The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3

by Martin Hengst

  “Your will be done,” Royce said solemnly.

  “As you command,” Faxon replied, bowing his head.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Torus answered, clicking his heels together and throwing up his hand in a sharp salute.

  The King returned the salute, then leaned over the map, indicating the area where they would meet the advancing enemy.

  “I don’t need to tell you lot what is at stake here.” He passed a hand over his face, the weariness of the last few days evident in the lines around his eyes and the dark circles under them. “All of Dragonfell is depending on you. Hell, all the Imperium. That’s a tall order to fill, but I have faith in each and every one of you.”

  There was an uneasy silence, and Royce knew that every individual was reflecting on what was to come. He knew that this would be Tiadaria’s first battle, but her face was so pensive and still that he was certain that her thoughts were turned to what would soon be happening outside the city.

  “You have about an hour,” the King said, breaking the silence. “May all the Gods be with you and watch over you.”

  With his benediction, they scattered. The mages went in one direction, the soldiers another, Royce and Tiadaria in a third. As they reached the corridor, Royce looked back over his shoulder. The King stood in the center of the empty chamber, leaning on his cane, his head bowed. It pained his heart to see such a noble man disheartened so.

  “Come,” he said to Tiadaria. “Our destiny waits.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Royce stopped in his tracks.

  “I’m not Sir to you anymore, Tiadaria.”

  Tia smiled and reached up, laying her gloved hand against his cheek. Her eyes were sad and knowing. His heart skipped a beat at that intimate glance.

  “You’ll always be Sir to me, Captain. No matter what.”

  “Then let’s go, little one. We have a war to win.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Though it was the last time Royce left the palace, he did so with lightness in his heart that he had seldom felt before. He knew the battle would be long and tiring, but with Tiadaria fighting at his side, he was sure they would overcome this menace and drive them back into the earth to hide for another millennium.

  * * *

  The attacking wave of Xarundi warriors spilled through the pass like a swarm of locust. There were so many of them, so close together, that Tiadaria thought it looked like a black, rolling fog was descending into the valley.

  The defending lines at the choke points had been turned almost as soon as the two armies met. The soldiers pushed back as much as they could, suffering heavy losses in the face of so many enemies. In the end, they had been routed and forced back to the rendezvous point with the bulk of the Imperium’s army.

  They returned to the main group just ahead of the mass of Xarundi that were chasing close on their heels. Line commanders ordered the returning troops behind the line to rest and resupply. They would be needed later in the battle to replace their fallen comrades.

  As the Xarundi ranks closed, some of the more zealous archers brought their weapons to the ready and Torus shouted out orders for them to hold their fire. Their enemy would need to be much nearer and the bowmen would need to make every shot count. There were a finite number of arrows and seemingly no end to the mass of bodies that raced toward them.

  A long, ragged howl went up from the attackers as they raced toward the city. They came on in a crouch, all four powerful limbs propelling them forward with unbelievable speed. The archers loosed the first volley of arrows and they fell on the Xarundi in a deadly rain. Many of the beasts leapt out of the way of the incoming projectiles, in some cases coming up completely off the ground and executing intricate maneuvers to avoid being skewered.

  More arrows were fitted to bow strings. Tiadaria could see the burning blue luminescence of their eyes now, tiny points of light that glittered and flashed in the gathering twilight. She drew her swords, relishing in the once painful shock that reminded her of her unique bond to the Quintessential Sphere. She heard the twang of bowstrings and looked past the physical realm, into the one beyond. Sphere-sight showed her each arrow, a streak of light piercing the blackness that massed before her. Where the arrows struck true, there would be a brilliant flash of white that replaced the black shape. Too many of the white streaks were fading out as they fell, their targets unscathed by the airborne fury.

  Up and down their ranks, their fighters burned gray or brilliant white. The Captain shone the brightest of them all, a dazzling presence that seemed to pulse with intensity. He stood atop a hastily constructed barricade, his scimitars tracing lazy figure eights. She shifted her sight back to the realm of the living. Their part of the battle would start soon. The first line of Xarundi was almost upon them.

  There was a roar from the flanks as the quints unleashed their spells. Magic missiles, white and glowing, streaked across the battlefield, exploding into showers of light when they hit their targets. Balls of flame, shards of ice, and all other manner of magical projectiles slammed into the Xarundi ranks. The beasts were beginning to reply in kind. Small darts fired from their blowguns zipped through the air like angry wasps.

  The soldier immediately to Tiadaria’s right was hit in the throat. He spun off the barrier, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers. The Xarundi shamans were reanimating their dead, sending the corpses of their fallen brethren shambling into battle for them.

  The archers riddled them with arrows, but they continued on their inexorable course toward the humans. A cluster of the undead beasts had nearly reached the far right flank of the defending forces when one of the two cannons on the battlefield roared to life.

  The canister shot loaded into the large gun exploded outward in a cone of devastation. The undead Xarundi were torn asunder and the human warriors roared with approval. With the Xarundi ranks weakened, Torus ordered the right lines to attack.

