Soren had done worse for his magic. When Soren had requested to study with Delyth, the marsh witch, it was to develop his skills after his apprenticeship with Ealdnoth had come to its natural end. Her magic was totally different to Ealdnoth’s, and he was quickly learning new things. But Belwynn had come with him. Soren had begun to realise that Delyth resented his sister’s presence. She wanted Soren all to herself. She was a dark and dangerous character, totally different to Ealdnoth. Soren had been naive to think otherwise. Belwynn hadn’t seen the threat at all.
Soren had told Belwynn to leave, for her own safety. It had hurt her, he knew, but she couldn’t have stayed any longer. When Belwynn left, Soren gave Delyth what she wanted, and they had become lovers. The sex had repulsed him, yet he knew he was learning more about his craft, faster than he ever had. All the time he knew that Delyth would never let him leave, that she wanted him to stay with her forever. He went along with it. When it became clear that she had nothing left to teach him, he only had one option.
She was taken by complete surprise. He turned on her before she had a chance to defend herself. Under the cover of night, he had dumped her body in a bog and fled, returning to Magnia.
He couldn’t explain any of this to his sister. She was the same Belwynn when they met up again, only too pleased to see him. He had changed, however. Their year apart had created a distance between them that hadn’t been there before.
‘There is another reason for you to go there, too,’ said Szabolcs slowly, bringing Soren’s thoughts back to the present.
‘What is that?’ asked Soren calmly.
Szabolcs located the passage he wanted in his history book, placing a finger under the words as he began to read.
‘Zoltan says the great battle of which I spoke took place in the high mountains of the Krykker kingdoms.’
Szabolcs traced the lettering with his finger.
‘He says that both sides had seven champions, armed with a weapon each.’ Szabolcs looked up at Soren. ‘I wonder if Erkindrix’s Council of Seven is more than coincidence? It could be that as well as looking for Lady Onella’s weapons, Erkindrix has been looking for his own.’
Szabolcs bent his head down to his book again. ‘This is where Zoltan is vague. He says that the seven allies who fought at the great battle each returned to their homeland, to guard their weapons and to make sure that they would not fall into the hands of any one person unless needed again.’
Though vague, this was an interesting piece of information to Soren. ‘That makes sense. Our legends say that Toric’s Dagger was taken by King Osbert of Magnia from the Lippers. So they may have been one of the allies in the battle.’
Szabolcs nodded. ‘That would make sense. Unfortunately, Zoltan does not specify any more. Apart from to say that the Caladri took their staff home and kept it in a place of honour in Onella’s Temple.’
‘I guess,’ said Soren dryly, ‘that Onella’s Temple is located in the lands of the Grand Caladri?’
‘Yes. There are other histories I can read which may say more, but I don’t carry them with me.’
‘Still,’ replied Soren, ‘that tells us quite a lot. If Elana is right, we need to find all seven of them. We already have one. We know the location of a second. The battle was fought in the lands of the Krykkers, so presumably they had a champion and a weapon themselves.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Szabolcs. ‘The humans were present in Dalriya at this time. It is likely that they were one of the seven allies, too. As for the other three, I would only be guessing.’
‘Well,’ said Soren, as the information Szabolcs had given him began to sink in, ‘it looks like you have given me two good reasons to go the Grand Caladri.’
As he walked a discreet distance behind Elana and the Prince, Dirk peered closely at the flora of the Blood Caladri kingdom. In truth, he admitted to himself, he had never had much interest in such things. He was, in fact, listening intently to the conversation ahead of him. Listening. Gathering information. That was what he had always been good at.
Lorant had led them through the gardens to the west of the camp. The conversation there had been limited. The Caladri Prince would occasionally stop to comment on a flower or plant of some kind as they walked past. Elana would make some appreciative noise. Dirk, following a few feet behind them both, wondered whether she was as bored by it as he was.
After they left the gardens, where no other ears could hear, Lorant turned the conversation to weightier matters.
‘I believe you entirely, Elana,’ Lorant was saying. ‘Onella, or Madria, does appear to be communicating with you.’
