put down the stone and grabbed the key. Fumbling in his haste, he began trying keys in the lock on his left ankle iron. He found the correct key on his third attempt and released the lock.
“Run, Thomas.” The words came to him as a whispered sigh.
Thomas looked up in alarm as the monk’s knees began to buckle. Blood was seeping through the back of his robe, and he saw him grasp hold of the Rogandan as he fell. Frantically returning his attention to the final ankle iron, Thomas tried the same key. It didn’t work! In a panic he began poking keys randomly into the lock. Would he never find the correct one? At last, after innumerable attempts, the lock clicked open.
Pushing aside the chain, he threw down the keys and grabbed the stone. He launched himself upward even as the Rogandan tossed the monk aside and thrust forward his sword for a killing blow on his final victim. Thomas scrambled aside with barely a moment to spare as the sword struck the wall where he had been sitting.
Before the Rogandan could attempt a second blow, Thomas darted past him and out the door. Energized by his terror, the escapee flew blindly down a passageway, darting down side passages whenever they presented themselves. He encountered no one, and eventually hid himself in a dark room filled with large barrels. If the dust around him offered any indication, this room rarely saw a visitor.
He was still alive. But at what a cost. Brother Vangellis was dead.
The rush of energy that propelled him from the room had dissipated, and his pent up emotions were finally granted release. His whole body quivered with shock. Overwhelmed by the devastating impact of the death of his friend, along with his own close encounter with death, he silently began to sob.
He struggled to comprehend what had just happened. By some kind of a miracle the monk had escaped torture and death at the hands of Drettroth, only to be struck down by a nameless dispatch rider. Why did it have to end this way?
Brother Vangellis was a man who had touched the lives of so many. Now he was gone, his passing unmarked and unheralded. The onus of mourning his loss had fallen entirely to a solitary fugitive huddling fearfully in the dark in an enemy fortress.
The stone had at least allowed him a glimpse of the monk’s final moments. The last lingering impression as he slipped away was one of peace. In his journey through life Brother Vangellis had clambered toward the light, had slipped and fallen hard, but had found his way forward once again. He had run the race, and finished it at last without lingering regret.
