The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3

by Martin Hengst

  “The halberd has a wooden shaft. The dagger did not. It was your proximity to the metal that made the dagger worse.” His gnarled fingers tugged at his lower lip as he stared at her. “Didn’t you ever notice how your body reacts to steel?”

  “Clan women aren’t permitted steel weapons or tools,” Tiadaria replied, her voice dripping with contempt. “Steel is too valuable for a woman’s hand.”

  Royce snorted, but maintained his cool regard. They sat that way long enough for Tiadaria to find herself unsettled by the intensity of his gaze. She felt as if she was being judged on more than just her clumsiness.

  “What’s your name, little one?”

  “Tiadaria,” she replied with haughty pride. “And I'm not a little girl, Sir. I'll pass my seventeenth name-day three months hence.”

  “Then you're a little one compared to me, aren't you?”

  “I suppose, Sir.”

  “My name is Royce. I had another name at some point. A family name, an honorable name. It’s been gone from me for many years. Now I'm simply known as Royce. Not that you'll ever call me anything other than Captain, or Sir...but you had the right to know who owns you now.”

  “A name doesn't tell me who you are, Sir.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, pausing to tug again at his lower lip. Then he smiled, the first full-smile she had seen from him, revealing perfect teeth that seemed out-of-place for such a rugged man. “I am Royce, former Knight of the Flame, and Sergeant-at-Arms to the One True King. I led the Grand Army of the Human Imperium for nearly thirty years.”

  “Which means, Sir?”

  “Which means that I’ve earned the respect of people far more important than you. Watch your tongue, little one. You enjoy a certain amount of freedom here, but if you think I won't beat you for insolence, you're mistaken.”

  “Yes Sir,” Tiadaria replied sullenly. Wrapped in a warm fur by the fire, it was easy to imagine she was back at camp, listening to yarns spun by the old men. A place where she wasn't an equal, but neither was she a slave. Tiadaria and the old soldier watched the fire burn, its shifting weight sending sparks dancing up the chimney.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They spent many an evening that way. During the day, he would require her to attend things around the cottage while he went about his duties as Constable. She was expected to cook and clean and see to the domestic chores. In return, they would share the evenings and he would teach her about battles fought long ago. He helped her learn how to read with more proficiency than she had arrived with. He instructed her in the basics of strategy and tactics.

  Playing chess against each other in the evenings became a common pastime. The Captain said it was a royal game and excellent for teaching basic military strategy. Tiadaria found that she was often confused by the words he used, but that she was usually able to figure out his meaning through inference, or through some chance turn of phrase he had used before.

  It was during one of these evenings together that Tiadaria discovered, much to her surprise, that her drive and desire to escape had waned, if even just a bit. It wasn’t uncommon for her to pause in their duties to ask why he had purchased her and what her purpose was. It was a question that he always dismissed without answer.

  They had just finished their evening meal and were lounging in the chairs by the hearth when he made his confession. It was as unexpected as it was sobering.

  “I'm dying,” he began, his voice soft and rough. “I don’t expect you to mourn. Nor do I tell you this to garner any sort of sympathy or compassion. It is a simple and inevitable truth. I tell you this because in order for you to know why you are here, it is an important detail.”

  “You once asked me who I am. I was the highest decorated soldier in the Imperium for nearly thirty-years. My influence and power were second only to the King himself. I fought in every major engagement, every battle, and every skirmish. Any time a sword was drawn, I was there. Any time a banner was planted, I was there. I survived every conflict, major, minor, and everything in between. I've seen things that no one should ever need to see, but such are the perils of war.”

  “That's not a complaint. It’s an honor. I was proud to serve, as my father was before me, as his father was before him. The difference is I ran out of time. My father proudly served, and retired, and had a wife and children. As did his father before him. I thought I had more time.”

  The Captain chuckled ruefully. He took the poker from the hearth and prodded at the fire for a while before he continued.

  “I never took a wife, never had any children. I'm the last of the line. The last that knows the secrets of my family and the unique skills we bring to the battlefield. The secrets that have kept every male child of my family alive and employed for as far back as anyone can remember.”

  “I still don't understand,” Tiadaria said candidly. Then remembered her place and added “Sir”.

  “I am the last swordmage, little one. A fighter who carries steel and can wield magic, just like the quintessentialists, the mages and priests.”

  Tiadaria laughed and then caught herself. The corner of Royce's mouth twitched with a small smile.

  “Impossible, you think?”

  “Steel and iron inhibit the nature of the Quintessential Sphere,” Tiadaria replied. “So it has been, so it always shall be.”

  “Letter perfect,” Royce remarked. “Just as it has been taught in the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences for hundreds of years. I guess the clans aren't as far removed from their origins as they'd like to believe.”

  Tiadaria kept her mouth shut, not trusting herself to reply. Royce nodded.

  “You're stubborn. I like that. You remind me of me. I made my father prove it too.” He laughed. A real genuine laugh. “He was so angry. I kept making him show me over and over and over. Very well, a demonstration then.”

