“I don’t know,” said Tamlin. The others looked at him. “I don’t know what Justin wanted. Maybe Kyralion and Aegeus are right, and he just wanted vengeance on my mother. Maybe she stole something from him, and he wanted it back. Maybe she knew some secret that he needed…”
He trailed off as a thought occurred to him.
Had his mother known about the New God? For that matter, did Justin Cyros know about the New God? King Justin had allied himself with at least one of the Maledicti, and both Khurazalin and Qazaldhar had changed their allegiance from the Sovereign to the New God. Had Justin Cyros sworn himself to the New God as Rypheus had done?
Tamlin didn’t know.
A feeling of vertigo went through Tamlin. His whole life had been shaped by the War of the Seven Swords, his childhood in the monastery, his brutal training at Urd Maelwyn, and his service to King Hektor as a Companion and an Arcanius Knight. Yet Tamlin didn’t understand so many things. He didn’t know why his mother had fled to the monastery, he didn’t know why Justin had gone to such lengths to kill his mother, he didn’t know why Khurazalin had killed Tysia, and he didn’t know who or what the New God was.
Find me again. The New God is coming.
Tamlin realized he might die in battle tomorrow without ever learning the answer to any of those questions.
“I don’t know,” said Tamlin again. His voice was hoarser than he would have liked, so he cleared his throat and made himself speak in a firmer tone. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Justin Cyros has piled crimes upon crimes and iniquities upon iniquities. What does it say in the scriptures? The innocent blood he has spilled upon the earth cries out to heaven for vengeance? When the battle comes, we will defeat him and repay him for all his evil.”
The conversation left Tamlin in a foul mood, and that night he stalked alone through the camp, trying to distract himself from the dark memories in his mind. What he really wanted was to get drunk and find a woman. But getting drunk the day before a battle was an idea of monumental stupidity, and most of the women in the camp were the concubines and wives of the knights and hoplites. Trying to seduce one of them was asking for a world of trouble. Kalussa might have called him a lecher, a charge that Tamlin could not deny, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.
Finally, he went to his tent, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. No doubt he would brood the night away.
But the march and the battle against the High Warlock’s creatures had drained more of his strength than he had thought, and Tamlin fell asleep in moments.
And in his sleep, he dreamed.
He stood again in the courtyard of the Monastery of St. James in the foothills of the Tower Mountains.
But the monastery had not looked like this when he had last been here.
The monks had raised the monastery with the work of generations, building it into a citadel equal in strength to Castra Chaeldon. A tall curtain wall enclosed the entire hilltop, the courtyard paved with massive flagstones. A keep rose from the center of the courtyard, its top crowned with battlements, and around it stood the other buildings of the monastery – the massive domed chapel, the library, the kitchens, the scriptorium, and the stables.
Yet it all lay in ruins now.
The gate had been smashed to rubble, destroyed by the power of the Sword of Earth in Justin’s hand. The buildings had been burned, the library and all its wonderful books turned to ashes, a treasure beyond price lost forever. Weeds and grass forced their way through the flagstones of the courtyard, and the doors to the keep’s great hall lay in shattered ruin, the timbers charred and crumbling and dotted with lichen from the passage of the years.
This must be the Monastery of St. James as it looked now after the passage of…twelve years? Thirteen years? Tamlin wasn’t entirely sure. The years at Urd Maelwyn had blurred together into a haze of pain and death, at least until he had found Tysia again.
Tamlin walked through the ruins of his childhood home and stopped by the mortal remains of his mother.
The power of the Sword of Earth had killed her by turning her to stone, and the resultant statue stood at the foot of the stairs to the keep. Tamlin hadn’t known it as a child, but as he looked at her statue with the eyes of an adult, he realized that his mother had been a beautiful woman. Little wonder that she had become the mistress of a king. Cathala’s statue stood as she had in the final instant of her life, her hands outstretched, her face tight with concentration. In life, her hair had been a mass of reddish-gold, her eyes like jade, her skin fair and clear.
Now nothing remained of her but a statue of pale stone, lifeless and cold.
Tamlin stared at the statue for a while, and then looked at the stairs.
“Why have you brought me here?” he said.
For as he had guessed, the Dark Lady stood on the steps to the keep.