Dirk noticed how Elana relaxed and, turning slightly to her left, gently smiled at the reassuring words.
‘But you must understand,’ Lorant continued, ‘that you are the first person I have heard of who can communicate, in such a direct way, with the Goddess. No one in our lands has been gifted in such a way. I want to know what she has told you to do.’
‘As I said earlier, I don’t have a direct conversation with Madria. But I now know that it is my duty to find and collect her weapons. They must be used to defend Dalriya, just as they were before.’
‘But that will never happen.’
The words rang out, cold and hard and loud, and floated in the air around them.
Ahead, a tall, black figure emerged and walked on until he stood facing them.
It was Nexodore, the wizard who had attacked them on the Great Road. A feeling of dread and panic rose in Dirk. He forced himself to control his roiling stomach.
‘Nexodore?’ asked Prince Lorant, with disbelief in his voice. ‘How have you invaded our realm?’ he demanded.
‘With ease, Prince,’ replied the sorcerer dismissively. The voice leaving the death mask sounded like rock grinding on granite. Nexodore turned to look at Elana.
‘My master gave me the task of watching the other lands, to find the whereabouts of the lost weapons and to discover who She has chosen as his enemy.’ The sorcerer made an unpleasant noise, which Dirk surmised was laughter, but it was so devoid of emotion it could hardly be called that. ‘A clever choice by your goddess,’ he said grudgingly, ‘to choose a nobody. It has made it more difficult for me to find you. However,’ he continued, and drew his sword, a cruel scrape of noise as it left the scabbard, ‘now I have.’
The drawing of the sword seemed to prompt Lorant into action. Drawing his own, he launched himself at Nexodore, shouting spells as he went. Two vines thrust themselves out of the ground and clasped themselves around the legs of the sorcerer.
‘Run!’ shouted the Caladri.
Dirk rushed forwards to grab Elana and escape with her back to the camp. However, by the time he reached her Nexodore had responded to Lorant’s attack. One scream of a word and the vines securing him withered and died. In the same breath he hurled his own sword at Lorant’s approach.
The prince had made up half the distance between them when the hurtling sword came straight for him. He blocked the weapon with his own just in time, sending it flying into the grass by the side. There was no time to react further, however, as Nexodore slammed an open palm towards him and sent a powerful blast of magic in his direction. Dirk could feel the force of it as a tremor in the ground and a blast of warm air on his face. Lorant just had time to surround himself with a glowing, light blue shield. But this defence was to no avail. The magic blast was too strong for him and he hurtled through the air until his body slammed into a tree.
Nexodore wasted no time and marched towards Elana, his mask of death implacable. Elana shivered. She seemed unable to move.
Nexodore’s march ate up the space between them in seconds. Dirk found himself releasing his grip on Elana and backing away, to one side. Elana began to pray to Madria.
Nexodore stopped in front of her. He stretched out his hand in a grasping movement and his sword, which Lorant had knocked aside, came flying back into his grip. Through his fear and shock, Dirk was surprised to see the sword was not made
of steel, but some kind of black crystal. Almost subconsciously, Dirk found himself pulling out the dagger from inside his cloak.
‘Your goddess cannot help you.’
Elana looked up into the mask as Nexodore raised his black sword behind his head.
This was the moment to act. Dirk forced his body to follow his orders. He hurled himself at the sorcerer and planted Toric’s Dagger into his groin.
Nexodore screamed out in pain, and his sword fell out of his hands. For whatever reason, he had not seen Dirk’s attack coming. Dirk looked up to see the mask staring down at him. He twisted the dagger further into his enemy in defiance. Nexodore had made a mistake, and Dirk intended to punish him for it.
Nexodore’s gauntleted hand smashed into Dirk’s face. He fell flat onto his back, the impact knocking his senses out of him. Dirk struggled to sit up. He saw Nexodore rip the dagger from his body, toss it aside, and then pause with his hand over his groin area, looking in Dirk’s direction.
