Knight 42, p.1
Knight 42, page 1
Knight 42
BR Sebastian
Copyright © 2023 BR Sebastian
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: BR Sebastian
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
For Sebastian, River, Leilani, and my beloved Elf. As well as all the others who've left their paw prints on my heart.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Kindle Vellas
About The Author
Chapter One
Battle Mage of Rangor
In the land of Erlanto, one in a million male births was a child with mage talent. And of that tiny number, only one in ten were strong enough to be worth noticing. But those who were, had silver eyes.
High Prince Revan Malek d’Argon, sliced through the arm of the soldier he’d been fighting, cleaving it clean from his body, and watched as he tumbled to the ground. He wasn’t dead yet but he would be soon, and Revan moved on. He stared over the battlefield with silver eyes. Only twenty-four years old, he was just now coming into his powers. But with no one to train him they were all but useless in this fight. Invading armies from the much larger kingdom of Rangor in the north had stormed over the horizon early that very morning without provocation or warning, taking the small land of Argon by surprise. But Revan had to hand it to his father, King Leopold, he had refused the offer of total surrender and chosen instead to fight. Though they were hopelessly outnumbered, they would die rather than submit.
And he would do honor to his father, they would not take Argon Keep while Revan was still alive, he silently vowed.
Revan’s long pale blonde hair, now soaked with the blood of his enemies, whipped around his face, and painted the pauldrons and cuirass of his armor with wide swathes of red as he stepped over the fallen body of his beloved destrier, Sword Dancer, and swung his great sword viciously at the closest foe he could find. Rage and bloodlust filled him. With his mageborn strength he sunk his blade deep to the bone of that man’s thigh and heard his screams of pain with satisfaction. He would never walk on that leg again, Revan thought, if he lived at all.
Tall for his age and powerfully built with massive shoulders and biceps, Revan stood out on the red coated meadow in front of his father’s keep like a beacon, and his own soldiers flocked around him, both protecting him and gaining courage from following his lead.
A voice cried out, “Prince Revan, fall back! They have a mage. A battle mage has arrived!” Revan recognized it as the voice of General Huron, his father’s high commander.
At the warning, he looked upward and saw the menacing dark robed figure that had rocketed to some thirty feet above the ground and who was already hurling lightning and fireballs down on the battle, sacrificing even his own men to incinerate the largest knots of d’Argon soldiers. Though he couldn’t see a face or even much of the mage’s figure, Revan could feel the ungodly malice emanating from the man. It was unsettling enough to wrap tendrils of dread around his heart, but still, fearless, he did not retreat but rather ran boldly forward, barely even slowing as he dropped his great sword and scooped up the longbow and quiver from a fallen archer. Screaming his battle cry, he knocked an arrow, drew the heavy string back even with his ear, and sent the missile flying true, straight at the mage. It would be a clean hit, he knew.
Except it wasn’t. Mere inches from the mage’s body, Revan’s arrow simply disintegrated. And for just one long moment, it seemed like time stood still. The shrill sound of steel against steel, the cries of the dying men — it all became a blur of subdued background noise. And he could see nothing around him, not even indistinct shapes, as if everything and everyone had faded to a mist. All except that malevolent damn battle mage.
All except the battle mage and himself.
The mage lowered from his stance high in the air, but not all the way to the ground. Now he hovered a mere ten feet above it. Though they were still at least twenty yards apart, it was as if they were standing face to face. Reven found himself staring into a pair of flashing hooded silver eyes, so like his own and yet so different. The mage appeared mid-forties, perhaps a bit older. He was clean shaven, his brutal face all sharp angles and lines like a mighty hawk or eagle. Ego, ugliness, disdain for all others, and a certain savagery radiated from him. This mage would do anything he chose, and to anyone. “Silver eye,” the mage purred, “you are mine.”
Like hell, Revan wanted to snarl, but found he couldn’t. He couldn’t draw his bow again either. He forced his arms to move, but they wouldn’t. Shocked, he tried harder until his rigid muscles trembled with the effort.
The mage laughed a cold merciless laugh, touched down and started walking toward him. “Impressive for one who shouldn’t be able to even twitch,” he said, clearly amused. “Powerful then. But sadly for you, completely untrained.” He extended his right hand, his wrist moving in a circular motion and lightning spun out from the tips of his fingers, but not as a bolt or strike. Instead the multiple strands began braiding themselves together into a kind of rope. The more he braided, the longer the rope grew, extending like a snake through the air, aimed at Revan. The closer it came, the harder Revan pushed against whatever it was that held him, his defiance, his rage, his strength of will pushing back and pushing back hard. The mage’s brow rose with keen interest, but then he said in a tone so frigid, “I don’t tolerate disobedience. I’ve already said I own you, once should be enough.”
