Sevenfold Sword_Warlord

by Jonathan Moeller

  Fifty undead creatures stood on the road, motionless as statues. They looked to have once been orcish warriors, but now they were withered skeletons, leathery greenish-yellow skin clinging to crumbling bones. They were armored in either rotting leather or corroding bronze, and carried maces and blades of bronze. The skeletal warriors looked a great deal like the ones that Archaelon had commanded when he held Castra Chaeldon. Perhaps both Archaelon and the High Warlock had looted the same burial grounds.

  A hunched figure in a robe stitched from ragged squares of black leather stood fifty yards away. A gnarled green hand gripped a twisted staff of black wood, its surface carved with arcane sigils. A misshapen green crystal had been set in the staff’s twisted head, and faint wisps of pale light came from the crystal. It reminded Ridmark of the Staff of Blades, but that Staff had a harsh, elegant grace to it. The staff in the robed figure’s hand looked distorted, somehow, almost like a tumorous growth.

  This, then, had to be the High Warlock of Vhalorast.

  Five yards away from the High Warlock stood a bulky man in ornate bronze armor, a green cloak hanging from his shoulders. Slung over his back was a bronze shield, and a bronze helmet with a green plume was tucked under his left arm. Over his armor, he wore a green surcoat adorned with the golden crown sigil of Justin Cyros and Cytheria. In his right hand, he carried an enormous bronze war hammer. The haft was four feet long and made of polished oak, and the bronze head of the hammer looked as if it weighed fifteen pounds. It should have been too heavy to use in combat, but to judge from the man’s stance, he looked as if he wielded the hammer single-handed.

  “Ironcoat,” hissed Tamlin.

  Ridmark nodded.

  The Ironcoat knight was shouting at the battlements.

  “Come down, Decurion!” shouted the Ironcoat. “Come down and parley! I am of the royal blood of Cytheria, and I guarantee your rights and safe passage. Are you so craven that you would not dare to speak with me face to face? Commoner dog! Are all the men of Aenesium such cowards?”

  “Perhaps,” shouted one of the men on the battlement. Ridmark recognized the voice of Decurion Rallios, the man he had left in command of Castra Chaeldon when he had gone south to meet King Hektor. “But neither are the men of Aenesium fools. If I step outside the gate, your pet warlock will murder me on the spot.” Mockery entered his rough voice. “Or maybe the warlock will have his pet knight attack me.”

  The High Warlock stiffened and turned to stare at Ridmark.

  Ridmark met the gaze beneath the leather cowl. The High Warlock looked ancient, his green-skinned face scored with a thousand lines, his beard yellowish-white. His eyes were like fiery pits, and his tusks rose from his beard like jutting daggers. They had turned black with age, the same color as the claws of the hand that grasped the warped staff…

  No. Not black. Dark gray, the color of iron.

  His tusks had turned to iron. With a burst of insight, Ridmark realized that the High Warlock’s entire skeleton had turned to iron without killing him, no doubt a mutation caused by his dark magic. Since most weapons were made of bronze, that would make the High Warlock much harder to kill. The Pyramid of Iron Skulls, indeed. Ridmark wondered how many generations of iron skulls waited in the Tomb of the Warlocks beneath Vhalorast.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to find out.

  “My lord,” said the High Warlock. His voice was a metallic rasp, like two plates of iron sliding together. “Others have come.”

  The Ironcoat broke off his stream of insults and turned to face Ridmark and the others. He was in his middle or late twenties, and he looked a great deal like Tamlin. The Ironcoat had the same thick black hair, the same gray eyes, even similar facial features. Unlike Tamlin, he had a close-cropped black beard. He was several inches shorter than Tamlin but far broader and more muscular. Tamlin’s mother must have been a tall woman.

  “What is this, then?” said the Ironcoat. “Who are you to interfere in the lawful business of King Justin Cyros?”

  “That would depend, sir,” said Ridmark. “Who are you to interfere in the lawful business of King Hektor Pendragon? For it is the banner of Aenesium that flies from Castra Chaeldon, not that of Justin Cyros and Cytheria.”

  “Be wary,” said the High Warlock. The crystal at the end of his staff brightened. “Several of them bear weapons of significant power.”

