Green Rider
Page 127
“Rise,” he told them. “What news have you?”
A woman stepped forward and inclined her head. “I am Sergeant Brienne Quinn, my lord,” she said. “Weapon Fastion sent us to await you here. We are honored by your presence.”
Zachary nodded. “Where is Fastion?”
“He keeps watch above at the main portal, guarding it lest Prince Amilton thinks to assault this place.”
“And how many are with him?”
“Another ten, my lord.”
“Excellent. No one will get past them.”
Brienne beamed with pride. “It is our sacred duty to protect those who rest here.”
“Let us go then. Lead on, Sergeant.”
“Yes, my lord.” Brienne turned smartly on her heel and walked to the front. One Weapon stayed with her, the other three dropped to the rear, much to the relief of the cavalry soldiers by the expressions on their faces. The Weapons seemed content to leave Rory as the king’s personal guard. Though they would fight to the death for the king, their place was as tomb guards. Others cared for the living.
They followed another shaft, but this one was square with lamps fitted in alcoves along the way. The walls were a riot of colors, painted with battle scenes and heroic images. Armor-clad knights charged the field on battle horses, pennons rippling on lowered lances. Others, dressed in full mail, battled dark enemies with swords. Some stood at rest, their fingers shaped in the sign of the crescent moon.
“These walls could tell stories,” Marshal Martel said. He shifted his helm beneath his arm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they held more knowledge than all the repositories of Selium.”
The mention of the school Karigan had run away from was jarring. It had been a lifetime ago, her time at Selium. Perhaps it had been a different life altogether. She certainly felt like a different person from that schoolgirl who had run away for some petty reason she could hardly remember.
They emerged into another chamber, this one vast and wide, still maintaining the low ceiling which was supported by many square, granite pillars. There were rows of granite slabs. None were occupied.
“It seems no one has been interred for a while,” Horse Marshal Martel said.
King Zachary overheard and replied, “We’ve been at peace for so long. We’ve had few heroes.”
They passed into another such room, and another. Each was brightly lit, hardly the dark, shadowy tomb Karigan had envisioned. The stone floor was polished, no cobwebs hung in doorways, dust did not swirl about their feet. Though cold, the air was good and vented without the stench of decay or bones. The unused section of the castle Fastion had led her through was far gloomier, more funereal than this place.
Even so, Karigan felt tense. She felt as if someone watched their procession with unfriendly eyes. Sometimes she caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her own eye, but when she looked, it was gone. It was as if someone were flitting from behind one funeral slab to another. No one else seemed to notice, so she kept her peace for the time being. Tombs and lamplight and exhaustion could produce strange visions.
The next room was not empty. Shrouded forms lay like sleepers beneath gauzy linen sheets. Others, in full gleaming armor, lay with weapons drawn at their feet. Some were encased in sarcophagi with carved effigies on the lids.
In the next room, and the rooms after that, every slab was filled. There were rows upon rows of shrouded dead. Karigan kept her eyes to Horse Marshal Martel’s back, or to the floor. Somehow, dealing with the spirits of the dead was easier than walking among their long-abandoned remains. She felt very mortal, very small.
Their path gradually shifted upward and it seemed they had walked miles.
“Sacoridia certainly has its share of heroes,” the marshal remarked. Unlike Karigan, he did not have trouble looking around at his surroundings.
“Wars,” King Zachary said. “Some date from the Long War and before.” He smiled back at them. “Few know the magnitude of what Sacor City rests on.”
“A good thing,” Marshal Martel said.
Karigan sneaked a peek and saw the jutting angles of bones beneath one shroud. Another lumpy form was bound in linens.
The king paused, then whispered something to Brienne.
“Yes,” she said, and pointed to a far corner.
King Zachary turned to Karigan and beckoned her to follow. He walked off among the slabs in the direction Brienne had pointed. Karigan hesitated with a sense of loathing to walk among those desiccated, brittle husks. With her jaw clenched, she plunged after him, avoiding direct contact with the slabs, and keeping her eyes to the floor.
In the far corner, the king stopped by a slab, and peered down at its occupant. Upon it rested a linen-wrapped form, covered by a shroud. A length of green-and-blue plaid fabric was draped over it from hips to toes. The head was tightly wrapped with sunken depressions where the eyes had been.
Mounted on the wall behind the remains were a two-handed great sword, a battle ax, and a saber.Above the corpse, painted on the ceiling, was the portrait of a woman astride a big bay stallion. She wore the plaid about her shoulders and carried the saber, and a shield bearing the gold winged horse on a field of green.
Warmth blossomed on Karigan’s chest where her brooch was pinned. She touched it. It was hot and seemed to sing—not audibly—but she could feel it sing through her.
“The First Rider,” King Zachary said. “She was a great hero of the Long War. I know such time has passed that Green Riders have lost some of their glory and few recognize their worth. But they come of great lineage.”
