Sevenfold Sword

by Jonathan Moeller

  Tysia’s dead eyes turned to face him.

  “Fine me again,” she said. “The New God is coming.”

  “What does that mean?” shouted Tamlin, but as ever, she had no answer.

  The dream shifted, and Tamlin found himself standing back at the crossroads on the day that they had come to Myllene and the strange man calling himself Calem had tried to kill Ridmark. The milestone loomed over the crossroads, the white statue of the Sovereign rising against the burning sky like a mountain. The blank stone eyes beneath the winged helmet seemed to watch him, measure him, weigh him with cruel wisdom and malevolent cunning.

  Ridiculous. The Sovereign was dead. The High King Kothlaric had slain him beneath the gate of Urd Maelwyn, but then the War of the Seven Swords had begun.

  Suddenly it seemed as if the statue of the Sovereign wore a crown of blue dark elven steel, seven spikes rising from the diadem, but the peculiar vision faded.

  “Tamlin Thunderbolt.”

  Tamlin turned, his sword in hand, and saw that the Dark Lady awaited him.

  She looked as she ever did, black-eyed and black haired, clad in wool and leather with a carved staff of wood in her right hand. Sometimes the sigils of the staff flashed with white light, and sometimes her eyes did the same. Even after all these years, even after she had first appeared in his dreams and urged him not to kill himself, those black eyes still unsettled him.

  As if she could see his heart and measure it.

  “Madam,” said Tamlin with a flourishing bow. “I keep telling you these dreams would be far more pleasant if you appeared in them without clothes.”

  The Dark Lady let out an exasperated sigh. “You just gave little Kalussa such excellent advice. One would think you could apply the same wisdom to yourself.” She regarded him, thin fingers tapping against her staff. “I would say that you ought to let your brain govern you rather than a certain other organ, but that would be insufficient. It is your heart that rules you…and you know not how to heal it.”

  “And I suppose you do?” said Tamlin.

  The Dark Lady smiled, and that expression chilled Tamlin. “To heal your heart, you must first rip it open. To cure your pain, you must inflict agony beyond imagination upon yourself. To recover from grievous loss, you must lose everything again.”

  “Are those meant to be words of comfort?” said Tamlin. “If so, they fail miserably.”

  “They are not,” said the Dark Lady. “But when have I ever spoken words of comfort to you, Tamlin Thunderbolt? Comfort is of no use to you. You are a warrior. Therefore, I give you not comfort, but a warning.”

  His chill worsened. Several times she had appeared in his dreams and given him warning, and every single time those warnings had proceeded a deadly challenge. “Then what comes for me this time?”

  “When an opportunity arises,” said the Dark Lady, “you should ask the Shield Knight and the Keeper about the Enlightened of Incariel.”

  Tamlin blinked. “The what of Incariel?” A book from the monastery's library that he had read as a child returned to his mind. The dark elves had worshipped the great void, and they had called it Incariel. Or they had named the shadow of the void Incariel. The book had been unclear on that point, and Tamlin had never bothered to find out more. No matter how desperate his life had become, he had never suffered from the urge to worship a demon.

  “The Enlightened of Incariel,” said the Dark Lady, “were a secret brotherhood, a cult, in the realm of Andomhaim. They worshipped the shadow of Incariel, and they sought to use it to become immortal gods and the lords of mankind.”

  “Folly,” said Tamlin.

  “I quite agree.”

  “Are these Enlightened still a danger?” said Tamlin.

  The Dark Lady smiled. “I said they were a secret cult. They no longer exist. They tore apart the realm of Andomhaim in a bloody civil war, but the Shield Knight and the Keeper destroyed them, and Ridmark himself vanquished their leader with his own hands.” She considered. “Of course, he was not yet the Shield Knight, but that is hardly relevant.”

  “At least there is no such evil in Owyllain,” said Tamlin.

  Her cold smile returned. “Are you so sure?”

  Tamlin frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You know the nature of your own heart,” said the Dark Lady. “Lust for flesh and wine threads through your soul like flaws in a gemstone. Hardly commendable, of course, but some men have darker flaws. Some of those men wait for you in Aenesium. The New God is coming. The Kratomachar rises.”