Fierce pain tore through Revan’s body and mind. It was like being slashed and hacked at with a red hot knife over and over again. He refused to cry out or cower … or give in. He would fight against this until his heart stopped. But still it was futile. He felt as if he was so close to breaking free, and yet it eluded him, and now that rope of lightening began coiling around him, wrapping his arms to his chest, his thighs and knees together. All the while the pain went on, growing ever stronger until there was black at the edges of his vision. The mage stepped in until there was barely a foot separating them, eyes flashing, licking his lips like he was looking at a tasty morsel. “Fight all you want, silver eyed one. The more you fight, the more you’ll be punished.” An almost twisted look of satisfaction touched those savage features. “And I do so enjoy a good punishment.” He smirked. “And now I will steal one more thing from you besides your homeland. You have no name. Goodnight for now, Knight 42.”
Revan’s world went black.
***
Two days had passed since the battle at d’Argon Keep. Things could not have gone better — for the kingdom of Rangor, that is. The keep had fallen, the royal family executed every man, woman and child, and a regiment of Rangor’s finest left to institute martial law. Soon the rich minerals of that land would be exploited, all bringing in more revenues for the King of Rangor’s coffers.
King Danali de Rangor sipped from his wine glass and looked across the dinner table at Arch Mage Revel Balderon with a shrewd smile. “Another victory for us,” he mused. They had just reviewed the battle with the sovereign’s high commander, who was gone now after giving his report. The perfect dessert, the king thought.
Balderon looked at his king. The man was a despot but weak in so many ways. Easy to maneuver. Given to excess, he was flabby around the middle, was balding which he tried to hide by combing over hair from one side to the other. Balderon rather liked it when the wind blew that long section back over to the side where it belonged and it would hang limply down till the king hastily combed it with his fingers back in place. There was no wind here, of course, but the mage could easily imagine it. The little mustache and goatee he wore did not make him look more manly, as he supposed, and his overly ornate style of dress in satins, silks and lace had quite the opposite effect.
Balderon was entirely different. He was tall, lithe and austere, with such a commanding and frightening presence, those who walked past him felt compelled to cast their eyes down — including the king.
Though by law, n
“You aren’t pleased?” Danali asked. Obviously, the mere thought made him nervous.
“Oh I suppose so,” Balderon replied casually, flicking a piece of invisible lint from his elaborate black mage robes, exquisitely trimmed as always in his favorite color, silver. “Though the greatest prize was not the keep, nor even the mines. It was the silver eye I captured. I’ll be masking him tonight. For now he’s … still sleeping,” he added with a cold smile that suggestively turned up on only one side.
“I didn’t know.”
The king should have been angry that he wasn’t told, Balderon thought snidely. But instead the mage would make him feel like a child who’d not done his homework. “Oh?” the mage asked.
“Well, it wasn’t even in the high commander’s report,” Danali whined, making an excuse for himself.
“Yes, a grave omission,” Balderon said smiling and then he too picked up his wine and drank. He wasn’t fond of General Lissom, so he didn’t mind taking a shot at him, although the truth was he hadn’t told the general either. He shrugged. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand the importance, as you do, your majesty.” A little flattery now, to offset the hurt.
The king looked relieved. “Indeed, that’s probably it,” he allowed. “Why don’t you tell me of him … if that’s okay to ask,” he hastily added.
Balderon looked dubious, but then pretended to relent. “Of course, I haven’t worked with him yet.” He paused and the king scooted his chair a bit closer as if hoping to learn a secret. Balderon continued, playing along by leaning closer too. “Tall, young … early twenties maybe, athletic, a brilliant swordsman and quite fearless on the battlefield. Just coming into his powers I would guess. He did fight me quite hard, which I did enjoy, but of course ...”
“Oh of course.” The king laughed wickedly.
Balderon had omitted the fact that his new prize had also been high prince, or that he’d urged the attack in the first place because rumors of the silver eyed prince had reached him. The king might feel threatened by having the scion of d’Argon so close at hand. But once the silver eye was masked, that would never come up. “He is quite fierce,” he confided. “I’m thinking I’ll start him as an assassin. But he will need to be very well … trained … before we put him in the field. I’ll tell you when we’re ready for a trial run, and we can pick someone who’s annoyed you.”
The king actually giggled. “How fun,” he said.