  “Let us introduce ourselves, then,” said the Ironcoat. “I am Krastikon Cyros, Prince of Cytheria, Companion of King Justin, and Ironcoat Knight. Who are you?”

  “My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. “I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim. This is Lady Third of Nightmane Forest, Kyralion of the gray elves, and Sir Tamlin and Sir Aegeus of the Order of the Arcanii.”

  Krastikon let out a quiet laugh. “Sir Tamlin Thunderbolt, is it? I’d heard about you. Saved Hektor Pendragon from an ambush a few years back. Pity. If you had let him die, perhaps you could have claimed the Sword of Fire yourself and become a king.”

  “Perhaps you should follow your own advice,” said Tamlin.

  Krastikon’s smile widened. “And kill Father? Surely not. Oh, don’t bother to deny it, Sir Tamlin. I’ve heard about you. A little accident Father had, a traitorous fool who has forsaken his own blood.”

  “Traitorous?” said Tamlin. “Since Justin Cyros stole the Sword of Earth and has been waging war against the lawful High King of Owyllain for the last twenty-five years, you ought to be careful with that term.”

  “Now, now, brother,” said Krastikon, putting scorn into the title. “Are you angry that Father never realized that you existed? I would be angry in your place.” He thumped his chest with his free hand. “I am an Ironcoat, one of the elite of Cytheria. No warrior can match the Ironcoats of Cytheria in battle. If Father knew about you, you would be one of us. Instead, you’re a ragged little Arcanius following a senile fool of a king.”

  “Your father…” started Tamlin.

  Krastikon smirked. “Our father.”

  “Justin Cyros is a traitor and a murderer,” said Tamlin. “His punishment has been long overdue, but it has come at last. King Hektor will defeat him, and Owyllain will be that much closer to peace.”

  “Quite right,” said Krastikon, “but I’m afraid you’ve got it backward, brother. Our father shall utterly crush the feeble dotard Hektor Pendragon, and…”

  Both Tamlin and Krastikon began trying to speak at once. A flicker of amused contempt went over the High Warlock’s gaunt face.

  “As touching as this family reunion is,” said Ridmark, “we should discuss more urgent matters.”

  Krastikon smiled at him. “Be silent when speaking to your betters, foreigner. Else I shall kill you with great pain and then add your wife to my concubines.”

  Aegeus snorted. “You obviously haven’t met his wife.”

  “The Shield Knight of Andomhaim?” said Krastikon. “An obvious lie. The urdmordar destroyed Andomhaim centuries ago. You’re just a failed Arcanius with a few tricks up your sleeve, and doddering old Hektor is so addled that he believes your lies.” He laughed. “But the time is about to come when you must pay for your lies with deeds. You may not find the bill to be to your liking, Shield Knight.”

  “It seems clear,” said Ridmark, “that the Ironcoats do not regularly serve as King Justin’s ambassadors.”

  The High Warlock let out a hissing, rasping laugh. As one, every single undead creature below the wall turned to look at Ridmark.

  “King Justin has no need of ambassadors, only warriors,” said Krastikon, “and the Ironcoats are the finest warriors in all of Owyllain, masters of both battle and spell. King Justin requires only submission. Castra Chaeldon will surrender itself to me. If King Hektor surrenders Aenesium and the Sword of Fire, my father will allow him a comfortable retirement. Otherwise, both he and Aenesium shall be utterly crushed.”

  “You’re going to take Castra Chaeldon by yourself?” said Ridmark. “That shall be an impressive feat.”

  Krastikon la
ughed. “One Ironcoat is worth a hundred lesser men. And you have not seen the arts the High Warlock of Vhalorast can wield. That was Hektor’s mistake and the mistake of the High Kings of Owyllain before him. They turned away from the power offered by dark magic. If the High Kings of Owyllain had embraced that power, we would rule an empire that would make the Sovereign’s realm look like the pathetic fiefdom of a petty noble.” He donned his helmet, drew his shield from over his shoulder, and stretched. “But perhaps I shall return to my father with a different trophy. The head of the so-called Shield Knight of Andomhaim and the head of his wayward bastard son.”

  Ridmark raised Oathshield, the white flames of the blade burning brighter. He looked at Third, at Krastikon, and back to Third, and then she nodded. Tamlin lifted his sword, lightning snarling around his free hand, while Aegeus conjured a shield of ice over his left arm. Kyralion put an arrow to his bowstring, the soulstone set into the bow glowing with sullen fiery light.