  “What are you saying?” said Tamlin. “There are followers of the New God in Aenesium?”

  “The servants of the New God have already tried to kill you and the Shield Knight and the Keeper,” said the Dark Lady. “They shall try again. Beware the green glass, Tamlin.”

  Tamlin frowned. “Green glass?” What the devil did that mean?

  “When the green glass shatters,” said the Dark Lady, “the servants of the New God will come for you again.”

  The dream ended and Tamlin awoke.

  He was in a troubled mood for the rest of the day.

  ***

  Chapter 6: Aenesium

  Six days after leaving the town of Myllene, Ridmark and Calliande and the others came to the River Morwynial and the city of Aenesium.

  “Behold Aenesium,” said Kalussa, pointing with obvious pride, “the capital of the High King of Owyllain and the chief of the Nine Cities.”

  Ridmark had to admit it was an impressive sight.

  They stopped at the edge of a broad, shallow valley, looking down at the River Morwynial. While not as large as the River Moradel, the river was still a half-mile wide before it flowed into the vast blue expanse of the western sea.

  On the northern bank of the river gathered an army, a forest of tents rising from the plain. Ridmark saw thousands of bronze-armored hoplites, jotunmiri soldiers, orcish mercenaries, and dozens of bound trisalians. More soldiers waited on the southern bank, and Ridmark saw a score of massive rafts traveling back and forth, ferrying the host across the river.

  “A large army,” murmured Calliande. “At least fifteen thousand strong. Maybe more.”

  Ridmark frowned. “If King Justin is marching down from the north, why does King Hektor not stay on the southern bank of the Morwynial and await his foe? A contested river crossing is one of the hardest things to do in warfare.”

  “Because,” said Kalussa, “my father will march forth and smash King Justin’s host.”

  Ridmark nodded and looked at Tamlin.

  “Also,” said Tamlin in a quiet voice, “Justin Cyros has the Sword of Earth.” He had seemed subdued since they had passed through the redwood forest. “With that Sword, he could raise bridges from the depths of the river, or tear down the walls of Aenesium with a thought.”

  That made more sense. Had Ridmark been in Hektor’s position, he would have fortified Aenesium and forced the enemy to come to him. The defender often had an easier time of it than the attacker. But if Justin Cyros could destroy the fortifications, and if the Sword of Fire could rain destruction down upon the enemy, then it made far more sense for Hektor Pendragon to meet his opponent blade to blade.

  Which was a pity, because the walls of Aenesium were indeed strong.

  The city rose over the southern bank of the River Morwynial, and while it was not as large as Tarlion or Cintarra in Andomhaim, Ridmark guessed that at least fifty thousand people lived within its walls. The walls had been built of red granite, fortified with octagonal watch towers, the towers themselves topped with siege engines. Within Ridmark saw houses and buildings of whitewashed brick roofed with tiles of fired red clay. The architecture did not look all that different from that of Tarlion, though the men of Owyllain favored eight-sided churches rather than the traditional basilica-style churches of Andomhaim. In the heart of the city rose a massive church of eight sides topped with an enormous copper-plated dome. The huge church faced a sprawling edifice of white stone and gree
n gardens and high towers. Based on what the others had said, Ridmark supposed those two buildings were the Palace of the High Kings and the Great Cathedral of Owyllain.

  “It seems,” said Arminios, pointing, “that our presence has already been reported.” Ridmark spotted hoplites running from the southern bank towards the northern gate of Aenesium.

  “Good,” said Sir Tramond. “With King Justin’s damned mercenaries and raiders loose in the countryside, we cannot afford to relax our vigilance.” He looked at Arminios. “We had better report to King Hektor at once. Both the alliance with Mholorast and the recovery of Castra Chaeldon are tidings of equal importance. King Hektor needs to hear of them immediately.”

  Ridmark said nothing. He might have taken command of their little column, but here he had no authority. In truth, it was a relief. Here he was not responsible for anyone but Calliande and his sons, and he found that preferable to leading men in battle.