Dirk struggled to make himself stand up, swaying on his feet as he did. Nexodore advanced quickly and grabbed Dirk by the wrist. Dirk yanked and punched and kicked, but Nexodore’s grip was like a vice.
Pain shot through Dirk, from his wrist, down his arm and into his body. He could no longer struggle or move, except to scream in agony. It felt like the sorcerer was burning him alive, sending fire through his body. Within seconds he could no longer even scream—his mouth held rigid in a rictus grin, his vocal chords frozen in place; but Nexodore’s grip still held him.
Dirk felt like his insides were slowly being cooked. Then, just out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elana pick up the knife that Nexodore had discarded. She ran at the sorcerer, but he was aware of her approach. He turned towards her and, with his free hand, slammed a fist into her head.
Elana collapsed and crumpled to the floor. It was a horrible sight; Dirk hoped that the blow had killed her, that she would avoid any further suffering.
Nexodore turned his full attention back to Dirk. The burning sensation increased and Dirk could feel himself dying. He kept his eyes fixed on Elana’s body, but his own could no longer cope with the pain he was experiencing. His body spasmed and a shower of blood spurted from his mouth onto the sorcerer.
Dirk looked up to see the death mask’s expression remain fixed as Dirk’s blood trickled down its face.
Then, suddenly, something seemed to erupt from the Isharite’s right eye. The energy entering Dirk’s body stopped. Nexodore’s grip loosened and Dirk fell to the ground.
Dirk tried to concentrate on breathing, but his insides seemed burned away, leaving a crumpled husk of skin and bones. His breathing rattled around in his head. Dirk forced himself to look up.
Nexodore had his back to him, and poking out of the back of his head was the point of an arrow. Beyond him came Lorant, bow in hand, and a second arrow nocked and ready to be released.
‘A nice trick,’ came the grinding voice from behind the mask. ‘But I’ve survived the fires of the underworld. Your bow and arrow and petty magic can’t do me harm.’
The Dagger, thought Dirk. The Dagger harmed him.
‘Maybe I can take your other eye,’ said Lorant viciously, and fired his second arrow, chanting more magic as he did. The bolt flew towards its target but Nexodore casually waved a hand, and it disintegrated.
Dirk made himself sit up, pain wracking his body so that he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from screaming out. Lying next to him was Elana: out cold, but breathing. He grabbed the Dagger that she had dropped. He forced himself to stand up, his legs threatening to give way. If he didn’t act now, Elana was doomed.
Nexodore fired a blast of magic at Lorant, forcing him to dive to the side to escape, dropping his bow as he did. Nexodore followed his target, winding up another assault. Dirk launched himself at the sorcerer, holding the dagger in both hands and driving its thin point into the back of his neck.
Then Dirk’s vision blurred, and all was dark.
22
Good News
BALDWIN HAD SEEN HIS SCOUTS riding up to the front of the column. A halt had now been called. Clearly, something was happening.
‘I’m going up to see what’s going on,’ he said to Rainer, who was riding next to him.
‘Very well, Your Majesty,’ replied his chamberlain.
They detached themselves from the line and made their way to the front, a hundred yards ahead, in no particular hurry. An army needed a good organiser, and Baldwin had therefore decided to bring Rainer with him to oversee logistics. He had some reservations about this decision. He had a great fondness for his Queen, Hannelore. She was a loyal wife, but not a politician. Rainer would have been useful back in the capital. He hoped that Archbishop Decker would keep his wife safe in Essenberg while he was away.
Baldwin had decided that he had to head north with his forces, even though most of his dukes had not. He could not expect Ellard of Rotelegen to hold the border by himself. He had to be seen to be defending his Empire. But he was uneasy about leaving his own duchy of Kelland virtually undefended with the treacherous Duke Emeric and his army waiting to pounce. He hoped that he could rely on Coen of Thesse to keep Emeric pinned down. He hoped that his other dukes would heed his orders and bring their armies north.