  “A moment, Prince Krastikon,” said the High Warlock. His glowing eyes turned towards Ridmark, and as they did, the crystal at the end of his staff began to shine with a harsh crimson light instead of a green one. “Perhaps violence is not yet necessary.”

  Krastikon snorted but inclined his head to the orcish sorcerer.

  “My hounds were ranging over the hills,” said the High Warlock, “and I know you have slain them, Shield Knight. Perhaps it would be best if we both walked away from his confrontation. The battle will be decided soon enough.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Krastikon. “We shall kill them all, and present their heads as trophies to my father.”

  “Third,” said Ridmark.

  Krastikon frowned. “Third of what?”

  Third disappeared in a swirl of blue fire and reappeared behind Krastikon, driving her short swords at his neck. Her blades should have stabbed into the gap between his armor and his helmet, killing him, but her short swords rebounded in a spray of purple sparks. A warding spell, most likely. Krastikon was a Swordborn of the bearer of the Sword of Earth, and he must have inherited some skill with earth magic.

  An Ironcoat. That explained the title…and it also explained Krastikon’s confidence.

  Krastikon whirled with terrific speed, his hammer blurring. Third vanished in a flicker of blue fire, reappearing next to Ridmark. Kyralion loosed a pair of arrows at Krastikon, only for both shafts to shatter in bursts of purple sparks.

  The High Warlock gestured with his staff, and the undead creatures charged, raising their corroded bronze weapons. The tapping noise of their bones bouncing off each other filled Ridmark’s ears, the blue fires of their empty eye sockets shining brighter. The High Warlock pointed his staff at Ridmark and began casting a spell, crimson flames snarling up the length of the staff and around his iron-clawed fingers.

  “Tamlin, Aegeus, Kyralion!” said Ridmark. “Deal with Krastikon. I’ll take the High Warlock! Third, with me!”

  Krastikon let out a sneering laugh. “You’ll deal with us, foreigner? I should like to see that.”

  Ridmark charged towards the hunched figure in the black robe, calling on Oathshield for speed.

  ###

  Krastikon strode towards Tamlin and Aegeus, the massive hammer in his right hand, the bronze shield upon his left arm. Kyralion loosed another arrow, but it struck Krastikon’s defensive ward and shattered in a burst of purple sparks.

  “Aegeus,” said Tamlin. “Now!”

  Tamlin lifted his hand and cast a spell, and Aegeus followed suit. A bolt of lightning burst from Tamlin’s hand and struck Krastikon, and Aegeus hurled a razor-sharp spike of glittering ice. Krastikon raised his shield before him, and Tamlin’s lightning bolt struck the shield and deflected, striking the rocky ground. The icy shard hit the shield and disintegrated, breaking apart into glittering shards. Likely Krastikon had cast a ward against elemental magic around his shield, allowing him to withstand the spells.

  Kyralion shouldered his bow and drew his sword, lightning snarling around the blade.

  “Pathetic,” said Krastikon. “A Dark Arcanius could have torn through my ward with ease. Little wonder Hektor failed to unite Owyllain when he has to rely on weaklings like you.”

  “Stop talking and fight,” said Aegeus.

  “As you wish,” said Krastikon, and the head of his hammer blazed with purple fire.

  He swung the weapon and struck the ground, and the earth rippled and folded, heaving like a banner caught in the wind. Tamlin had seen Calliande use that spell several times.

  However, she had never cast that spell at him.

  The ground heaved beneath Tamlin’s boots, and he lost his balance and fell hard upon his back. He heard the clang as Aegeus fell, his armor rattling.

  Krastikon ran towards them, hammer rising for the kill.

  ###

  Ridmark sprinted towards the High Warlock, all Oathshield’s power fueling his speed.

  He expected the undead creatures to intervene, either to aid Krastikon or to defend the High Warlock, but the undead remained motionless. Perhaps the High Warlock was holding them back for an emergency. The orcish sorcerer continued his spell, his glowing eyes narrowed, the crimson fire around his staff brightening.

  The crystal at the end of the staff blazed, and Ridmark knew he was out of time.