  Royce took a dagger down off the wall. It was the same one that she had once dropped on her foot. Taking an apple from a basket, he tossed it to Tiadaria

  “I'm going to turn my back,” he said. “I want you to toss the apple into the air when you're ready. Don't give me any warning. Just do it when it pleases you.”

  He turned away from her. Tiadaria stared at him, wondering. Was he mocking her, or did he actually believe the nonsense he was speaking? She weighed the apple in her hand and found her curiosity getting the better of her. She tossed the apple underhand.

  Royce whirled, his hand a blur of motion in the air. He reached out with his free hand, snatching the apple before it hit the floor. He was fast, incredibly fast, but his speed had come at a price. The apple he held still appeared whole, which meant that he had missed his target. Hardly the impressive show that he had obviously wanted to put on for her.

  “You missed, Sir.”

  “Not hardly, little one,” Royce said with a snort. “I don't miss.”

  He handed her the apple and Tiadaria saw for the first time that the core was missing and that the fruit was sliced into eight neatly-interlocking sections. She turned it over in her hand, inspecting it from every angle, refusing to believe what her eyes had seen and her hands now felt. She looked up at the Captain. He tossed her the core.

  “Show me again? Please, Sir?”

  The Captain handed her another apple and they repeated the demonstration. It was obviously no trick. He simply moved with a speed that couldn’t be accounted for in any way but with magic.

  “You’re a rogue mage,” she finally said, torn between astonishment and horror.

  “To some extent,” Royce agreed. “I never trained at the Academy. I was never given the Quintessential Trials. All I know I learned from my father, who learned from his father before him.”

  “That’s impossible,” Tiadaria said flatly, shaking her head. “Steel inhibits the flow of magic. Quintessentialists can’t even wear steel rings and be able to cast. What makes you so special?”

  He laughed at her suspicious tone.

  “Steel doesn’t
inhibit the flow of magic,” he said in correction. “Not exactly. The pain you feel when you pick up a blade. This blade, if I remember correctly, is a manifestation of what the quintessentialists feel when they are exposed to steel and iron. So it’s not really inhibition, its more--”

  “Aversion,” she said, cutting him off. “The steel doesn’t stop the magic; the pain stops them from concentrating.”

  “Exactly right,” he said, beaming at her.

  “So since you feel less pain, you can still concentrate, and therefore cast.”

  “Right again.”

  Tiadaria picked up another apple from the basket. “Do it again, Sir?”

  * * *

  The sun had just begun to tint the horizon beyond the training field. Tiadaria stood across from the Captain, her arms outstretched, her palms facing the sky as he had taught her. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the warmth of the sun climbing slowly on its path across the morning sky. She reached out with her mind, counting each of the blades of grass under her feet, seeing every individual leaf that moved in the gentle sway of the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  Further out she cast, feeling the roughness of the stones in the small path that led down to the cottage. Feeling the coolness of the water as it rushed in the stream beside the narrow trail. Something flashed at the periphery of her awareness and her eyes snapped open.

  Tiadaria saw the glint of the arrow in the morning sun, it spun lazily through the air and she ducked below it with ease. Another arrow crawled toward her on the left; she danced out of the way. Yet another arrow on the right was closer to its mark. The head sliced a thin furrow on her upper arm, drawing blood and knocking her squarely out of her commune with the Quintessential Sphere. Her magic collapsed and the world sped back up to its normal speed, arrows raining down around her as the Captain fired them as quickly as he could fit them to the string.

  The assault stopped when the Captain saw she was injured. He slung the bow over his shoulder and walked toward her, plucking arrows from the ground as he approached. She touched her arm and winced at the fire there. The wound was shallow, but the lips had pulled back from the slice and burned at her touch. It bled quite freely for a wound so superficial. Her arm was covered in a thin sheen of scarlet by the time the Captain had reached her.

  “Overconfidence will kill you,” he said without preamble. “You’re lucky you ended up with just a cut and not an arrow in your meat. Did you forget where you were? Who you were fighting?”

  As he berated her performance, he was taking a thin pad of cloth from a pouch on his belt. He mopped up the worst of the blood and then held the pad firmly against the wound. His eyes searched hers. His questions were never rhetorical, and she resented the fact that he treated her like a child.

  “No Sir, I didn’t forget.”

  The Captain peeled back the pad, peering at the edges of the wound. From another pouch, he took a hefty pinch of fine white powder which he sprinkled over the cut and ground it in. It burned as surely as if he had laid a brand against her bare skin and Tiadaria yelped, grabbing her arm at the surprising pain. Her eyes flashed in mute accusation.

  Brushing his palms together to clear the rest of the powder from them, he tucked the soiled pad back into his belt and gestured to her arm.

  “The clay is sterile and will keep the wound clean. It will scar. This is desired. Your scars will remind you that you are mortal and fallible, that losing your concentration may also mean losing your head. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Not that I’ll likely use my arm for the rest of the day anyway, she thought, but opted not to say aloud. She had learned from almost her first day with the Captain that his sense of humor waned completely when he was training or performing his other duties.

  His role as Constable, she had discovered, was largely an honorary one. The people of the village would often come to him with petty disputes and quarrels, but rare was the time when he was actually required to hand out any real justice or punishment. The few times that she had seen him do so; he had done it impartially and quickly, without any apparent remorse or emotional involvement.