  Archers called for resupply, but were met with answering shouts that ammo supplies were critically low. The Captain bellowed for the archers to withdraw and they climbed down off the platforms. The front lines were nearly on each other now. At the Captain’s command, the assembled soldiers drew their weapons. The sound of ringing metal echoed up and down the line as blades were drawn from their scabbards. Tiadaria spun her scimitars back and forth, testing their balance and her range.

  Faxon called retreat for the quints. The mages would fall back and reassemble to offer what support they could, but their offensive powers were limited by the close quarters the battle would take. There was too much of a risk of hitting their own people accidentally. The armies met, steel clashing against claw.

  Tiadaria slipped into sphere-sight and ran for the edge of the platform. At the end, she leapt into the air, tumbling head over heels, out over the front lines and down into the mass of Xarundi warriors. Her arms flashed out as she fell, one blade slicing easily through a skull, the other severing a spine below the ribs. Her dance was as graceful as it was deadly. To her eyes, masses of black vanished in pulses of brilliant white light. Darkness had fallen in the physical realm, the soldiers struggling to hold the line in the black.

  The cannon on the left flank lit the night, throwing the shapes of their attackers into start relief against the flash. The cannons were impressive, Tiadaria thought, but they were too slow to load and ready for firing. By the time the great guns were ready, she’d have sliced her way through a score of Xarundi bodies.

  Brilliant luminescent globes appeared above the battlefield, and Tiadaria shifted her focus long enough to see that they were just as bright in the real world as they were in the sphere. The quints had summoned miniature suns and set them blazing above the warzone. The humans quickly recovered from the sudden blindness and pressed their enemies back.

  Tiadaria spun and whirled, her blades seeking out the center of her attackers, trying to make each strike a lethal one. Claws raked down her arm, the searing pain knocking her out of her commune with the sphere. She spu
n on her heel and lopped off the head of the creature that wounded her.

  She fell back behind a knot of soldiers to assess her wounds. They were long and bleeding freely, but they were shallow. She could wait to dress them until after the battle. A medic was already wading through the sea of bodies to reach her, but she waved him off and once again slipped into chaos.

  The Captain was far off to her left, flowing through the tide of Xarundi bodies as effortlessly as she had just moments before. He was covered in blood. It was sprayed across his face like war paint. Tiadaria touched her cheek and found that she was covered in it as well. There was no time to think about how many enemies she had killed to be coated with that much blood. The Xarundi were pressing their attack and she had to defend.

  Shifting, she launched herself back into the fray. Later, when she thought about that night, Tiadaria wouldn’t be able to say how long she had fought or how many Xarundi she had slain. She only knew that as the battle ground toward its end, that the battlefield was thick with the dead and dying from both sides and that it was difficult to walk on the blood-slicked grass.

  * * *

  As they loped toward the human city, Xenir and Zarfensis growled orders to the Chosen, ensuring that each pack knew their objective and their assigned targets.

  It wasn’t long at all before the opposing forces were locked in combat. Darters remained behind the frontline warriors, sending their poisoned projectiles into the human army and roaring with pleasure as the vermin dropped from their barricades.

  For each Xarundi that fell, there was a shaman waiting to reanimate the corpse. Those Chosen who had failed and fallen in battle would regain their honor in becoming the automatons that would fight without fear of death or injury for their still living brethren.

  As combat raged around them, Xenir and Zarfensis met in the center of the battlefield.

  “There! That one!” Zarfensis pointed with a long claw to the human warrior clad in his unique armor. Xenir nodded his agreement.

  “And there!” The Warleader said, motioning to the impressive bulk of the leader of the vermin’s army. “Cut the head from the viper and the rest will wither and die.”

  They clasped forearms, a brief gesture of support, and then they were gone. As Zarfensis and Xenir moved through the writhing bodies of the Chosen, several of the warriors broke off from their packs to protect their leaders.

  The fighting nearest the city was the most intense, with the Chosen tearing into the vermin with claw and fang. Zarfensis relished in the savagery of it all. Not only would they grind the vermin under their heel, they would drive them from their city as well.

  As if granted a boon from the old gods, a momentary lull in the fighting opened a clear path between Zarfensis and the human warrior.

  Without hesitation, the High Priest raced forward, claws extended to their furthest reach. He collided with the warrior without checking his speed. They flew, entwined together, into a mass of scurrying vermin who scattered, running away from the conflict.

  Zarfensis realized, nearly too late, that this human warrior was different. He was stronger and faster than ordinary vermin and he stank of disease. The smell of corruption filled Zarfensis’s nostrils as they fought.

  The High Priest was forced to admit that the human warrior was almost his equal in skill. Claw rang against blade as both of them drew on the power of the sphere to grant them any advantage.

  Their battle went on for what felt like an eternity. Strike, counterstrike. Feint, counter-feint. The human warrior swung wide, a blow meant to decapitate. With a burst of speed, Zarfensis drove his claws deep into his surprised opponent and lifted him over his head.

  He called to the Chosen, wanting to share his victory, but no answering call came. He glanced to his left, but Xenir was nowhere to be seen. The other Xarundi were falling back, driven into retreat by the human mages who had returned to the battlefield as bodies had thinned.