Baldwin looked up, not for the first time that day, at the towering presence of Burkhard Castle, only a mile away now, to the north-west. It was the key to the Empire’s defence against invasion; legendarily never taken by an enemy force. Despite this history, a shiver ran down Baldwin’s spine at the thought of it all. The idea of being trapped in there by the superior forces of Ishari and Haskany; of it becoming his grave. These thoughts were bad enough. But the prospect of being the first emperor to lose the castle, and the lasting shame that such a loss would bring to his name—such thoughts were far worse.
‘What’s going on?’ he said abruptly when he and Rainer reached the front.
‘Riders approaching ahead, Your Majesty,’ quickly replied one of his scouts, sitting straight to attention.
‘Numbers?’
‘About thirty, sire,’
Baldwin peered ahead. He could make out a group approaching, but the sun was in his eyes.
‘Banner?’
‘The tree of Luderia, sire.’
‘Luderia, eh? Then maybe Duke Arne has beaten us to the castle. I hope my brother has made him welcome.’
Baldwin had sent Walter up to the castle a few days before to speed up preparations. Parts of it needed repair, and large amounts of supplies had to be brought in to feed the size of the force he intended to keep there.
Baldwin waited for a few minutes. Sure enough, his father-in-law, Arne, rode at the head of around thirty Luderian noblemen. Arne was not getting any younger, mused Baldwin; nor was he getting thinner. Baldwin knew himself that as the years went by, iron discipline was needed to keep in the same physical shape as a young man. His father-in-law had let his discipline slide for a few years now; the size of the gut resting on the saddle was testament to that.
When they arrived, there was much shouting, hugging and shaking of hands as Baldwin went out of his way to thank every man for being there, and each nobleman made sure that they clasped hands and were acknowledged by their Emperor.
‘And how is my daughter?’ Arne bellowed, perhaps to remind anyone who had forgotten that he was father to the Queen.
‘She gets more beautiful every day,’ Baldwin answered, with the expected charm. ‘It was a wrench to leave her back in Essenberg.’
‘Quite, quite,’ replied Arne. Baldwin could almost detect a tear in the older man’s eye.
‘But I’ve got news to cheer you up, my son,’ said the Duke, a term of address that Arne always used and that Baldwin had never got used to. ‘When you were spotted on the road, I insisted that I ride out and be the first to tell you. Our cousin Duke Ellard has been busy since he left you at Essenberg. When he arrived in Guslar, he wasted no time in raising a force of his own men
and headed north yesterday. The Haskan forces were camped out in Grienna, idly waiting for orders from Ishari. They weren’t expecting us to take the fight to them! But that’s exactly what Ellard did, riding his force in and engaging the bastards. The Haskans put up a fight for a while, but then turned and ran! I don’t want to build this into something more than it is: they were routed, but they’ll be back. Still, a victory is a victory!’
By this point Baldwin himself had a genuine, beaming smile on his face at the news. This was exactly what his nervous Empire needed. Bless Ellard!
‘It certainly is,’ he replied. ‘Rejoice!’ he shouted, ‘and spread the word down the lines!’
A cheer rose up, and his soldiers did as they were told, retelling the story of how their fellow Brasingians had given the army of Haskany a bloody nose. Baldwin fell in next to Arne and the army continued towards Castle Burkhard.
Looking up, Baldwin could no longer think why the sight of his mighty stronghold should have made him feel grim at all.
Waking up was a gradual process, and took a number of minutes.
Dirk was first aware of a sickening, pounding headache. He focused on his surroundings. He was lying in a bed, his head propped up by pillows. He was inside one of the canvas Caladri tents. Sitting at the foot of the bed was Elana. Her head was resting on a hand. He couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or not. He looked at her awhile. He became aware of a great pressure in his bladder, but Dirk supposed that he would have to wait a bit to relieve himself.
‘Elana.’
His voice croaked out the name, practically giving up on the final syllable.
He saw Elana raise her head and look at him.
‘Dirk?’
Her concerned face caused him to remember, with a jolt, his last waking memory. Nexodore had attacked them. He had forced a burning magic into Dirk’s body, and then…
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 30
