The Seventh Knight by Robert Ryan

Author:Robert Ryan [Ryan, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Trotting Fox Press
Published: 2020-06-24T16:00:00+00:00

13. The Illusion of Reality

The stars wheeled in the void, and Faran felt the vastness of the great dark. All of time was but a single moment, each breath a thousand eternities.

Spinning and thrashing, he burst once more into the light. Aranloth’s staff tumbled from across his body, and he looked over at Ferla. There was color to her skin again, and when he touched her cheek he felt warmth. The poison of the elù-drak had run its course, but had not killed her. He had not let it, and he felt tears well up in relief.

But there was no one to see, for which he was glad. Ferla still slept, and of Aranloth there was no sign. Where was he? Surely he would not have left them at such a time.

But then he heard voices outside, from somewhere near the cave entrance. Tired as he felt, weak and trembling from the experience that he had endured, he picked up his bow, gathered Aranloth’s staff, and made his way carefully to the opening.

There, in the gray light of dawn, Aranloth stood his ground against at least a dozen soldiers. He stood in the cave entrance and barred the way, though it was clear that fear of him being a lòhren would not prevent the men acting sooner or later. The threat of violence charged the air.

Even with his bow, and swift as he was at using it, there were too many for him to kill. He would hit at best two, perhaps three, before they were upon him. And the lòhren was a legend, yet he could not face as many men as this and still prevail. At least, Faran did not think so.

Quietly, he moved beside the old man and slipped the staff into his hand. Those blue eyes gazed deep into his own. There was no fear there. There seemed no worry. But perhaps there was a hint of relief. He had returned, something the lòhren must have doubted. Having been to that strange shadow land, Faran understood why.

“Put down the bow, boy,” one of the soldiers said. “You might hurt yourself.”

Some of the other soldiers snickered, but Faran felt his anger rise. He was tired of being called boy. He was a man, and he was capable of a man’s deeds.

Swift as thought, he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it.

“The next tin-headed soldier that calls me boy will get an arrow through his eye. So go ahead, and say it. If you dare.”

They did not like that. They did not like it at all, and they eyed him with greater wariness. But they did not call him boy again, and even Aranloth raised an eyebrow at his tone. Not in rebuke, for the situation called for it. It was likely surprise.

“You can’t kill more than one of us with that bow,” the lead soldier said.

“At least one,” Faran replied. “And that’ll be the first man who moves.”

They did not answer that. But their leader, an older man, for all that he was wary did not show signs of true fear.

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