Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

“My wish is granted!” Akar said in satisfaction.

“No! Paladine, forfend! Take my life! Kill me now!”

The young knight struggled to his feet. Ripping the bandages from his wound, starting the blood flowing freely, he lurched across the clearing, heading toward the forest.

Akar made no move, watched calmly.

Nicholas fell to his knees. His lifeblood flowed from him. He stared at it, watched it soak into the ground. The pain was intense, excruciating. He doubled over, cried out to die.

Death did not come. Nicholas lay in his own blood, writhing in agony.

Akar whistled. A horse as black as goblin’s blood—which was, indeed, the steed’s name—cantered into the clearing, drawing behind it a small wooden cart. The wizard grasped hold of the knight by the shoulders, dragged him across the bloody grass to the cart, and heaved him up into it. Removing a length of rope from the cart, Akar bound the suffering knight’s hands and feet securely.

“Not that I think you’re in any shape to do me harm,” said Akar. “But you’re a tough breed, you knights. I’m sorry I can do nothing to ease the pain. But, look at it this way. After a few hours of agony, you’ll be more than ready to die. Try not to groan too loudly. Foul creatures roam the countryside these days. And now, to find the Lost Citadel.”

Akar mounted the cart, lifted the reins in his hands. Once again he gazed up at the sky. As he watched, a shadow crossed the sun, like the moon eclipsing it, but it was a shadow only he could see. He stared at it, squinting against the sunlight, until he found what he sought.

The shadow extended downward from the sun, formed a shaft of darkness that pierced the daylight. Whatever that shadow touched instantly burst into flame. Fire roared through the forest. Smoke, foul and poisonous, hung in the air. Akar sniffed its perfume. Behind him, he heard the knight choke and retch.

When the smoke dissipated, blown aside by a deathcold wind, Akar saw that a trail had been burned among charred trees, a trail of blackness, a trail of night in day.

“Nuitari be blessed,” said Akar.

Slapping the reins on the horses back, he drove the cart onto the shadow-shrouded path.

The goblins’ trail was easy for Michael and Nikol to follow … too easy. The army had cut a swath of destruction through the forest surrounding the burned and gutted castle. Their numbers were strong; they had no need to hide or conceal the path that led back to their lair in the mountains. They feared no retribution. Neighboring knights, in neighboring manors, had their own lands and people to consider.

Michael stared in dismay at the broken trees, the trampled brush, the bodies of dead goblins, who, wounded, had been left behind by their loutish comrades. Nikol roamed the path, her gaze fixed on the ground, searching for any clue of her brother.

“My lady, if they did take him, what chance do you have of rescuing him? There must be … hundreds of them!” Michael waved his hand at the destruction.

“Then at least I will have the comfort of dying with him,” Nikol returned. Straightening, she brushed her hair back out of her eyes. “You knew what we faced. I warned you this morning.”

Michael didn’t want to be reminded of the morning. The two had awakened, clasped in each others arms. Confused and embarrassed, each of them kept the other well at a distance. He meant to tell her, then, that he was leaving her, but somehow he couldn’t find the words.

The silence between them grew uncomfortable. Undoubtedly she was thinking of this morning as well.

“Nikol,” he began, longing to say what was in his heart.

She turned away from him hurriedly, began looking with self-conscious intensity back at the ground.

“Have you ever known goblins to take hostages, Brother?” she asked him abruptly, putting, he thought, a heavy emphasis on his title.

Michael sighed, shook his head tiredly. “No, I haven’t. It takes a subtle mind to plot exchanging hostages for ransom. Goblins think only of looting and killing.”

“Precisely. And yet they took Nicholas, stole him deliberately. They took him alone. They didn’t want anyone else. They killed poor old Giles. Why? Unless they were under orders to capture Nicholas …”

Her face was flushed with her new idea. She forgot the strained formality. “That’s it, Michael! The attack on the castle was a diversion to cover their real intent: capturing Nicholas. Which means that someone wants him and that someone must want him alive!”

“Yes, my lady.” Michael agreed.

No need to tell her that her twin, if he was still alive, might well have good reason to wish himself dead. A few hours fruitless searching and Nikol would be forced to admit defeat. Then, perhaps, he could persuade her to take refuge in some neighboring manor, while he himself prepared to leave …

“Michael!”

Her excited voice rang like silver in the still air. He hastened through the brush toward her.

“Look! Look at this!” Nikol pointed to a splotch in the trampled grass. Blood. Red blood. Human blood.

Before Michael could say a word, Nikol had dashed off, following a trail that broke from the main one. He hurried after her, not knowing whether to give thanks or curse the gods that had put this sign in her way.

They came upon the clearing. Both stopped. Although the sun shone brightly, the evil that lingered in the place covered it with a dark cloud. Nikol put her hand to the hilt of her sword, but nerveless fingers slipped from it. Unconsciously, she reached out to Michael. His hand closed over hers, and they drew close together, shivering in the chill, sunlit darkness.

“Oh, Michael,” Nikol whispered brokenly, “where is he? What have they done to him? I—”

She gave a cry. The large puddle of red blood glistened in the light. Near it lay the bandage she had wrapped with her own hands around her brother’s wound. Nikol covered her face with her hands, slumped against Michael’s chest. He put his arms around her, held her shivering body close.

“My lady, we must go away from here.” Michael’s love for her, his pity, was agony. “Let me take you to Sir Thomas’s manor. You will be safe—”

“No!” Hastily, Nikol wiped her eyes, pushed herself away from his comforting embrace. “I was weak for a moment. This dreadful place …” She looked around, shuddered. “But Nicholas isn’t here. His body isn’t here,” she continued, her tone grim, resolute. “They’ve taken him off somewhere. He’s still alive. I know he’s alive!”

She began searching the clearing. It did not take her long to find the tracks left by the wheels of the cart, or the spoor of blood that led to it. She followed the signs;

Michael followed her. Both found the opening burned into the forest, the opening of darkness. They stopped, stared at it, blood chilling in their veins.

“I think this is what it must be like to gaze into the Abyss,” said Michael in awe.

Nikol’s face was ashen, her eyes wide and terrified. She stood close to him, and he could feel her body tremble beneath the armor. “I can’t go in there …”

Wind moaned in the tops of the blackened trees, a cry of pain, as if the trees were screaming. And then Michael realized, with a thrill of horror, that the cry came from a human throat. He hoped against hope that Nikol had not heard.

“Come, my lady, let us go away from this evil place—”

“Nicholas!” Nikol called out in anguish. “I hear you! We’re coming!” She took a step forward, into the noisome shadows.

Michael caught hold of her. “Nikol, you can’t!”

She struck at him, hard, shoved him back. “I’m going. And so are you, you coward!” Her hand closed over his wrist with a grip of iron. “You will heal him—”