Sevenfold Sword_Warlord

by Jonathan Moeller

  ###

  “Beware!” said Third. “Urvaalg!”

  Ridmark spun, his sword shearing through another of the illusionary duplicates of the High Warlock, and saw the distorted ripples moving through the air.

  He reacted at once, twisting and bringing Oathshield around in a two-handed swing. The soulblade slammed into the distortion, and Ridmark felt the magical blade bite through bone and flesh. The urvaalg became visible as its stealth ability failed, and Ridmark ripped his sword free from the collared creature.

  He whirled just in time to catch another one of the High Warlock’s attacks upon Oathshield, the soulblade’s fire burning hotter. There seemed to be no limit to the number of illusionary duplicates the sorcerer could create, and all of them could project some of his power. Worse, Ridmark had no way of knowing which of the High Warlocks was the real one and which were illusionary.

  It was a devilishly effective tactic.

  But its effectiveness was waning. Ridmark and Third were tearing through the illusionary duplicates as fast as the High Warlock could make them. Even better, the High Warlock’s strength seemed to be waning. Now he only spun out illusionary duplicates in groups of five or six, rather than nine or ten as he had at the start of the combat.

  Ridmark turned, seeking another of the High Warlock’s illusions, and then a bolt of fire shot past him and struck another duplicate. For an instant, he wondered if Kalussa or Calliande had somehow joined the fight, but the bolt of fire had come from the castra’s walls. The gates had opened, and hoplite soldiers charged out, Decurion Rallios at their head, while Arcanius Knights hurled spells from the battlements.

  “Prince Krastikon!” roared the High Warlock in his metallic voice. “Withdraw!”

  The High Warlock struck his staff against the ground, and crimson fire pulsed up its length. He vanished from sight, but a half-dozen more illusionary duplicates appeared. A half-dozen illusionary duplicates of Krastikon also shimmered into existence, and both the copies of Krastikon and the High Warlock turned and fled to the north. No doubt the real Krastikon and High Warlock were among them.

  Ridmark slashed down one of the duplicates, shattering it into nothingness, and sought another.

  But three of the undead creatures lunged at him, bronze swords raised, and Ridmark retreated. The undead charged at Tamlin and Aegeus and Kyralion and a large group turned towards the hoplites charging from the castra’s gate. Ridmark cut down one of the undead, Oathshield’s white fire extinguishing the blue glow in the creature’s eyes. He parried a bronze blade, shoved, and destroyed a second undead warrior. Third appeared in a pulse of blue fire and destroyed the final creature.

  They battled the undead, smashing them down one by one, and when the fighting was over, no one had been killed, and only four of Rallios’s men had taken light wounds.

  But Krastikon and the High Warlock had gotten away.

  ###

  “You showed up at a good time, Lord Ridmark,” said Rallios.

  Tamlin followed the others into the courtyard of Castra Chaeldon, looking around as he did. It had changed quite a bit since his last visit three weeks past. The dead had been cleared away, and Rallios’s hoplites had made good progress at repairing the damage to the wall. Yet in his mind’s eye, Tamlin still saw the desperate struggle as the hoplites fought against the Confessor’s orcs and Archaelon’s undead, remembered watching Ridmark battle Archaelon before the doors to the great hall.

  “I am glad we arrived in time,” said Ridmark.

  “The High Warlock intended some devilry, I’m sure of it,” said Rallios. “Some magic or some clever stratagem to seize the castra for King Justin.”

  “Just as we used magic to seize the castra for King Hektor,” said Tamlin.

  “Precisely, Sir Tamlin,” said Rallios. “He showed up this morning, and that Ironcoat demanded that I come down for single combat. I wasn’t foolish enough to indulge him, and I refused to let any of the Arcanii down to fight him. Suppose it was the right decision since you came and put the two of them to flight.”

  Ridmark shook his head. “I wish I could have cut down the High Warlock. Krastikon was a braggart, but the High Warlock was dangerous. He will cause us trouble later, I am sure of it.”

  “He wasn’t ready to fight someone like you,” said Rallios. “Or someone like, ah…”

  “Lady Third of Nightmane Forest,” said Ridmark.

