SIXTEEN
IN HIS HALF drunken state, Kronus at first mistook the repeated booming for thunder. Then the earth shook and the entire structure of the castle with it. That is no earthly thunder. An even more violent shock caused him to stagger backward. His shoulder banged the pointed edge of a shelf upon which lay several of the more valuable scrolls and he nearly fell.
His eyes widened in disbelief. The entire structure of the Hall of Scrolls was Kholite, so thick it was supposedly impervious to anything but the primary disruptor of a fleet warship. But first one must get past the castle’s overlying energy shield.
He blinked as a series of thin cords plummeted to within a meter of the floor where they wriggled like the inverted bodies of snakes. A second later, they bore the squirming bodies of men.
Kronus gaped as he saw the unmistakable figure of a woman join the invaders. Each carried a porto-cannon strapped to their backs.
Above the rent in the roof, a craft hovered. He recognized the ancient design, subtly altered yet unmistakable: an original shuttle of the lost voyagers! His deduction was inescapable.
The Senach…at last!
There was no more time to do anything but stagger backward, slipping out of sight behind a towering rack of scrolls. His immediate concern was not for himself but the sacred treasures in his keeping.
A brilliant light inundated the room and blinded him. Superimposed was a loud cry.
“Shiul!”
In awe, he watched as Jordane, Guardian Adept of the Scrolls, rushed forward with his sword flaming. Each of his first three rapid blows severed an invader’s torso. A red mist of blood and gore rose steaming into the air as a fourth backed against a wall. His disruptor could not pierce Jordane’s glowing shield and he too fell in the same way as his comrades.
Yet even as the Adept swung around, a dozen weapons found him, forcing him to stand immobile. His forehead beaded with sweat as another and yet another beam added to the rest. Even his great strength could not hold them all. He dropped to his knees, and his shield contracted until it hovered like an aura-skin around his body.
At that point, the opposing forces were in a stalemate. There were no more invaders to direct their beams, yet the Adept lay helpless on the floor. Could his will outlast the power packs of the disruptors?
There was no time for Kronus to answer the question as the last invader dropped to the floor. Though his black uniform was the same, he wore a gold symbol like an inverted ‘V’ upon his breast. His muscular torso strained the cloth, and he possessed the unmistakable bearing of command.
Kronus noticed something else and his eyes widened in astonishment. By the Rim! He bears a sword of Kirlin strapped across his back!
The man’s face twisted in rage as he saw the dead and mutilated bodies of his comrades lying on the floor. Without hesitation, he drew his sword and crossed to the Adept, his intention plain.
Kronus was so incensed he stepped forward, forgetting his safety. “Coward!” he yelled at the top of his voice.
The man whirled cat-like to face him, but his anger turned at once to satisfaction. “Th’art the Tsarkin of the scrolls.”
Kronus blinked in surprise. The man’s speech was archaic and heavily accented Common, yet he understood it well enough.
The leader waved his sword, his command obvious, and Kronus moved to stand beside the downed Adept. A sidelong glance assured him Jordane would die if this continued much longer.
“Please,” Kronus begged. “He is helpless. You do not need so much power.”
With a quick jerk of his head, the leader gave a voiceless command and four of the attackers released their beams. Even with the lessening of power, Jordane could not relax his defense, though he appeared relieved.
The leader’s eyes were bright and menacing as he turned back to Kronus. “I be Chad Hengstrom-Norn, Warlord of the Senach. We have come for the Serum. Interfere not, or we shall take yon swordmaster’s life…and if necessary, thine.”
“Do nothing…” Jordane’s agonized voice was barely above a whisper.
Kronus hesitated, uncomfortably aware there was little he could do. Even so, his duty was clear. The most treasured possession in the Pentarchy must not fall into their hands. “Kill me if you must, but I will not aid you.” The words sounded so brave, yet he was more afraid than he had ever been in his life.
The young woman stepped forward and whispered in the leader’s ear. His reaction was a frown and another quick nod. She was statuesque and beautiful. She reminded Kronus of the baroness, although there was a glaring difference. From the thick mass of hair and perfect planes of her face, to the isolated patches of soft skin visible on her forearms, her coloring was light gold. Considering the present circumstances, he was aghast at the detail of his observation.
She moved unerringly toward the secret compartment known only to him and the archduke. What followed astonished him. The girl leaned forward and placed a small device upon the door of the fronting cabinet. To anyone’s casual glance, it would appear to be polished wood, but underlying the material was a compartment of metal identical to the roof. A magna-lock sealed it, and only he and the archduke possessed the key. How could she know this?