  “Should we come with you?” said Calliande. “We are strangers here, and perhaps it would be best if we spoke to King Hektor at once.”

  “If you will permit me to offer counsel, my lady,” said Tramond, “let Sir Arminios and me talk to King Hektor first.” He wiped some sweat from his forehead. “This situation is unprecedented, but I think it would be best if we were to treat you like…ambassadors from another nation, let us say.”

  Calliande smiled. “Which is true enough, I suppose.”

  “Indeed,” said Tramond. “When foreign ambassadors visit, it is customary for them to stay in the city and then come to the High King’s court when summoned.”

  “We’ll need to find a place to stay in the city,” said Ridmark. “An inn, perhaps.”

  “Actually,” said Tamlin, “you and your family are more than welcome to stay at my domus, Lord Ridmark.”

  Ridmark blinked. “You have a domus?”

  “Yes.” Tamlin looked a little embarrassed. “When I met King Hektor, I happened to save his life. In gratitude, he made me one of his Companions in addition to an Arcanius Knight. It is a nice domus.” He shrugged. “Not that I stay there all that often. But I have some retainers, a family of saurtyri servants, and more than enough room for you.”

  “Then we shall gladly accept your invitation, Sir Tamlin,” said Ridmark.

  “Though I should warn you that Sir Aegeus stays with me when he is in Aenesium,” said Tamlin. “His snores are…thunderous, let us say.”

  Aegeus snorted. “I sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

  “I will accompany Sir Tramond and Sir Arminios,” said Kalussa. “I was an eyewitness to everything that happened at both Castra Chaeldon and Myllene, and I can speak in favor of your courage before my father’s throne.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. Not that he had any right to command Kalussa. Though he suspected she would jump if he snapped his fingers.

  “Lord Kyralion,” said Tamlin, looking back at the gray elf. “You would be welcome to lodge at my domus as well.”

  Kyralion blinked several times and then offered his stiff bow to Tamlin. “Thank you, Sir Tamlin. I was uncertain of where I would stay in Aenesium, though I must remain near the Shield Knight and the Keeper.”

  “Glad I could be of service,” said Tamlin. “My lords and ladies, shall we?”

  Their column made its way down the slope and into the valley of the Morwynial. Under other circumstances, Ridmark thought, the soil would make for good farmland, though the tramp of marching feet would make growing crops here impossible for the foreseeable future.

  As they drew closer to the camp, sentries intercepted them and demanded to know their business. Sir Tramond and Sir Arminios took charge, and the sentries became deferential. Soon they had an escort as they marched through the encamped army. Ridmark drew surprised looks from the soldiers. He supposed humans wearing dark elven armor and a cloak of the gray elves were not a common sight in the realm of Owyllain. Kyralion himself also drew surprised looks, though the gray elf seemed indifferent to them. Perhaps he didn’t care, or more likely, didn’t notice.

  Sir Arminios’s rank was sufficient to commandeer one of the rafts, and Ridmark, Calliande, and the others boarded the craft. He looked at Gareth and Joachim as they stood near Calliande and Kalussa. Joachim did not like water travel, but he looked at everything around him with wide eyes. Gareth, too, seemed fascinated by the sights. Ridmark supposed that Aenesium was alien and strange to them.

  He hoped they would be safe here, but if King Justin could tear down walls with the Sword of Earth, perhaps nowhere in Owyllain was safe.

  The men handling the barge knew their business, and ten minutes later they docked on the southern side of the river. Stone quays jutted into the water, and various enterprising merchants sold goods to the departing soldiers. Most of the merchants, Ridmark noted, were women. Women were more numerous than men in Owyllain, and with most of the men gone to war, Ridmark supposed their wives and mothers and concubines and daughters remained behind to manage the workshops and work the fields. He wondered how many of them had already lost sons and husbands and fathers to the War of the Seven Swords already.

  Many, most likely.

  They left the crowded docks and walked through the northern gate of Aenesium, past bronze-armored hoplites standing watch, and into a broad market square that would have been called a forum in Andomhaim but was called an agora in Owyllain. Inns and shops lined the square, and Ridmark saw a dozen merchant stalls selling goods. Again, most of the merchants seemed to be women or older men missing eyes or arms.

