Part 1 (2/2)

Their howls changed to a cringing whine, as if they'd caught the scent of something they feared.

The Mordant spoke a single command. ”Sabolanth.”

The hounds fell silent. Slinking low, their bellies sc.r.a.ping the ground in submission, they bowed before the Mordant.

Bryce s.h.i.+vered in his prison, realizing the twisted hounds knew their maker.

A ripple of unease ran through the soldiers. More than one made a strange hand sign.

Overhead, the gargoyles screamed a warning, writhing against their bonds.

An officer dismounted, a gold plume on his helmet signaling his rank. A black-robed priest joined him, a gold pentacle on a chain around his neck. The officer advanced with his sword drawn.

Bryce watched him come, a glimmer of hope in his heart.

The officer reached the shadow of the nearest gargoyle and stepped onto the stone roadway.

Silence fell like an executioner's axe. The gargoyles froze, cut off in mid-shriek. Beaks and talons stilled, they stood mute as statues. Their sudden silence seemed ominous, like an ill omen. Bryce s.h.i.+vered in his prison, knowing he witnessed the power of dark magic.

The officer and the priest closed the distance, stopping within a sword thrust of the Mordant. The priest, a sallow-skinned man with a curled mustache, began hurling questions at the Mordant. ”Who are you? A deserter? A turn-cloak? A spy? An a.s.sa.s.sin? What brings a cursed knight of the octagon to the Gargoyle Gates?”

The Mordant held his silence.

”Answer the questions!” The priest sputtered, his face turning red. ”Who are you? Why does a knight of the octagon wait here?”

”I've come for the Trials of Return.”

The priest blanched, retreating a step.

The officer stood his ground, the point of his sword leveled at the Mordant's heart.

The Mordant ignored the threat, raising his voice loud enough for the soldiers to hear. ”The first three conditions of the Trials of Return have been met. I wait alone beneath the screaming gargoyles. I have endured the charge of spears. And the gore hounds fall silent at my command. My actions prove my claim.”

The officer nodded. ”Put him to the question.”

The priest made a curt gesture.

A pair of soldiers approached carrying a small ironbound chest. Setting the chest before the priest, they flicked wary glances at the Mordant, and then retreated to their horses.

The priest tugged on the chain around his neck, revealing a large skeleton key. ”Once the chest is opened, your fate is bound to the secrets inside.”

”Open it.”

The priest cursed. ”So be it.” He knelt, inserting the key in the lock. Muttering a prayer, he opened the chest, revealing a scroll nestled in black velvet. Lifting the scroll, he held it toward the officer. The commander fingered the wax seals, as if checking their integrity, and then returned the scroll to the priest. ”All is correct.”

The priest broke the seals and read, ”The gargoyles announce a single claimant to the Ebony Throne. The spears charge, answering the summons of the gargoyles, yet you refuse to run. The gore hounds scent a kill, yet you quell them with a single command. You have endured the first three trials, but your fate is now tied to the questions of this scroll. Knowledge from the past is the key to the future. A single wrong word and your life is forfeit, for no imposter shall ever gain the Ebony Throne.” The priest lowered the scroll and glared, as if his stare would wilt the claimant. ”Do you understand?”

”Ask your questions.”

Bryce watched, praying for a mistake.

The priest read the first question. ”What shape does Death take?”

The Mordant spread his arms wide. ”Death comes in the shape of an enemy, in the maroon cloak and silver surcoat of the Octagon knights.”

The priest nodded, a sour look on his face. ”The gargoyles herald the return of a conqueror. What have you conquered?”

*Do you understand, monk?* The Mordant's voice whispered through the gray void. *The trial of words offers no riddles, no clues to be puzzled out, just a series of simple questions with a thousand different answers, a thousand ways for an imposter to find death.*

Bryce shuddered, his last hope crushed by the Mordant's certainty. *You wrote the questions...and the answers.*

*Of course, signed and sealed before each of my deaths.* The Mordant spoke aloud, his voice pitched to reach the waiting soldiers. ”I conquer death with each new lifetime.”

The priest checked the scroll, growing pale with each correct answer. ”Who made the Gargoyle Gates?”

”Ten dead wizards buried beneath their last creation.”

Sweat beaded on the priest's brow. ”What do you claim?”

”I am the Mordant re-born.”

”What are you owed?”

The Mordant smiled. ”Your allegiance.”

The priest blanched, his hand gripping the amulet at his neck. ”What do you demand?”

”An escort to the Dark Citadel where I can finish the Trials and prove my claim to the Ebony Throne.”

”Or die trying.”

The Mordant completed the ritual. ”Or die trying.”

The priest gave a cautious half-bow and then turned to address the ranks. ”The stranger has pa.s.sed the initial Trials of Return. By the Darkness he is named a claimant to the Ebony Throne.” He traced a rune through the air as if granting a blessing. ”Behold the na-Mordant!”

Two hundred fists thumped against steel breastplates. ”The na-Mordant!”

The storm of cheers rained like acid on Bryce's soul. He screamed inside his prison, railing against the Mordant's victory.

The officer sheathed his sword and saluted the Mordant. ”Centurion Caylex, leader of the third border guard, at your command. My troops will see you safe to the Dark Citadel. I'll have a mount brought up for you.” He glanced toward the unmade knight. ”I a.s.sume your servant will ride the pale mare.”

The Mordant raised a hand, forestalling the commander. ”My plans cannot wait till my ascension. I claim the na-Mordant's boon.”

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