  Rallios blinked. “Third of what?”

  “He might not have been ready to fight someone like me before,” said Ridmark, “but he will be the next time.”

  “At least King Hektor’s army is right behind you,” said Tamlin. “If King Justin wants to march on Aenesium, he’ll have to fight every step of the way.”

  Tamlin looked at the curtain walls.

  A day’s march to the northwest, he knew, the hill country ended, and the road turned towards the plains that lay between the hills and the Cloak Mountains to the north. The road continued to the gates of Cytheria, but the army of Justin Cyros would be much closer. Perhaps only three or four days’ march away.

  Maybe much closer.

  And then a battle would begin that would make the fight below Castra Chaeldon’s gate look like a mere skirmish.

  Chapter 9: Castra Chaeldon

  Calliande had been the Keeper during the reigns of four different High Kings of Andomhaim across two centuries, and she had learned a long time ago that the High King of Andomhaim never traveled anywhere alone.

  The King of Aenesium, it seemed, was no different.

  Hektor traveled on foot, as did every fighting man of Aenesium. As Calliande expected, Hektor was accompanied by Sir Tramond Azertus in his position as Constable of Aenesium, Nicion Amphilus as Master of the Arcanii, Prince Tertius as his personal chaplain (Tertius had a wooden leg, but that didn’t seem to slow him down), and his other advisors and his most trusted Companion knights.

  The other three allied kings traveled with Hektor as well. King Aristotle Tempus walked with Hektor, interjecting himself loudly into every conversation. Calliande admired Hektor’s patience in dealing with the bombastic Aristotle. The monk still followed Aristotle, scribbling down his words for posterity, and Aristotle insisted on having his Lionesses (eleven of them in total) accompany him. King Kyrian the Pious also was in the royal party, and he alternated between scowling at Aristotle and joining with his monks in prayer. King Lycureon tried to look solemn and imposing, which wasn’t really possible at his age, and Sir Kamilius and the other Companions discussed strategy for the upcoming battle. Warlord Obhalzak and his headmen sang hymns to the Dominus Christus in orcish, or at least the Mholorasti equivalent of hymns, which seemed to involve a great more battle and blood and beheadings than most of the hymns of Andomhaim. Further down the line, Earl Vimroghast and his warriors sang their rumbling sagas, which were a good deal more melodious than the boisterous singing of the Mholorasti orcs.

  So, between the kings, the Companions, the magistrates, the knights, the Arcanii, the nobles, the Lionesses, the saurtyri servants, and the various other advisors of the kings, nobles, and knights, nearly five hundred men and women and saurtyri traveled with Hektor Pendragon.

  The din made it easier for Calliande to talk to Kalussa without anyone listening. Not that anyone cared.

  “Hold it,” said Calliande.

  “I’m trying,” said Kalussa. She was trying not to sound annoyed, which Calliande appreciated, but failing abjectly. The Staff of Blades swung with her stride in her right hand, and she held her left hand out palm-side up. A flame danced and writhed over her palm, and Calliande’s Sight saw the flow of elemental magic coming from Kalussa’s will.

  She noted the strain on Kalussa’s face as she tried to maintain the spell. It wasn’t a powerful spell, but…

  “How much longer do I have to hold this?” said Kalussa. Her frown tightened. “How long have I been holding this?”

  “Twenty-three minutes,” said Calem. The bearer of the Sword of Air walked
behind them, remaining vigilant. Calliande had told Calem to stay nearby, and he had interpreted that order to mean standing guard over the Keeper and her apprentice.

  “Is there a point to this?” said Kalussa.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “You’re very good at short bursts of power, Kalussa. Like those fire bolts you use in battle. But many spells require sustained focus over a long period of time.” Kalussa’s frown deepened, and the flame flickered. “So this is a good way to practice.”

  “Like the difference between throwing a punch and sprinting a mile,” said Calem.

  Calliande looked at him in surprise. “Yes, precisely.”

  “I can run a mile and throw a punch just fine,” said Kalussa.