A woman stepped forward and inclined her head. “I am Sergeant Brienne Quinn, my lord,” she said. “Weapon Fastion sent us to await you here. We are honored by your presence.”
Zachary nodded. “Where is Fastion?”
“He keeps watch above at the main portal, guarding it lest Prince Amilton thinks to assault this place.”
“And how many are with him?”
“Another ten, my lord.”
“Excellent. No one will get past them.”
Brienne beamed with pride. “It is our sacred duty to protect those who rest here.”
“Let us go then. Lead on, Sergeant.”
“Yes, my lord.” Brienne turned smartly on her heel and walked to the front. One Weapon stayed with her, the other three dropped to the rear, much to the relief of the cavalry soldiers by the expressions on their faces. The Weapons seemed content to leave Rory as the king’s personal guard. Though they would fight to the death for the king, their place was as tomb guards. Others cared for the living.
They followed another shaft, but this one was square with lamps fitted in alcoves along the way. The walls were a riot of colors, painted with battle scenes and heroic images. Armor-clad knights charged the field on battle horses, pennons rippling on lowered lances. Others, dressed in full mail, battled dark enemies with swords. Some stood at rest, their fingers shaped in the sign of the crescent moon.
“These walls could tell stories,” Marshal Martel said. He shifted his helm beneath his arm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they held more knowledge than all the repositories of Selium.”
The mention of the school Karigan had run away from was jarring. It had been a lifetime ago, her time at Selium. Perhaps it had been a different life altogether. She certainly felt like a different person from that schoolgirl who had run away for some petty reason she could hardly remember.
They emerged into another chamber, this one vast and wide, still maintaining the low ceiling which was supported by many square, granite pillars. There were rows of granite slabs. None were occupied.
“It seems no one has been interred for a while,” Horse Marshal Martel said.
King Zachary overheard and replied, “We’ve been at peace for so long. We’ve had few heroes.”
They passed into another such room, and another. Each was brightly lit, hardly the dark, shadowy tomb Karigan had envisioned. The stone floor was polished, no cobwebs hung in doorways, dust did not swirl about their feet. Though cold, the air was good and vented without the stench of decay or bones. The unused section of the castle Fastion had led her through was far gloomier, more funereal than this place.
Even so, Karigan felt tense. She felt as if someone watched their procession with unfriendly eyes. Sometimes she caught the movement of a shadow out of the corner of her own eye, but when she looked, it was gone. It was as if someone were flitting from behind one funeral slab to another. No one else seemed to notice, so she kept her peace for the time being. Tombs and lamplight and exhaustion could produce strange visions.
The next room was not empty. Shrouded forms lay like sleepers beneath gauzy linen sheets. Others, in full gleaming armor, lay with weapons drawn at their feet. Some were encased in sarcophagi with carved effigies on the lids.
In the next room, and the rooms after that, every slab was filled. There were rows upon rows of shrouded dead. Karigan kept her eyes to Horse Marshal Martel’s back, or to the floor. Somehow, dealing with the spirits of the dead was easier than walking among their long-abandoned remains. She felt very mortal, very small.
Their path gradually shifted upward and it seemed they had walked miles.
“Sacoridia certainly has its share of heroes,” the marshal remarked. Unlike Karigan, he did not have trouble looking around at his surroundings.
“Wars,” King Zachary said. “Some date from the Long War and before.” He smiled back at them. “Few know the magnitude of what Sacor City rests on.”
“A good thing,” Marshal Martel said.
Karigan sneaked a peek and saw the jutting angles of bones beneath one shroud. Another lumpy form was bound in linens.
The king paused, then whispered something to Brienne.
“Yes,” she said, and pointed to a far corner.
King Zachary turned to Karigan and beckoned her to follow. He walked off among the slabs in the direction Brienne had pointed. Karigan hesitated with a sense of loathing to walk among those desiccated, brittle husks. With her jaw clenched, she plunged after him, avoiding direct contact with the slabs, and keeping her eyes to the floor.
In the far corner, the king stopped by a slab, and peered down at its occupant. Upon it rested a linen-wrapped form, covered by a shroud. A length of green-and-blue plaid fabric was draped over it from hips to toes. The head was tightly wrapped with sunken depressions where the eyes had been.
Mounted on the wall behind the remains were a two-handed great sword, a battle ax, and a saber.Above the corpse, painted on the ceiling, was the portrait of a woman astride a big bay stallion. She wore the plaid about her shoulders and carried the saber, and a shield bearing the gold winged horse on a field of green.
Warmth blossomed on Karigan’s chest where her brooch was pinned. She touched it. It was hot and seemed to sing—not audibly—but she could feel it sing through her.
“The First Rider,” King Zachary said. “She was a great hero of the Long War. I know such time has passed that Green Riders have lost some of their glory and few recognize their worth. But they come of great lineage.”