“But your majesty,” the mage said sternly, “this does not and should not divert you from our larger plan. D’Argon was not a large kingdom. It just happened to be in the way, and has some lovely silver mines. Our eye must always be on Welton. They are our true enemy.” Danali nodded sagely, and Balderon stifled his smirk. He put a little sadness in his tone. “I was so hoping you might have announced a celebratory ball. I want to take my silver eye on a little outing soon. I must train him quickly to be ready for Welton.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, I was planning on announcing just that very thing tomorrow.” The king leaned in again. “Will the training be brutal?” he asked with hopefulness and some longing.
“Perhaps at times,” the arch mage answered vaguely, but then he leaned back smugly in his seat, deciding he’d gotten pretty much everything he’d wanted from the conversation. So, he offered his dog a treat. “And yes, you may watch.”
***
Balderon waited until twilight and the full moon was rising. In addition to his small amphitheater where there was a viewing room and where he sometimes performed magic while allowing a select few others to watch, he also had a private casting studio. Here the domed ceiling opened at his command and no other’s. It was storming that night and the rain lashed down in fat, stinging droplets, but the Arch mage was not getting wet and in fact he loved the violence of the storm for it was essential to what he was doing tonight.
There was a large drain in the middle of the intricately patterned tile floor that gently sloped down to it, washing away the rainwater. Washing away too the blood of the Argonian soldier he had recently sacrificed. Ah, but not all of it. On the table in front of the mage sat a tall silver chalice filled to the brim with the still warm red liquid, and a silver face mask that would cover from the hairline to partway down the forehead, and then again the nose and mouth, leaving a wide slit where the eyes could be seen. It was silver, as it should be, he thought, and yet if you looked very closely, you could see the very faintest tinge of green. Intricately worked in a way that the others weren’t, the mask was a work of art that would never chip, scratch or rust. Balderon had decided that green would be 42’s color. He ran his long elegant fingers over it lovingly, as he began to cant in the ancient language of the blood runes. It was a lost and evil art that few had ever known and only one living mage could bend to the force of his will now. He was that one.
Raising his coldly arrogant voice, he called out powerfully, his words carrying easily over the thunder crashes and lightning strikes of the storm that was directly overhead. In his right hand, he raised the mask toward the heavens, in his left he hefted the chalice. Still canting, demanding mastery over storm, over the objects in his hands, and over his own magic, he poured exactly one half of the chalice’s contents over the mask. Not one single drop hit the floor. And then with relish, he drank the other half, blood staining his lips but nowhere else. He licked them greedily and took up his encantation once more. The chalice he returned to the table, not a single tinge of blood remained, it didn’t even need to be washed. The mask he now held fully aloft with both hands. A bolt of lightning dropped straight from the eye of the storm with a speed and strength that was devastating. It struck the mask with an explosion of energy that whipped the mages hair and robes into a frenzy, while the man himself cried out with rapturous joy.
It was done and the enchantment had taken hold more powerfully than any he had done before. The arch mage murmured an evil benediction over his handiwork, and signed his own so arcane signature to the spell. The storm outside had strangely quieted. With a word, Balderon closed the dome of his private chamber. His face was alight with keen anticipation and no small amount of self-satisfied pride. What would come next was even more to his liking. Leaving the room behind, he entered the amphitheater, carrying his treasure. The mask.
The amphitheater was a more normal room, but for the fact that it was also round and there was a raised seating area to one side. The mage could raise or lower a partition that could be clear or opaque as he chose. For the moment it was clear. With practiced theatricality he strode into the room, stopped, bowed to where King Danali and two of his mistresses sat waiting behind the transparent barrier. Though it annoyed the arch mage that the king brought others without his permission, he doubted they were there to watch — more likely to service the dissolute monarch. But if the damn king dared to drop his trousers, Balderon was turning the view screen black.
He walked to a table where he’d previously laid out the things he’d need for tonight’s ceremony. Yes, he had other knights he’d masked in the past. Forty-one of them to be precise, but of that number only ten were still living, and none of them was a silver eye. So many possibilities with this one. First he laid down the mask in the center of his table. Next, canting a few words, he reverently picked up a black stole, just four inches wide and covered with silver runes, kissed it on both ends, and draped it over his shoulders. It hung down almost to his waist on either side. There was a large ornate focusing ring made of silver and shaped like the head of a cobra with rubies for eyes. With a few more arcane words, he slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand. Finally he touched what appeared to be a writing quill set beside a small glass bottle of deep green ink, and murmured a final encantation over them. Then he picked up a silver bell and rang it.
