The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3

by Martin Hengst

  She wondered if that bond was what had helped her to hear the Captain’s voice in her head before he swooped down to her rescue. She hadn’t built up the courage to ask about that yet. Everything seemed so hard these days. Even the slightest things were a huge undertaking and she just wanted things to get back to normal.

  “Are you hungry?” He gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. “I’ve done the cooking, I’m afraid. I may have rescued you just to put you in the ground again.”

  Tiadaria couldn’t help but giggle. It was a weak, thin sound and she hated how vulnerable it made her seem. Still, any laughter at all was a good sign, she decided. At her willing nod, he pulled the tray from the desk and settled it onto her lap, helping her sit up to better take her meal.

  The Captain’s lack of culinary skill had become something of an in-joke between them. Tiadaria had told him that since he was so used to cutting things apart, that he should naturally make a good cook. Alas, he said, this wasn’t so. He was old and tough and stringy and any meal he attempted to turn out was often reflected upon the same way by those unfortunate enough to be served.

  There was a thick beef broth on the tray with thinly sliced vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, not with nausea but with actual hunger. It was the first time in days that food even sounded appealing, much less looked or smelled it. She wasn’t sure if the Captain had outdone himself, or if she was just so very, very hungry; but the soup was excellent. She drank every bit of it, even bringing the bowl to her lips with shaking hands to finish off the savory liquid.

  The Captain stayed with her throughout the meal, nodding with approval as she finished what he had put in front of her. He seemed to appraise her before he took the bowl from her fingers and placed it on the tray, whisking it out of the room, the very pinnacle of efficiency. What he was taking stock of, she couldn’t guess.

  As he left, the now familiar pang of panic chilled her guts and made her long for his return. This won’t do. Not at all. How am I going to survive if I fall to pieces every time he leaves the room? I’m here, I’m safe, and I can do this. She steeled her resolve and forced herself to breathe deeply; concentrating on the movement of her chest and the mild pain the bruises still caused her as she pushed air out of her lungs.

  The Captain returned, hooking his foot around the stool in the corner of the room and lowering his big frame onto the tiny wooden tripod. For an instant, Tiadaria thought it was going to give way under him and he was going to crash to the floor below, but aside from a mighty creak as he settled his weight, nothing else happened.

  “Sleep, little one,” he said softly, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  A heavy pounding on the door to the cottage awoke Tiadaria and set her heart to a similar rhythm. It was still full dark outside the high slit window to her cubicle and she fumbled around on the bedside table for the box of matches there. She lit the oil lantern and holding it out before her like a ward, slowly crept down the hallway toward the common room.

  Just as she was about to pass through the curtain partition she felt something slip between her neck and the collar, giving her a nasty shock. She screamed, as much in surprise as in pain, and a heavy hand clamped down over her mouth. How she managed not to drop the lantern in her panic, she'd never know. The old soldier's face was rough-hewn in the harsh light.

  He laid a finger to his lips and locked eyes with her, ensuring that she understood his silent command. She nodded quickly and he released her, motioning for her to let him past. He preceded her into the room and walked quietly, on the balls of his feet, to the front door.

  When Tiadaria had arrived in the cottage, she hadn't understood why someone living inside the village would have fit their home with such heavy bronze shutters on the inside of the windows. Now, however, she was thankful for the protection they offered and glanced around the room, ensuring that the heavy wood planks that held them shut were in place and that all was in order.

  The Captain had explained to her in no uncertain terms that the duty of securing the house every night fell to her, and promised dire punishments if she neglected any part of that task. She was glad that she had taken those warnings to heart and double, even triple checked that things were in order after their evening meal each night.

  The pounding came again and Tiadaria jumped. Whoever was outside was worried not one bit about waking up half the village with their shenanigans.

  “Constable!” The voice that came from the other side of the door was high and laced with panic. “Constable! Please! Open up, Constable. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible.”

  The Captain went to the door and drew back the brass plate over the view slit. He peered outside for a moment and then threw the bolt, taking the key from around his neck and unlocking the intricate lock from the inside. A moment later, he yanked the door open and the young man standing on the threshold all but fell inside.

  Tiadaria had seen uncontrolled panic before. During a raid by a rival clan, she had seen the men set fire to the long houses in which the women and children were taking their meal. Tiadaria had been lucky enough to have been sent into the pasture that morning to gather the cattle. She arrived back at the village just in time to see her mother and young brother fleeing in panic from the burning structure. They had survived with only the most minor of burns. Others weren't so lucky. The anguish and fear that had overtaken her clan was clearly mimicked on the young man's face that stood before the Captain now.

  “Constable,” he sobbed. “Please, you must come at once. Something horrible has happened in Doshmill. The bodies are all burning and the houses too. There's nothing left standing in the whole village. The priests found a single child, a girl that had been stuffed in a water barrel and hidden under a bed. She said there were terrible monsters that came into the village and...”

  The boy faltered, going even whiter. Tia was positive that he was going to faint dead away. He swayed on his feet and the Captain caught him by and elbow, steadying him with one massive hand.

