Green Rider

“I suppose she would have followed us,” the marshal said. “Captain Mapstone tells me the girl operates on pure spunk, and from what I’ve seen, I cannot argue.”

Karigan glowered at both men. “The appreciation I get for—”

The king bent close to her, and in a sober tone, he said, “I am indebted to you, brave lady, more times over than I can count. I did not wish to belittle your accomplishments. If you wish to join us, I will not deny you. But also know, I could be leading you to your death.”

Without his fillet, she had almost forgotten he was king. Just as seriously as he, she said, “I must go.”

The moon was at its apex and beginning to slide into the western sky as King Zachary, Karigan, Horse Marshal Martel, the Weapon Rory, and about twenty-five cavalry soldiers rode in a circumference around the outskirts of Sacor City, far enough to be out of eyeshot and hearing of guards on the walls. They rode in silence, and they rode without light save that cast by the moon.

High on its hill, the castle sat at the center of it all, its stony facade rotating, changing angles as they rode. Tiny lights twinkled about it, making it appear as some celestial palace of the night rather than a behemoth of granite constructed by mere humans and anchored firmly to the earth.

On the northeast side, they slowed their horses to a walk. The king and his Weapon Rory rode in front, quietly consulting with one another.

A single white obelisk, cracked and splotched by yellow lichens, marked the spot where an age-old road began. Horse hooves clicked and clattered on blocks of granite paving stones. Grasses and saplings grew up through the cracks between the stones. An ancient grove of hemlock bowed over the path, plunging it into an even deeper darkness than the bare night.

They came upon a stone slab set beside the path, and all at once, Karigan could feel the cold stone on her back, like the slab in the preparation room. Only this one was covered with thick mosses, lichens, and a layer of dead leaves. A fern grew from the base.

This was a coffin rest, the king explained. A rest for those who bore the one to be interred in Heroes Avenue.

The group rode on, like silent mourners until they came to a rock ledge that loomed above them and was overhung with dripping mosses. Another obelisk stood like an accusing finger next to a round portal of iron embedded in the ledge.

King Zachary faced those who followed him with a grim smile. “You follow the ancient path only the dead, royalty, and those who care for the dead are permitted. This entrance has been forgotten by most and has lain mostly unused for a century at least. The dead, alas, keep their own company.”

He sat without speaking for some moments as water trickled down the ledge to a puddle beside him. “When I was a boy, my grandmother, Queen Isen, brought me here so I could learn the stories of Sacoridia’s bravest heroes. I was terrified then, and I am none too comfortable now. To say the least, it is disturbing to see the inside of your tomb while you still live and breathe.”

Karigan shifted uneasily on Condor’s back. The night seemed to crackle with premonition: the accusatory obelisk telling them to turn back, the iron portal with the glyph of Westrion on it.

“Beyond this portal,” Zachary said, “lies the domain of the dead from which only members of the royal family and Weapons may re-emerge. All others who trespass must spend the remainder of their lives along its somber avenues tending the dead, never to see the light of the living day again.”

The cavalry soldiers exchanged worried glances and whispered among themselves.

“However,” the king said, “I am in a position to change the rules for one night under these circumstances in which we ride. It would be different, perhaps, if we were entering the Halls of Kings and Queens where the royalty sleeps. Heroes Avenue is slightly more permissible; more forgiving to an intrusion of the living.” He looked at each person as if he could look right into their souls. Karigan was not warmed by his gaze. “Here we shall leave the horses.”

As one, the soldiers dismounted. They gathered together bundles of torches they had brought with them, and King Zachary smiled. “Leave them,” he said. “We enter a tomb, not a cave.”

The soldiers murmured uncertainly and shrugged. Rory ran his hands over the portal and pushed on the glyph of Westrion. It swung open easily, with just a minimal scraping of iron on granite, thanks, no doubt, to the vigilance of the Weapons who guarded the tombs. A breath of cool air issued out, thick with the scent of earth and rock.

One by one they filed into the round opening wide enough for a coffin and pallbearers. The corridor they entered was tubelike. Although it was not lit, light shone at the far end, and it was enough for them to see by.

Miraculously the shaft was dry and the speckled grain of the granite walls smooth and uncracked. Although the underground world was not damp, a heavy cold penetrated through Karigan’s coat and into her very bones.

“The craftmanship,” the horse marshal murmured.

“It has never been matched,” King Zachary said. “The tombs may have been delved before even the time of the Kmaernians.”

The tube opened into a larger, low-ceilinged chamber lit by flickering lamps. To Karigan, it felt as if the earth above pressed down on them. The taller among them had to bow their heads in order not to bump them on the ceiling. Another coffin rest stood in the middle of the room, its base decorated with the now familiar glyphs and ancient Sacoridian script. Several corridors branched off from this chamber, but only one was lit.

Five black-clad Weapons dressed in padded tunics and trousers and fur-lined cloaks, awaited them there, and fell on their knees before the king.