The Forever Knight: A Novel of the Bronze Knight (Books of the Bronze Knight) by John Marco Page A

“Diriel’s taken Kasse. Calls himself ‘Emperor’ now. Almost all the old provinces have fallen. Not Drin, though.”
    I didn’t know much about Akyre or its history, just whatever bits Cricket could remember. “How’s that possible?” I asked. “It’s always been a stalemate down here. How’d Diriel get so powerful?”
    The man looked at his cohorts, but none of them answered. A woman in the background whispered a warning to him. The man scratched his sunburned cheek.
    “Can’t say,” he said.
    “Can’t?” I worked to hide my annoyance. “A friend of mine told me about Diriel. Told me about his army. Told me they were dead men. Is that what’s got you scared?”
    Marilius shifted in his saddle. “Lukien, don’t.”
    The man took off his hat to fan his face. “We gotta move on.”
    “No,” Cricket insisted. “Just wait. We need to know what you saw. Please!”
    They all fell silent.
    “They won’t tell you,” said Marilius. “Just let ’em go.”
    “What about you?” asked Cricket, looking up at the boy. “Will you tell me what you saw?”
    The boy—maybe seven years old—nodded. “The legion of the lost.”
    “Tomas!” shrieked one of the woman.
    I looked at the man with the brown hat. “You can be a big help if you’d tell us. Anything about Diriel, Akyre . . .”
    “Can’t!” barked the man. “I warned you off the north. That’s all. Have the sense to turn around. Go back to Norvor. Or stay in Zura when you get there. Just keep clear of Akyre. All of it.”
    He yanked the oxen forward and the wagon waddled past us. Cricket called after them, begging them to wait. Marilius looked at me, his expression cross.
    “Will you take some advice?” he asked. “Nobody here’s going to tell you about Diriel, Lukien. Nobody. So just stop asking.”
    *   *   *
    Finally that night, I saw Malator again.
    We rode until the sun went down, finding a campsite far enough from the road so no one would see us while we slept. I helped Cricket clear the brush and make a fire, and Marilius took care of the animals. None of us spoke as we worked. Cricket was in a particularly foul mood. Spooked by the refugee boy, she kicked away the branches with clenched teeth. When we sat around the fire to eat, Marilius helped himself to our food, while Cricket picked at her own. My appetite had flown as well. All I wanted was rest.
    But when I tried to sleep I couldn’t. Images flashed through my mind—of Cassandra, Cricket, even Wrestler’s ugly face. I looked up at the stars, counting them to quiet my mind, but the constellations taunted me, forming monstrous patterns in the sky. I listened to Cricket’s breathing next to me, using the cape I’d made her for a blanket, her peaceful face turned toward me.
    She was safe, for now, but where was I taking her? I sat up, anxious to get away, needing a place to scream. In the shadows of the dying fire I tiptoed away, the Sword of Angels still—forever—belted to my waist. The darkness trapped me like a cage. I took a moment to let my vision adjust, then prowled through the trees like a restless tiger until at last I reached the road.
    Silence.
    I walked out into the center of the road, awash with moonlight. I looked east toward Zura and thought of Sariyah. I looked west toward home and thought of Gilwyn. When my sight cocked north, I heard Cassandra in my head. I closed my eye to hear her voice, imagining it precisely. Just a year before I had heard that voice for real, in the Story Garden. I had summoned her from the world of the dead just to see her one more time. She alone had convinced me to live, when all I wanted was to join her.
    “You can always go back there, you know,” said a voice. “The Story Garden remains.”
    I looked down and saw Malator sitting cross-legged in the middle of the road. He smiled up at me, his impish face weary. He seemed substantial this time, as if the moonlight had made flesh of him. But he was a spirit, and I