  “And what, lad?”

  “And they were eating people,” the boy gasped in a low whisper, his eyes spilling over with fresh tears. “She said they were eating people alive.”

  Tia closed her eyes at his anguish and couldn't help but see in her mind the cattle she had found in the pastures periodically. Often the youngest, weakest, or slowest would be savaged by the large wolves or snowy lions that inhabited the rocky crags that surrounded her ancestral home. But what could do that to an entire village? And how quickly would it had to have happened, so that one young girl was the sole survivor of the massacre?

  “You've done as you ought, Bryce. Go back to your father and tell him that I'll be along shortly. We'll ride for Doshmill immediately. This can't wait until first light.”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  Having a message to relay seemed to steel the boy and set his nerves right. He nodded jerkily to Tiadaria and slipped past the open door and into the night. The Captain pushed the door shut with one foot and leaned against it, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

  He stopped and looked at her. She was still standing, just inside the common room, holding the lantern. In honesty, she didn't know what else to do. Her mind still reeled with everything she had heard in the last few minutes. Even then, she didn't know what her responsibilities were. Beyond cooking, cleaning, and occasionally running to the market on errands for the Captain, she hadn't done much of anything. They had their near daily training sessions, but she suspected that these were more to keep him in shape than to teach her anything.

  During her recovery, the Captain had regaled her with tales of battles fought long ago. He had a wonderful knack for storytelling, filling in details and gaps that placed her on the battlefield, with all of its sights and sounds and smells. She could feel the cold steel in her palm and smell the stench of death when he spoke to her of all the things he had done in his youth, the things he had done in service to
the Imperium and the One True King.

  To say that she thought him the bravest man she had ever known wouldn't be inaccurate or an exaggeration. Though she knew her own father to be tough and wiry, skilled in battle, she also knew that if the Captain had done even a fraction of the things he claimed to in his stories, that he was a consummate fighter to be feared by all.

  The Captain never boasted. In fact, if his tales were lacking in one detail, it was his direct involvement in the battle, maneuver, or raid. There was no question that he had been there. The depth and breadth of his explanations and ruminations couldn't be questioned. He had commanded many men and had watched more than a few of them die. He had given the orders that sent them to their deaths. Tia knew that those lost souls still bothered him, for when he spoke of the dead he did so in hallowed, hushed tones and then was quiet for a long time afterwards. Sometimes, those lapses into silence indicated the end of the evening. They would stare into the fire until it died into embers. He would dismiss her then, sending her to her cubicle while he finished the night in quiet solitude.

  She was torn. Some nights she wanted to go to him and offer whatever small comfort she could. Other nights, she was furious with him for keeping her in this cottage, away from the world and whatever else she might find there. Her anger, she had found, served no purpose. She was owned and wouldn't be free, even if she escaped. The collar would remain with her for the rest of her life. A symbol of her shameful status and a warning to others that she didn't act with her own free will.

  “Go get dressed,” the Captain said, his harsh voice startling her out of her thoughts and making her jump. “We must prepare for battle.”

  “Now!” he roared as she hesitated, and Tiadaria scampered down the hallway to her room.

  She threw open the chest and quickly shucked her thin nightshirt, replacing it with underthings, a pair of plain doeskin breeches, and a pale green tunic. This she wrapped twice with a belt and knotted it above her left hip. She slipped into her boots, supple leather with woven wool inners that felt soft and inviting against her bare feet.

  Tia ran back down the hall to find the Captain staring at the maps tacked to the wall, tugging at his lower lip. Although more parchment had been added to his collection since then, he had kept things in the cottage as she had organized them. It was obscurely pleasing that he found her simple tidying helpful. She crossed the room and went to the heavy leather armor that was hung up on pegs to the right of the maps she had organized weeks before.

  “Not that,” he said quietly. “Look at that armor, what do you see?”

  Tiadaria stared at him, unsure of why, when time was apparently of the essence, he would be taking her to task for not knowing his preferences.

  “I see leather and brass, Sir.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, nodding. “Leather and brass, but what do you see?”

  She glanced at him and then back at the armor on its pegs. She didn't know what he wanted from her, but she was determined not to fail in whatever test this represented. She looked hard at the armor, trying to decipher the mystery he obviously saw there.

  “It’s thick,” she said, deciding to enumerate all the details she could. “The armor is slabs of thick leather, cut in sheets, and fastened with brass. It’s bulky.”

  She paused, not wanting to anger the Captain, but having one final, if impudent, thing to say. He arched one eyebrow, waiting.

  “It looks slow, Sir.”

  The Captain nodded. “Indeed, little one. That armor is slow. Its heavy, meant to deflect a blade or keep it from piercing. It is the armor of a slow, plodding warrior who says, going into battle, 'I am going in this direction and nothing will stop me.'”

  “And what armor do you prefer, Sir?”

  “This,” the Captain said, with an unexpected grin. He opened the cabinet door and took out a neatly folded parcel of cloth.