  “Unlikely,” said Calem. “You could run with reasonable speed, but you lack the muscle mass to throw a properly damaging punch.”

  She gave him an arch look. “I don’t need to punch anyone, I’ll just set them on fire.”

  Calem remained unruffled. “Or hit them with spheres from the Staff of Blades. Given that you possess that, punching seems a redundant tactic.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande, before the conversation could wander further afield. “This will also help with your control over the Staff of Blades, Kalussa. From the way some of those disks bounced around the banquet hall, I think Khurazalin could exercise a measure of control over them from a distance. If you can do the same with the Staff of Blades, that will make it far more dangerous in your hands.”

  “As you say,” said Kalussa, gritting her teeth and focusing on the flame in her hand.

  She managed it for another two minutes before the flame went out. Kalussa let out several long, gasping breaths and stumbled. Calliande started to reach for her, but Calem was far quicker. He caught her elbow and helped her back upright.

  “That was much harder than it looked,” said Kalussa. “A simple flame…I thought I could hold that easily.”

  “The trainers in the Ring of Blood often employed similar methods to build strength and stamina,” said Calem as he stepped back from her. “They would give me a pair of weights to hold, and then bid me to run laps around the arena. The first mile was simple. By the fifth, it became near impossible.” He shrugged. “Of course, I was beaten if I failed to make the run in an adequate time.”

  “That’s awful,” said Kalussa, catching her breath.

  Calem shrugged. “Such are the methods of the dvargir gamemasters. Pain culls weakness from the gladiators.”

  The more Calliande heard of the Confessor, the less she liked him. Dark elven nobles, in general, loved cruelty, but the Confessor seemed in a class of his own. Calliande had already seen the scars from the flogging on Tamlin’s back, had heard how the Confessor had allied himself with the high priests of the Maledicti, and the Confessor might have ordered Khurazalin to kill Tamlin’s wife in front of him. Calem’s treatment further confirmed it. The man had little self-consciousness about dressing and undressing, and so Calliande had seen the rows of scars running up and down his arms and legs and the whip scars on his back. He had been treated even more brutally than Tamlin…and if the Confessor was also his secret master, then the Confessor had tormented him with dark magic as well.

  Perhaps the Confessor was marching towards Castra Chaeldon even now, preparing to fall upon the weakened victor of the impending battle between King Hektor and King Justin.

  “That is an exercise you should do on a regular basis,” said Calliande, partly to continue the lesson and partly to distract herself from the dark thoughts. “Extended control is important in magic, especially in a long battle. And it will be useful for you to control the Staff of Blades.”

  Kalussa took a deep breath and nodded. “Was it this hard for you?”

  Calliande blinked. “Was what this hard?”

  “Learning magic,” said Kalussa. “Learning to control it.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “It was, but I had a hard school.” The story was one that she did not like to share, but it might help Kalussa. “My parents died of a plague when I was a girl. That was what caused my magic to manifest. I was taken to the Tower of the Magistri and trained in the magic of the Well of Tarlion. The realm of Andomhaim was fighting for its survival against the Frostborn, so I only had a short time as an initiate. I joined the other Magistri on the battlefield, and I spent my time healing the wounded. There were so many of them, and I healed them again and again. I say without false modesty or false pride that I was one of the best healers of the Magistri. That drew the eye of the Keeper of Andomhaim, and I became her apprentice.” She sighed. “I suppose I learned through action. There was always so much to be done, and little enough time to do it. Leisurely study was never something I had the opportunity to enjoy. It still isn’t, I suppose.”

  “This was the first war with the Frostborn, yes?” said Kalussa. “Two hundred years ago?”

  “Two hundred years?” said Calem. Surprise went over his impassive face. “If you are two hundred years old you have aged remarkably well.”

  “That’s very kind,” said Calliande, “but it’s a long and complicated story. Suffice it to say the Frostborn were defeated once, but I knew they would return. So, I put myself into a magical sleep to await their return. When I awakened, we defeated them once more.”