  Zarfensis drew his free hand back, determined to sever the vermin’s head from his shoulders. His world exploded, throwing him backward. The High Priest landed hard, his leg cracking and buckling under his weight. He plunged into darkness.

  * * *

  The tide of the battle had turned. The Xarundi were in retreat, the human soldiers and quintessentialists giving chase across the field. As Tiadaria prepared to follow, a searing pain shot through her head and she dropped to her knees, her weapons slipping from her hands. A soldier behind her decapitated a straggling beast-man as it fell toward her, its claws extended.

  The beast crumpled and Tia struggled to stand, fighting against a wave of nausea so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm her. At first, she thought the collar had been the cause of the sudden pain, but looking across the field, she saw a massive Xarundi warrior, half again as tall as the others. The beast held the Captain aloft, his long talons protruding from the Captains back, glistening with blood.

  The creature raised its other arm to strike at the Captain, but it never got the chance. Spells from Faxon and Adamon slammed into the beast, spinning it into the air and away from the Captain, who fell in a crumpled heap to the ground.

  Leaving her swords where they lay, Tiadaria raced toward him, vaulting over bodies and dodging still living warriors as they came between her and her only goal. She ran for what seemed like hours, but finally she reached him.

  The Captain’s armor was marred by huge gashes, the metal rings broken around the ragged edges of wounds that went all the way through his body. His lower half was slick with blood, the same blood that trickled from his nose and bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Tiadaria called for a cleric, but she knew in her heart that there was no magic powerful enough to save him. His eyes rolled, showing far too much white and she grabbed his head, crushing him to her chest as if she could take his entire essence into her.

  “You...” He coughed, blood and spittle flying from his lips. His breaths came in long, wet rattling gasps. “Made me proud. Little one.”

  “Oh Sir,” Tiadaria sobbed, tears etching tiny pale paths through the blood spattered on her face. “Please don’t leave me, I need you.”

  He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. For a moment, Tiadaria was sure that he had gone. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her, saw her, with total clarity.

  “You’ll always have me in your heart, little one.” His voice was strong, and clear, an echo of the brass thunder that had called the warriors to arms just a few hours before. He raised his hand to caress her cheek, and then he was gone. The tension went out of his body and he was still.

  Tiadaria held him that way for a long time. Finally, she reached up and brushed his eyes closed with the tips of her fingers, closing the eyes that had seen so much and told her even more. It wasn’t for another few moments that she realized that her sobbing was the only sound she could hear. Looking up, she saw faces around her she recognized. Torus and Faxon, Adamon, the soldiers she had fought beside. Valyn stood there, a bloody graze across his forehead, his armor much dented, pierced by claw, and burnt by spell. They were ranged around her in a wide circle; sword and staff plunged into the earth.

  In that simple accord, all of them standing as one, in unison, they honored their fallen hero. For the Captain had been a hero to all of them, on the battlefield and off, for as long as any of them could remember. Their vigil touched her in a way that no words ever would. Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak. The men bowed their heads even as a pathway opened up through the ranks.

  Heron Greymalkin, stooped over his cane, made his way slowly into the middle of the circle where the Captain’s body lay. He dropped to his knees beside Tiadaria and took her hand in his. Then he wept.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The morning outside her room was cold and gray. It matched the numbness that she felt. Tiadaria had stayed in the palace after the battle, given a fine room with a deep, plush bed. The curtains were velvet and royal purple. The rugs were expertly woven and soft
on her bare feet. It was a spectacularly beautiful room and it would have made her very happy if she had been able to experience it.

  Instead, she stood at the window and peered out from the open maw of the cavern, across the city. The battlefield was hidden from view by a hundred different intervening buildings, but she could feel it. That was where the Captain had died, where she had held him for the last time. Where her heart had broken. It had only been two days ago, but it felt like two years. They would put his body in the ground today, the last remnant of the legacy of the great man he had been.

  There was a light rapping at the door, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to see anyone and she certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. It seemed like all she had left to offer anyone who came calling were tears and bitterness. There was another rap at the door. Still she didn’t move. She stood there, standing, staring, her eyes straining as if she could see through the buildings to the spot where he had died.

  Tiadaria heard the door open and whirled; ready to demand that she be left alone. It was Faxon who entered, his chestnut brown beard a stark contrast to his pale skin and cream-colored robes. He looked as tired and drawn as she felt. She couldn’t even muster the strength to cast him out, so instead she turned back to the window. He closed the door softly and came to stand beside her.

  They stood together in silence for a long time. Tiadaria had almost forgotten he was there when he spoke.

  “I have something for you. Something that Royce asked me to keep for him, just in case something happened to him. He wanted you to have it.”

  Faxon reached into his robes and produced a folded parcel, the deep blue wax embossed with the Captain’s personal seal. Tia took it from him and went to the bed. The mage settled himself in the chair by the window, looking out at the dismal sky spread low over the city. Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal, unfolding the sheaf of papers. As she did so, something fell out of the stack and landed between her feet on the bed. It was the curious little cottage key on its length of black ribbon. She read the letter.