Sevenfold Sword

by Jonathan Moeller

“We should probably get up,” said Calliande. “We can cherish what we have…but I’m afraid we’ll have to fight to defend it.”

  “We do,” said Ridmark. He sat up, and to his surprise, he smiled. “But we’re the Shield Knight and the Keeper. It’s what we do best.”

  ###

  Ridmark walked into the courtyard of Tamlin’s domus with Calliande.

  The children were already awake. Tamlin and Aegeus were practicing swords with Gareth, while Michael sat on a bench and offered suggestions. Joachim was riding on Zuredek’s back while the other saurtyri watched, his expression delighted. Ridmark almost told him to get off Zuredek, but the saurtyri was braying with laughter, and the others were following suit. Evidently, this was another amusing example of human insanity.

  He looked at Calliande, and then at his sons, and a wave of warmth went through him. This was why he had agreed to help King Hektor, to protect his family from the madness that the Seven Swords and the followers of the New God had brought to Owyllain.

  Ridmark went to have one last day with his children before the army marched against Justin Cyros.

  ***

  Epilogue: Maledicti

  As the sun rose in the east, Justin Cyros rested both hands upon the hilt of the Sword of Earth and listened to his scouts’ reports.

  It seemed Castra Chaeldon remained in the hands of Hektor Pendragon. That was an annoyance. The castra guarded the main road from Cytheria to Aenesium, and Justin needed to get it out of the way before he could resume the march to Aenesium. He could have used the power of the Sword of Earth to rip down the castra, but that was a problem because he would need the castra later.

  That was the price of the Seven Swords. They could destroy, but they could not build.

  He wondered if any of the other bearers of the Swords had realized that. He knew the truth, but that fool Hektor Pendragon did not.

  The scouts fell silent as a tall figure in an elaborate green robe approached.

  Or glided, rather, his boots floating a few inches above the ground.

  Voluminous sleeves concealed the figure’s hands, and a heavy green cowl shadowed the face, but not enough to hide that the orc in the robe was undead, his features leathery and crumbling. In places small crystals of green and blue burst from his brittle skin, as if they had grown in his undead flesh and stabbed into the air.

  “Leave us,” said Justin. “All of you. Now.”

  The scouts bowed and departed. The Ironcoats, Justin’s personal guard of Swordborn soldiers, moved off a distance, their eyes hard and watchful. The Ironcoats were brutal soldiers, trained in magic and every form of battle, and they were fanatically loyal to him.

  They had better be. Once Justin had realized the advantages of the Swordborn, Justin had fathered as many of them as he could, training them to serve as extensions of his will.

  The green-robed Maledictus came to a stop a few yards away.

  “Well, Urzhalar?” said Justin.

  The Maledictus of Earth offered a bow.

  “I fear I bear ill news, King Justin,” said Urzhalar, his voice a basso rumble. If a mountain could speak, it would have a voice like that, though like all the other Maledicti, his lips remained motionless. “My brother Khurazalin’s plot failed. Queen Adrastea and Prince Rypheus are dead, along with many other knights and Arcanii, but King Hektor survived, and his army has crossed the River Morwynial and marches for us.”

  Justin’s lip curled with contempt. The Maledicti were useful allies and made such fine promises. But he knew the seven high priests had their own agenda, that they played all the bearers of the Seven Swords against each other.

  He knew the Maledicti intended to betray him in the end.

  No matter. Justin would betray them first.

  “It is of no consequence,” said Justin. “We both knew that Prince Rypheus was too unstable to make a reliable tool. The man was a torch thrown into a barn. Every knight and Arcanius slain in Aenesium is one less we shall have to slay upon the battlefield.”

  “Your wisdom is clear, King Justin,” said Urzhalar.

  Justin snorted and looked at the black medallion on Urzhalar’s chest, the medallion adorned with the double ring and seven spikes of the New God.

  Seven Swords, seven Maledicti, and seven spikes.

  Justin Cyros was going to save Owyllain and the world from the New God.