  A lance of crimson flame wrapped with ribbons of shadow burst from the end of the staff, and Ridmark raised Oathshield in guard, calling upon the soulblade’s power for defense. The lance of dark magic struck the soulblade and exploded in a rush of crimson flame. Oathshield clanged like a bell from the power of the attack, and Ridmark stumbled a step, but the soulblade protected him from the killing spell.

  The High Warlock scowled. Evidently, he had not expected that. Sir Archaelon and Rypheus Pendragon and two of the high priests of the Maledicti had underestimated what a Swordbearer could do, and perhaps the High Warlock would be foolish enough to follow in their footsteps.

  Blue fire swirled behind the High Warlock, and Third appeared, slashing her swords. Ridmark wondered if the fight would end then and there, but the blue short swords rebounded from an invisible barrier. The High Warlock spun, swinging his staff with both hands as fire blazed along its length, and Third vanished before the blow could connect.

  Ridmark charged, drawing Oathshield back to strike. The High Warlock turned back to face him, staff raised, and struck it against the ground. More crimson fire burst from its length, and the High Warlock shivered and vanished. Had he transported himself away? Used his magic to become invisible?

  Then the air shivered, and nine perfect copies of the High Warlock appeared in a half-circle around Ridmark.

  He hesitated for a half-step. Illusion, they had to be an illusion. Yet all nine of the duplicates were casting spells, leveling their staffs at him. Ridmark resumed his run and attacked the nearest copy of the High Warlock. Oathshield ripped through the duplicate, and it shattered into shards of red light and vanished. Third appeared behind another, her short swords ripping through the image and tearing it to shards of light.

  The remaining seven duplicates all flung attacks of dark magic. Ridmark parried three of them, Oathshield flashing back and forth. The strength of the attacks alarmed him. The High Warlock seemed able to project his dark magic through the duplicates. None of the individual attacks had much power, but they added up.

  Ridmark deflected the last of the attacks, Oathshield’s fire burning hotter, and charged. He slashed the soulblade through three duplicates in rapid succession, shattering them into mist and shards of red light. Third tore through two more. The final High Warlock, presumably the real one, flung out his hand.

  Red fire blazed, and he vanished. Eight more duplicates appeared, all of them casting spells at once.

  ###

  Tamlin tried to get to his feet, but Krastikon was too fast. The Ironcoat surged forward with a speed that seemed out of place in his muscled bulk, his hammer rising high. Tamlin got to one knee, raising his sword to block, but
he knew it was futile. The sheer power of Krastikon’s blow would hammer through Tamlin’s defenses and crush his skull.

  Then Kyralion jumped between them. The gray elf had been far enough back that he had avoided the ripple of distorted earth. Kyralion attacked as Tamlin stumbled back to his feet, his lightning-wreathed sword flickering back and forth. Krastikon shifted his stance, raising his shield to block the attacks. Kyralion hit the Ironcoat’s shield four times in rapid succession, purple sparks flying from every blow.

  But on the fifth blow, there were no sparks, and the fingers of lightning wrapped around Kyralion’s sword stabbed into the bronze shield and curled up the Ironcoat’s arm. Krastikon staggered with a grunt of pain, and Kyralion’s sword lashed for his face. The Ironcoat managed to get his shield up in time, and Kyralion went on the attack as Tamlin and Aegeus regained their feet.

  The warding spell. It had been able to deflect Third’s stabs, Tamlin’s lightning, Aegeus’s magical ice, and Kyralion’s first attacks. But perhaps Krastikon’s warding spell could only hold so long before it collapsed under the weight of multiple strikes.

  Tamlin hurled another lightning bolt, and the magical spell vanished in a spray of purple sparks before it could touch Krastikon. Aegeus flung a spike of ice and then charged, brandishing his axe. The spike shattered against the Ironcoat’s shield, but the axe fared better. Aegeus’s axe looked like bronze, but it wasn’t, forged instead from the unyielding steel of the dwarves.

  The blow left a crease in Krastikon’s shield.

  Tamlin, Aegeus, and Kyralion fell into a pattern. Tamlin and Kyralion hammered at Krastikon with their swords, weakening his defensive ward. Whenever they did, Aegeus struck with his axe, the dwarven steel biting into Krastikon’s shield. Soon a dozen rips marked the shield, and the Ironcoat fell back, whipping his hammer in wide arcs to keep his foes at bay.