  He laid the package on the table and unfolded the heavy velvet. Tiadaria gasped, for what was revealed sparkled and gleamed like the finest silver the in the lamplight. A tunic of fine silk, overlaid with a fine mesh of tiny rings, lay in the center of the bundle. The Captain put the tunic aside and set out a pair of breeches of the same manufacture. Finally, he laid a pair of slippers out on the table. Turning to the cabinet, he withdrew two of the finest swords Tia had ever seen.

  These were not the scimitars that he carried daily. These were awe-inspiring weapons that radiated a power she could feel in the base of her neck. Scabbards of supple white leather held the hidden blades. The guards, pommels, and hilts of the identical blades sparkled with the slightest movement. A golden dragon twined around the dark leather grip, frozen fire forming the guard that met the sweeping curved steel blade that the Captain withdrew a few inches from its housing for her to see before laying the swords and their belts next to his armor.

  The Captain dropped his sleeping pants, and quickly slipped into the armored breeches. As he tightened the drawstring, Tiadaria got her first look at his naked chest. She had seen men naked from the waist up before. The men in her clan would often wear less than this in the drum circles around the great bonfires. What she had never seen before was a man with so many scars.

  They stood out against his tan skin in bright relief. They crisscrossed his arms, his torso, and the broad line of his shoulders. There were some that were small and some that nearly wrapped around him. There were those that were straight as an arrow shaft and others that had jagged, torn edges. The ones that mesmerized her, though, were the fine white scars that made up intricate patterns that adorned his body here and there. They were incredibly detailed, obviously intentionally cut and not the result of some random wounding.

  He pulled the tunic on next. Then passed the belt around his waist and slipped on the slippers. He stood before her, resplendent in the glory of the finest armor and most intricate weapons she had ever seen. They stood that way for a moment, before he smiled at her, catching her eyes.

  “Get our horses, little one. We have an adventure ahead of us.”

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER NINE

  Whatever Tiadaria expected to see when they arrived at the edge of what had once been Doshmill, a burgeoning village at the frontier of the Human Imperium, she wasn't ready for what they found. Everything in the village had been burned to the ground. The tall wooden palisades, the cottages, the temple, the lattices in gardens and fences around yards. Nothing that could burn was left standing. Those buildings that had been largely constructed of stone were charred and blackened.

  The worst thing was the pile of smoldering bones and charred flesh that were the earthly remains of every single human inhabitant of Doshmill except one. The girl who had been hidden away in a water barrel and managed to survive until daybreak. Had she not been tucked away under and old bed in the earthen cellar of the inn, the largest stone structure in the village, it was unlikely she'd have survived either. As it was, she was white and shaking, being attended to by two priestesses when they arrived.

  Royce swung from his saddle and handed the animal's reins to the girl, indicating a decent pasture for the horses with a curt nod of his head. His armor jingled quietly as he landed on the balls of his feet and set out with long strides toward the knot of people gathered just beyond where the gates had once been. He pushed his way through the crowd, making his way toward a barrel-chested man with coal-black hair and amber eyes that seemed to drink in every movement and every detail of the people and events around him.

  “Torus!”

  The man glanced up and as his eyes landed on Royce, broke into a wide smile. He bellowed an order and people shifted out of the way of the giant man, opening a wide path between them. Royce stopped a few steps away and straightened up, throwing off a salute that was instantly returned by the smiling titan.

  “It’s damn good to see you, Captain,” Torus said, thumping the smaller man on the back and threatening to knock him off his feet.

  “Constable, now, Torus. I hear you're in the running for
the Captain's job?”

  “Aye, Sir, but you'll always be the Captain to me. You raised us from pups. Everything I know about battle and fighting and politics,” Torus wrinkled his face in an expressive grimace at the last word. “I learned from you.”

  “You were always a good student, Torus. You didn't call me out here with all haste to talk about old times, though. What happened here?”

  Torus Winterborne paused, cocking an eyebrow as the girl came up behind Royce, standing behind and slightly to the left. The old soldier glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and looked back at his former prodigy.

  “A slave, Sir?”

  The wonder and disbelief in Torus's tone made Royce wince inwardly. This wasn't the time to get into this discussion yet again. He knew all too well the younger man's views on slaves and the slavers who sold them.

  “It’s a long story, Torus,” he said firmly. “It was my crowns, or an executioner's ax.”

  “Ah,” Torus seemed to regain some of his composure. “Well, I suppose that makes things a might different then.”

  “Circumstances are what you get when you run out of luck,” Royce snapped.

  The younger man roared, slapping a huge hand on his thigh. It was obviously a remark he had heard before. Royce glared at him for a moment and then started laughing himself. The two stood that way for several long moments, drawing the disapproving glares from several of the people gathered around them. Finally, Torus wiped the tears from his eyes and gestured toward the smoldering ruins.

  “It’s good that we got our laughter in now, Captain,” he said as they walked. “I'm afraid there's not much mirth to be found here today.”

  “What happened?”