  No matter how many thousands he had to kill to do it.

  ###

  Khurazalin spent centuries drifting through endless, swirling darkness.

  Millennia, even.

  But at long last, he opened his eyes.

  He was alive.

  Actually alive, and not inhabiting an undead shell.

  He took a deep, ragged breath, and a thousand half-forgotten sensations flooded through him. The beat of the heart beneath his ribs, the hiss of the air through his nostrils, the cold stone of the black altar rough beneath the skin of his legs and back. Khurazalin sat up and looked at his hands and the rest of his body. He was naked, and he had the body of an orcish man in his early twenties, strong and fit and healthy.

  Khurazalin wondered who the body’s previous owner had been, and decided it didn’t matter.

  He turned his head and saw his master waiting for him.

  The Masked One of Xenorium stood a few yards away, outlined in the eerie blue glow of the light of the menhirs. The Masked One had once been an Arcanius Knight named Cavilius, one of the friends of Master Talitha, but now he was something else.

  Something more.

  “You have awakened, Maledictus of Fire,” said the Masked One. He wore black armor from head to foot, a black helmet concealing his face, and a dark cloak hung from his shoulders. The Sword of Shadows hung from his belt, wreathed and hidden in a dark haze. Behind him rose the menhirs of a circle of dark elven standing stones.

  Khurazalin knew where he was. This was one of the secret laboratories hidden beneath Urd Maelwyn.

  The Confessor ruled in Urd Maelwyn, but the Confessor did not know all the secrets of the fortress.

  “Yes,” said Khurazalin, getting to his feet. A new robe rested on the ground at the foot of the altar, and he donned it, settling the red folds around his new limbs. “I fear I failed. Rypheus Pendragon was slain, and Hektor Pendragon yet lives.”

  “No matter,” said the Masked One. “It would have been useful to cripple Aenesium, but even a weakened Aenesium and a grieving King Hektor serves our purposes. Come.”

  The Masked One turned and strode from the circle, and Khurazalin followed, adjusting to the feeling of walking with living legs once more. The standing circle occupied a round chamber far below Urd Maelwyn, and the Masked One led Khurazalin to an archway in the far wall.

  Beyond was a large hall of white stone, and an alchemical and sorcerous laboratory occupied most of the space. Strange machines of arcane purpose stood along the walls, and long wooden tables held intricate instruments of glass and brass. Dozens of bronze chains hung from the ceiling, leading towards a metal circle set in the center of the floor. The Maledictus of Air stood near the ring, swathed in her silvery robes, and the Maledictus of Shadow waited next to her, though Khurazalin’s living eyes had trouble seeing him. Qazaldhar stood behind them both, the Maledictus of Death's black robes stained with the poisons leaking from his corrupted flesh.

  “Tell me,” said the Masked One. “Why did the plan fail?”

  “The Shield Knight and the Keeper,” said Khurazalin. “They interfered. If not for their interference, Rypheus would have killed every Companion, knight, and Arcanius in that hall.”

  “Indeed,” said the Masked One. “The Shield Knight and the Keeper have become obstacles. It is time they were removed.”

  They stopped at the edge of the circle and gazed at the tortured soul within it.

  The dozens of chains that hung from the ceiling each ended in a bronze spike, and every spike had been driven into the flesh of the slave named Calem. He hung naked from the chains, the sp
ikes driven through his arms, his legs, and into his spine. Dark magic surged and pulsed through the chains, sinking into the human’s flesh.

  Calem lifted his bloodshot green eyes, and his cracked, bleeding lips opened.

  “Please, master,” he croaked. “Please, no more.”

  “You failed to remove the Shield Knight and the Keeper at Myllene,” said the Masked One, “and perhaps you have learned the price of that failure. I have a new task for you. Take the Sword of Air, find the Shield Knight and his wife, and kill them both.”

  “No, master,” croaked Calem. “I cannot. Please. Please!”

  The Masked One cast a spell, dark magic howling through the chains, and Calem screamed.

