Peter Rambier's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Peter pushed through the trees until the ground fell away. A ravine split the forest, deep and tangled with fallen trunks and thorns. Somewhere across it, Morgatha laughed. "Come find me, little knight," she called. "Your order dies at the edge of a ditch." Peter searched for a crossing and found none. The witch's stronghold rose past the gap, gray stone against the sky. He could not reach it. Hooves sounded behind him. Peter turned. Villagers had followed his trail, and they led a white horse fit for a king. Gold and red tack shone on its back. The old woman from the hall held the reins. "He'll clear what your feet cannot," she said. "Take him." Peter ran his hand along the saddle. A sword rested there, half-drawn from its sheath. Gold hilt, red-wrapped grip, a blade that glowed soft and white. He lifted it. Light ran down the steel. "Whose is this?" he asked. The old woman met his eyes. "The king carried it once, then left it to rot. You've earned it more than he ever did. It's yours now." Peter gripped the sword. The weight felt right in his hand. He swung into the saddle. The horse turned and ran. It leapt the ravine in one clean bound, over the thorns and the rotting logs, and landed hard on the far side. Peter held the glowing sword high and rode toward the gray stone. Then the ground shook. A great dead tree tore its roots from the earth and stepped into his path. Its trunk split into a face, deep-set eyes and a gaping mouth. Branches spread like arms. Mushrooms clung to its bark. The horse reared. Peter fought to hold his seat. The tree swung a heavy limb. Peter ducked. The branch cracked the air where his head had been. He wheeled the horse and struck back. The glowing blade bit into the wood. The tree groaned and pulled away. Peter did not press. He lowered the sword. "I don't want your death," Peter said. "The witch made a monster and it killed people I swore to guard. She took the rose that heals them. Let me pass and I'll leave you standing." The tree's eyes fixed on him. It studied the soft white light on the blade. Slowly, the great limbs drew back. The trunk shifted aside. A gap opened toward the stronghold. Peter bowed his head to the tree. He rode through the gap, sword lit, horse steady beneath him. The ravine lay behind him now. Witchspire Keep stood close, its gate plain against the stone. But the leap and the fight had cost him distance. Morgatha's voice drifted from the keep, thin and sharp. She knew he had crossed. Whatever waited inside, she had time to ready it. Peter fixed his grip on the glowing sword and rode for the gate.