There was a brief flash similar to his first glimpse of the roof. When the fumes cleared, he saw the jagged hole in the compartment. The explosion had been so skillful the sheaf of scrolls within remained untouched.
His eyes were wild with anger as she scooped them up. He would have made a move toward her if not for the leader. The man anticipated his attempt and barred his way. Though his voice was rough, his words were not unkind.
“Thy bravery and devotion do thee credit, Tsarkin, yet we must possess yon potion. Thus hath the Senach voted to enter upon this grave risk.”
Jordane had watched the entire play in helpless silence. The black-clad leader leaned over him and spoke slowly and distinctly.
“My apologies, Swordmaster, but I be unable to challenge thee in single combat. Alas, we be ill tutored in the ways of the Metals. None hath yet discovered the power of the Woad—what thee name the Flame.” He smiled then. It was not a cruel smile but one of true amusement. “Be grateful we do not take thy sword and shields, for such be our way.”
He pivoted toward his crew. His men had already lifted the bodies of their dead, and the rest ascended the dangling ropes. The leader hesitated, casting a look at Jordane. The Adept was still too weak to make more than a feeble attempt to rise. With a last glance at Kronus and a brief salute, he too ascended.
When Kronus deemed it safe, he moved beneath the gaping hole. There was no longer any sign of the ship hovering there only moments before. He turned back, and what he saw caused him to stand rooted in shock. Jordane knelt upon his knees in an attitude of prayer. With a deliberate motion, he withdrew his Gundring.
“No!”
Before the astonished Kronus could move, the Adept plunged it deep into his abdomen. With a stifled groan, he raised his eyes to the Lord Chronicler. Blood already dribbled from his mouth.
“Forgive me…I have failed my duty. My honor demands…” His voice choked off in agony and he toppled forward. He exhaled his last breath and was still.
Kronus could only stand in mute witness as the wispy fabric of the sword and shield-glow dissipated. A red stain crept from beneath the body and meandered toward him like a coiled serpent.
He heard the heavy tread of many feet. Amidst the sound were voices raised in alarm. Argus and a score of Gardai Adepts spilled through the open doorway en masse, and behind them was the archduke.
The entire group pulled up sharply. Each man’s eyes registered shock and horror as they saw Jordane, yet none more than Victor Mondragon’s.
The blood drained from his face. His eyes closed and his fists clenched. When he opened them, they wore such a look of wretched guilt that Kronus knew who had given up the secret hiding place of the Serum.
As the archduke surveyed the ravaged compartment, his gaze fastened upon Kronus. An instant of recognition passed between them and with it an unspoken command. The Sentinel of the Scrolls must remain silent.
The Gardai grouped around their fallen comrade, and the archduke removed his cloak to gently lay it upon the crumpled form of Jordane.
“We salute a brave warrior who has died in our service. Hail, Jordane, most honored Adept of the Gardai!”
The entire ring of Adepts drew their Swords. As one, they summoned the Flame. The blast of power was blinding, and their raised voices shook the chamber. “Hail Jordane, most honored Adept of the Gardai!”
Reverently, they raised his body. With measured and stately tread, the procession filed out into the hall. With a curt nod, the archduke indicated Kronus should remain. They stood in silence until the Adepts had marched out of view, and then Victor spoke with such woe as Kronus had never heard.
“This was ill chance and unlooked-for, yet I should have known his honor would force him to the Gundring.”
“But why, Your Grace?” Kronus unashamedly wept, both from witnessing the needless death of a friend and from the horrifying betrayal now admitted openly.
Victor shook his head and offered a thin smile of regret and sadness. “No, old friend, I am not a traitor. I would have taken you into my confidence in this matter, yet I thought—mistakenly—the fewer involved the better. Unseen eyes watch us, gauging and anticipating our every move. Only Arkadies was party to the truth since it was he who first made contact. You must trust my judgment and believe me when I say this was necessary, even though unexpected. Such was the price of our pact with the Senach.”
His eyes moved to the other stains of blood already congealing upon the floor. “He was not the only one to die here. How many did he take with him?”
“He killed four before their disruptors forced him to yield,” Kronus replied, and he could not hide the bitterness in his voice.
“A heavy toll for both sides,” Victor said, “yet there will be many more of these sacrifices to follow if Fortunatus is right…and soon.”
He turned toward the exit but halted at the portal, casting a glance over his shoulder. His voice was stern and his eyes once more hard and bright with purpose. “You will remain silent, Lord Chronicler. Now send out messengers with all haste. The council must convene at once!”