  Khurazalin watched with approval. Calem would be a fit instrument for the death of Ridmark and Calliande Arban.

  And with their deaths, the advent of the New God would be all the closer.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading SEVENFOLD SWORD: SWORDBEARER!

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Ridmark's and Calliande's next adventure in SEVENFOLD SWORD: WARLORD (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=8275).

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  ***

  SEVENFOLD SWORD: WARLORD Chapter 1: The Demon In The Forest

  Thirty-one days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, thirty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban moved in silence through the redwood forest, his boots making no sound against the ground.

  The forest was quiet, but Ridmark knew that would not last.

  He walked in haste and in silence, making his way around the massive roots of the great redwoods. The huge trees rose like the pillars of a soaring cathedral, their branches arching overhead to blot out the sun. Given how harsh and hot the weather of Owyllain was compared to that of Andomhaim, Ridmark did not mind the shade. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the leaves overhead, casting patches of light onto the forest floor.

  A dead orcish soldier lay in one of those pools of light.

  Ridmark went motionless, his bamboo staff in his right hand, his gray cloak stirring around him in the faint breeze that rustled the leaves far overhead.

  He did not move, but listened and looked.

  It was an old, old trick, he knew.

  Kill one enemy, leave his corpse in plain sight, and then wait to ambush his friends when they came to investigate.

  Ridmark remained still and silent, looking at his surroundings, but he did not think any enemies waited to attack him. The mighty redwoods were spaced far apart from each other, which left little room for enemies to hide. In some parts of the Qazaluuskan Forest, the trees were so thick that men could stand a dozen paces apart and not realize the other was there. The lines of sight were far clearer here.

  He counted to a hundred under his breath, but no foes showed themselves.

  Satisfied that it wasn’t a trap, Ridmark strode forward and examined the dead orc.

  The orc had been a warrior of Vhalorast, a city-state to the north whose Warlord Khazamek had allied with King Justin Cyros in his quest to reunite the Seven Swords and bring Owyllain under his rule. Like all the warriors of Vhalorast, the dead orc had a tattoo on his green-skinned face, a swirling pattern of red that encircled his left eye and spread across his temples and jaw. Most of the orcish warriors of Andomhaim wore topknots. The warriors of Vhalorast eschewed that custom, and instead shaved their heads bald, growing long, drooping mustaches bound with bronze rings. The mustaches made for a stark contrast with their white tusks. The dead warrior had been wearing good armor – a shirt of interlocking bronze rings backed by a leather cuirass, bronze greaves and bracers, and a shield of wood and hide on his left arm.

  None of that had been enough to save him.

  His leaf-bladed bronze sword and bronze dagger were still in their scabbards. The orcish warrior’s throat had been cut, his chest green with blood.

  Green and wet, come to think of it. The blood hadn’t had time to congeal.

  Ridmark went to one knee and put a finger on the orc’s forehead.

  The green skin was still warm.

  The orc hadn’t been dead long. Less than an hour, Ridmark thought.

  But who had killed him?

  Ridmark didn’t think anyone in King Hektor Pendragon’s army had done it. The Arcanius Knight Sir Parmenio commanded King Hektor’s scouts, and while they were all competent men, they would have either shot the orc with an arrow or avoided the fight. For that matter, the cut across the warrior’s throat had been done with a blade of unusual sharpness. Iron was rare in Owyllain, which meant that steel was nearly nonexistent. Every man in Hektor Pendragon’s army carried a weapon of bronze, and bronze could not hold as sharp of an edge as a steel blade. Ridmark had seen many, many wounds in his life, and he knew that a bronze sword had not done this.

  A glint of green caught his eye. Blood was pooling beneath the dead warrior. Ridmark got to his feet and used his bamboo staff to lever up the orc’s torso.

  The orc had also been stabbed in the back with uncanny precision, right between the bronze rings of his mail. It hadn’t been a fatal wound, but the sequence was plain enough. Someone had stabbed the orcish warrior in the back, but before he could recover, the attacker had cut his throat.