  The women waiting near the gate, however, held his attention.

  There were nearly thirty of them. They wore identical costumes – a long red skirt of a strange shimmering fabric Ridmark did not recognize, and two bands of the same red fabric that coiled around their necks and waists and crossed in an X over their chests. That left their stomachs, arms, and backs bare, and did little enough to cover their breasts. For that matter, the shape of their legs and hips were outlined beneath the fabric of the crimson skirts.

  Ridmark wondered if the women were prostitutes, plying their trade among the soldiers preparing to march. He wasn’t looking forward to having to explain that concept to Gareth and Joachim.

  Then Sir Parmenio – grim, sober, diligent Sir Parmenio – walked forward with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. One of the women in the red dresses hurried forward, a wide smile on her face, and Parmenio kissed her. Then he picked her up as her arms wrapped around his neck, and he walked from the agora, the woman in his arms.

  Ridmark was reasonably sure he knew what they were going to do next.

  Many of the soldiers broke off and headed for the women.

  Ridmark looked at Tamlin. “I assume this one of the customs of Owyllain that you will need to explain to me.”

  Tamlin blinked. “You don’t have this in Andomhaim?”

  “No,” said Calliande, who was watching the scene with bemusement.

  “Ah,” said Tamlin. “Well, the woman Sir Parmenio just carried off is his concubine. His only one, I think. When the men of Owyllain return from the battlefield, it is traditional for their wives and concubines to await them. If a child can be conceived on the day of the return, it is considered a sign of God’s favor.”

  “I see,” said Calliande. “And the wives and concubines…dress for the occasion, I take it?”

  “As you have observed,” said Tamlin.

  “That cloth,” said Calliande. “What is it?”

  “It’s called silk,” said Tamlin. “The men of Echion, one of the Nine Cities, know the secret of its making. I don’t rightly know how it’s done. Something with worms. But a proper reunion dress is made of silk.”

  “A reunion dress,” said Ridmark. His first impulse was to say that the reunion dress looked like a reunion undergarment, but he restrained himself. To the men and women of Owyllain, he realized that the custom was a solemn one. And given Owyllain’s smaller population, children were likely prized even more than th
ey were in Andomhaim.

  A darker thought occurred to Ridmark. The women in the red reunion dresses were the wives and concubines of the men who had marched with Sir Tyromon Amphilus to Castra Chaeldon. Archaelon and Khurazalin had killed many of those men.

  Some of those women would stand here and wait for men who would never return.

  He met Calliande’s eye and saw that she had come to the same grim realization.

  “Yes,” said Tamlin in a quiet voice. “A reunion dress. For those whom God has blessed with a reunion.”

  “Someday,” said Kalussa, “I hope to greet my husband wearing such a dress.”

  Ridmark wasn’t looking at her, but he felt her eyes on him. A reunion dress would fit her well, he thought. He had seen her naked when the Confessor’s orcs had taken her captive, and…

  Irritated with himself, he pushed the thought out of his head.

  “I don’t think Sir Tramond and Sir Arminios ought to keep King Hektor waiting,” said Ridmark. Thankfully, the two knights would take Kalussa with them. “Sir Tamlin, if you could show us the way to your domus?”

  “Of course,” said Tamlin. “This way, my friends.”

  ###

  Tamlin led the way through the streets of Aenesium.

  Calliande walked alongside Ridmark, the staff of the Keeper in her left hand, Joachim cradled in her right arm. Gareth stayed next to her, eyes wide as he took in the strange city, and Kyralion walked in silence next to her. Sir Aegeus brought up the back, humming to himself. Returning to Aenesium had put him in a good mood, and why not? He was home.

  Calliande suddenly wished, more than anything, that she could have gone home herself. Seeing the women in the reunion dresses had put her in a melancholy mood. Had they remained in the agora a few more moments, she knew they would see the bitter tears of women who realized their husbands would never return from the battle.

  She had seen that so many times, and it reminded her of the times she had almost lost Ridmark.