  It was a side of him completely at odds with the passionate storyteller who often inhabited the cottage in the evenings. The Captain would re-live spectacular battles and military actions and would retell them with such vivid detail that Tia could often feel herself standing by his side in combat, fighting against whatever enemy of the Imperium he had stood against.

  A sudden pain in her rump broke her reverie and brought her forcefully back to the here-and-now. The Captain had slapped her sharply with the broad side of his scimitar and it hurt. A lot.

  “Pay attention, little one,” the Captain snarled. “Next time it might be the edge of the blade.”

  Without any further warning, he brought his blade up in an offensive stance. As the blade flashed toward her, Tiadaria looked beyond the physical realm into the Quintessential Sphere. Time slowed and she saw the tip of the blade crawling through the air. She ducked below it, bringing her shoulders parallel to the ground before she drew her blade. It was an old weapon, short, stubby, and much nicked and dinged with the abuse of who knew how many training sessions.

  Tiadaria kicked off with one foot, spinning on the axis of her spine, just below his blade. She felt buoyed by the air, buffeted by the gentle breeze of his weapon sliding through the air above her. She brought the short sword up, intersecting his blade. She felt the shock of the contact in every nerve in her hand, arm, and shoulder. He quickly reversed his stroke and Tia had to drop to the ground, and roll away.

  In the timeless void of the Quintessential Sphere, seen only through their eyes, they appeared to move at a glacial pace, a graceful dance of gentle curves and arcs that moved like flowing honey. In the physical world, they sparred at such a frenetic pace that, to the casual onlooker, their strikes and counter-strikes seemed to blur together like the beating wings of a hummingbird.

  How long they fought that way, Tia couldn’t be sure. She felt and ignored the cries for succor of her arms and shoulders as their blades rang together time and time again. He dropped, his legs flashing out in a circular motion that brought his heavy boot into her ankle. She crumpled to the ground, every muscle in her body throbbing with abuse and exertion.

  Tiadaria was quite set to wallow in her misery, until she saw that the Captain lay in the grass next to her, his chest heaving. She felt a grudging sliver of pride, in that she had driven the breath from him. He had beaten her, true, but she hadn’t made it easy. Her own breath began to slow as her body relaxed.

  She sat up and it was then that she realized that the Captain’s breathing was far more labored than hers had been. His eyes locked on hers and she saw the pain and fear there. Whatever was wrong, their battle hadn’t caused his current state of distress. The blood ran cold in her veins and she scuttled over to him on hands and knees.

  “Flask,” he panted, his face ashen white. “Belt.”

  Tia’s shaking fingers went to his belt and searched the pouches there, finding the small stoppered metal flask. She pulled the cork free with her teeth, her hands trembling so badly that she feared she might spill whatever liquid the vessel contained.

  She put a hand behind his head and tipped it forward, holding the flask to his lips. He struggled to drink, managing to get the first sip down in an audible gulp that Tiadaria felt through the back of his head. He swallowed again, and then shook his head. She took the flask from him and, with slightly calmer hands, replaced the stopper. He closed his eyes.

  The Captain lay there for a moment, his breathing finally slowing and some color returning to his cheeks. It seemed like a long time to Tiadaria before he opened his eyes again. Those eyes, normally full of fire, were dull and listless.

  “Captain?” Tiadaria was embarrassed that her voice broke the way it did, but she had never seen a man reduced so quickly.

  “I’ll be fine, little one,” he replied. His voice was low and tired. To
Tia, it sounded as if he was reassuring himself as much as her. “I think we’re done training for today.”

  She nodded, settling back on her heels. He struggled to sit up, resting his blade across his thighs as he gave her a measuring look.

  “This is only going to get worse, little one. Are you up to it?”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant his illness, or the care that came afterward. She decided that it really didn’t matter what he meant. She didn’t have anywhere else to go. Her training was the only thing that had ever made her feel as if she was good at something, as if she had a purpose. If caring for him after his episodes was a part of that training, then so be it.

  “Of course, Sir,” she smiled. A tentative thing that danced on quivering lips. “Just tell me what you need of me?”

  “Allow me to lean on you until we get back to the cottage...and let’s do so quickly. It wouldn’t do at all for the people of the village to see me in this state. Can you imagine the damage it would do my reputation?”

  Tiadaria had to laugh. That sounded more like the Captain she knew. He seemed to rally the nearer they got to the cottage. By the end of the evening, Tiadaria had forgotten about the incident. That was just as well, it would be repeated more often than she would have liked during their time together.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was barely dawn when a rapping on the door of the guardhouse roused Lieutenant Torus from a fitful sleep. His back and shoulders were sore and he groaned as he straightened up, the chair creaking underneath him. He had fallen asleep at the table again, poring over troop movements and casualty reports from Aldstock. The elves were riled up about something again. Xenophobic by nature, they kept a fanatical surveillance of their borders, but they’d never been outwardly hostile before. He’d lost two good men to arrow wounds in the last week and a half. Something was definitely changing. The rapping returned, increasing in both speed and intensity.