  It left Ridmark uneasy.

  King Hektor’s army was marching north through the forest, towards the dry hills surrounding the fortress of Castra Chaeldon. Somewhere north of Castra Chaeldon waited the army of King Justin Cyros, marching south to smash Aenesium and Hektor’s allies. A long distance separated the two armies, but bands of scouts had been stumbling into each other with increasing frequency.

  If one of Hektor’s men had not killed this orcish warrior of Vhalorast…then who? An ally?

  Or a creature that was taking advantage of the chaos to kill?

  If a creature of dark magic was loose in the forest, Ridmark was the best one in Hektor’s host to face it.

  He stepped back from the dead orc, scrutinizing the ground.

  There were no tracks from the orc’s killer, which was strange. Ridmark spotted the slain orc’s tracks, marked among the dirt and the fallen leaves. The warrior had been walking with a steady, untroubled pace, heedless of his enemy and his impending death.

  Stranger and stranger.

  Ridmark decided to follow the tracks.

  He hurried forward at a light jog, bamboo staff in hand. Oathshield remained in its scabbard at his left hip, bouncing off his leg every so often. The soulblade was a far superior weapon to the bamboo staff, but Ridmark was the only Swordbearer in Owyllain. Best to keep the enemy unaware of his true capabilities. And Ridmark had noticed that the human and orcish warriors of Owyllain held the quarterstaff in contempt as a weapon.

  He had taught quite a few of his enemies the error of that belief. His sons, too, would grow up knowing how to use a staff and how to defend against one…

  Chasing enemy scouts through a forest was not the time to worry about his sons. He could do that later, constantly.

  The ground grew rockier as he followed the trail to the northwest, and soon massive gray boulders jutted from the earth. That hadn’t seemed to slow the redwoods down, which towered as high as ever. It did force Ridmark to slow his pace, keeping an eye out for any foes.

  He heard the orcish soldiers arguing before he saw them.

  There were three of them. Ridmark slowed and approached one of the massive gray boulders, staff ready in his hand.

  “I’m not going out there again,” said the first orc, speaking the orcish tongue with the distinctive jagged accent of the city of Vhalorast.

  “Don’t b
e a damned coward,” said a second orc, contempt in his voice. “Aye, Hektor Pendragon’s host is in the forest, but they’re seven miles south yet. The blood gods hate cowards and cravens.”

  “The blood gods hate morons, too, and they repay stupidity with death,” said a third orc. “You’ve seen the corpses. None of them were cowards, but the demon took them.”

  Demon? If there was indeed a creature of dark magic loose in the redwood forest, it seemed to be preying on King Justin’s scouts. That said, there was nothing that would stop it from attacking King Hektor’s men. And Ridmark was a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to oppose creatures of dark magic. He could not in good conscience let an urvaalg or an ursaar prey upon anyone, even if the creature’s victims were serving a man like Justin Cyros.

  But an urvaalg or an ursaar wouldn’t have left precise wounds like that. It would have torn its victims apart. Ridmark wondered if an urshane or an urhaalgar or even an urdhracos was loose in the forest.

  “They shouldn’t have gone out alone,” said the second orc. “The Warlord wants us to cover as much ground as we can, aye, but going out alone is stupid. I say we head north and rejoin the main host. The Warlord needs to hear the news. If there’s a devil in the forest, the High Warlock can deal with it. Or King Justin can turn it to stone with the Sword of Earth.”

  “Aye,” said the first orc, “but think how much glory we shall win if we slay the creature and bring it before the Warlord’s throne!”

  “Or it will kill us all and our bodies will rot in the forest,” said the third orc. “It has to be an urshane or maybe an urdhracos, or some horror crawled up from the Deeps. We’re scouts, and a scout who fails to return to report is useless. Let us bring the news to the Warlord and the High Warlock, and they can deal with it.”

  “The Dark Arcanius won’t like it,” said the first orc.