  Calliande almost laughed at her own description. She made it sound so easy. Two titanic wars filled with sorrow and suffering and incalculable loss, summed up in a few sentences. But how could she describe to Kalussa the fear and the dread she had known? The crushing burden of responsibility that had weighed upon her, the knowledge that no matter what she did, good men would die, and if she chose wrong, even more good men would die.

  All that fear and struggle, summed up in a few sentences. In a few more decades it would be nothing more than history written upon the pages of a book.

  Strangely, Calliande found that heartening. She had faced such trials and come out the other side. Perhaps she and Ridmark would defeat King Justin and the Confessor, take their sons, and return to Andomhaim. That almost made her reach for the Sight to check on them, but she stopped herself. Calliande had limited herself to checking on them only three times a day since every use of the Sight took a little of her strength, strength she might need if they were attacked.

  Better to fear for her sons than to expend too much of her strength and leave them orphaned when the battle came.

  “Then is Lord Ridmark two centuries old as well?” said Calem.

  “No, no,” said Calliande. “I met him after I awakened.” Truth be told, he had rescued her when she had been tied naked to an altar by pagan orcs, but that was not something she wanted to discuss with either Kalussa or Calem.

  Kalussa frowned. “Then…there was no one else?”

  “What do you mean?” said Calliande.

  “You defeated the Frostborn the first time,” said Kalussa, “slept for two centuries, and then awakened and met Lord Ridmark. But there was no…ah, man before that? Before you went to sleep?”

  “No,” said Calliande. “No. Ridmark was the only one.” The first and only man she had ever kissed, and the only man who had ever shared her bed. She almost changed the subject, since she did not want to talk about Ridmark with the woman who had tried to seduce him away, but she kept talking. “Before…I had only my duty. That was all I ever had. Then I awoke, and there was Ridmark. He saved my life on the day I awakened. Ten years later we are married with two children.” She almost said three but stopped herself in time.

  Kalussa said nothing. A flicker of emotion went over her face. Regret? Guilt? Sadness?

  “A remarkable tale,” said Calem. “A pity Owyllain has no Keeper of its own. Else the Sovereign and the Confessor might have been defeated long ago.”

  “Until we find our way back to Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “Owyllain has a Keeper, and…”

  “Lady Calliande!”

  Calliande turned her head and saw one of Hektor’s squires running towards her. It was anot
her one of his sons, a boy of about thirteen with the same distinctive Pendragon look of black eyes and a crooked nose. What was his name? Pallas, that was it.

  “What is the matter?” said Calliande.

  Pallas stopped to catch his breath. “King Hektor requests the honor of your presence. It seems there was fighting near Castra Chaeldon, and the Shield Knight faced the High Warlock of Vhalorast in battle.”

  Calliande blinked and reached for the Sight at once, sending it hurtling to the north in search of Ridmark and Oathshield. Had Ridmark been hurt? The High Warlock of Vhalorast had an evil reputation. As a Swordbearer, Ridmark was well-prepared to face an orcish warlock, but if he had been hurt…

  Her Sight found Oathshield a few miles to the north, and she felt Ridmark’s presence connected to the sword an instant later. He was alive and unhurt as far as she could tell.

  “Lady Calliande?” said Pallas.

  “Do not presume to interrupt the Keeper’s contemplations,” said Kalussa, assuming her usual lofty tone.

  Pallas stuck his tongue out at her. Kalussa blinked and responded in kind. Calem looked at them both in confusion. Calliande tried not to laugh. It was a good sign – Kalussa had been morose and grim ever since taking up the Staff of Blades. Calliande needed work to shake off her dark moods. Perhaps Kalussa needed an annoying younger brother to follow her around.

  “If you are quite done bickering,” said Calliande, “we shouldn’t keep your father waiting.”

  “This way, my lady,” said Pallas, and Calliande and the others followed him.

  ###

  Kalussa looked up at the walls of Castra Chaeldon.

  Memories went through her, most of them bad. They had very nearly lost everything here. If Ridmark hadn’t killed Archaelon, Kalussa would have died in the fighting, and either King Justin or the Confessor would have marched on Aenesium. Still, they had won, and perhaps they would prevail in the battle to come.