She walked towards him, her staff tapping against the worn flagstones, her cloak of tattered brown and gray strips stirring around her. The Dark Lady wore wool and leather, the staff in her right hand carved with arcane sigils. Sometimes one of the sigils flashed with white light. Her hair was black and bound into a tight braid, away from her sharp face, and her eyes were hard and black as obsidian.
Her appearance filled Tamlin with misgiving.
Whoever or whatever the Dark Lady was – sorceress or prophetess, spirit or oracle, angel or demon – she had been appearing to Tamlin for years. Sometimes she urged him not to give up, to keep on fighting. Other times she warned him before something awful happened – the battle at Castra Chaeldon, for instance, or Rypheus’s slaughter at the banquet.
And now, on the eve of battle with Justin Cyros, he wondered what catastrophe she was about to foretell.
“I did not bring you here, Tamlin Thunderbolt,” said the Dark Lady. She spoke Latin with peculiar, almost archaic stateliness. “This is your memory, not mine. For that matter, it is your dream, not mine. This is your childhood home, yes?”
“The Monastery of St. James,” said Tamlin, gazing at Cathala’s statue. “My mother brought me here. I don’t know why. Maybe it was to get away from Justin Cyros or to keep me from him so he wouldn’t turn me into one of his Ironcoats. I’ve never known why.”
“Would it comfort you to know,” said the Dark Lady, “to know that it had nothing to do with you or with your mother?”
Tamlin looked away from the statue and at her. “What do you mean?”
“The reason your mother fled to the Monastery of St. James was to keep Tysia away from Justin Cyros,” said the Dark Lady.
The made no sense. Tysia was an orphan that his mother had found, and Cathala had taken her to the monastery. Why would Justin care about an orphan?
A horrible thought occurred to him.
“She’s not…” said Tamlin. “Tysia wasn’t…my sister, was she?”
The Dark Lady blinked. “No. Fear not, Sir Tamlin. You did not accidentally marry your sister.”
“Then why did my mother take her to the monastery?” said Tamlin. “Why did Justin want her dead?”
“I cannot yet tell you that,” said the Dark Lady, “for you are not yet at the proper…”
Something inside Tamlin snapped.
He did not remember crossing the courtyard, did not remember seizing the Dark Lady by her shoulders, but then he was shaking her, and he heard himself shouting.
“Goddamn it, tell me!” said Tamlin. “Why? Why did Justin kill my mother? Why did Khurazalin kill my wife? Why? The New God is coming! What does that mean? Goddamn it, tell me! Stop playing at riddles and tell me what it means!”
The Dark Lady’s face remained impassive, but sadness touched her expression.
“Tamlin,” said the Dark Lady.
Tamlin released her and stepped back, shocked at himself. He was a knight of Owyllain, a Companion of the king. Noble knights did not manhandle women and shout at them. “I’m sorry. I just…I just…”
“You have wondered your entire life,” said the Dark Lady, “
why your father murdered your mother, why Khurazalin murdered your wife, why all this has happened. For you know that tragedy and pain are the common fare of all mankind, but you also know in your heart that the deaths are connected, even if your mind knows not yet the reasons why.”
“Then why?” said Tamlin. “For God’s sake, please, just tell me why.”
“I cannot,” said the Dark Lady, “for you are not yet at the proper point in time.”
“That is nonsense,” said Tamlin. “Riddling goddamned nonsense.”
“Is it?” said the Dark Lady. “Then listen, and hear the truth.”
Tamlin leaned forward, eager to hear.
The Dark Lady spoke…and something strange happened.
Tamlin heard the words, saw her lips move, saw her draw breath to speak. His mind registered the sentences she spoke…and almost at once the words vanished from his thoughts. It was as if his mind could not grasp what she said.
“What just happened?” he said.
“I told you the truth,” said the Dark Lady, “but you are at the wrong point in time to perceive it.”
“What the hell does that even mean?” said Tamlin.
“You are still alive, and therefore mortal,” said the Dark Lady. “Consequently, you are bound by time. I am spirit and no longer bound by the flesh or its passions so I can see a greater view of time. The past is stone, fixed and unchangeable. The present is a flame, wild and unpredictable. The future is the shadows cast by that flame, and I can perceive them while a living man cannot.”
Despite his anger and pain, Tamlin’s mind was still working, and he grasped what she said at once.
“Then you cannot tell me,” said Tamlin, “because it is in the shadows of my own future, and I cannot perceive those shadows. Just as a man who has lost his hearing could not perceive music.”
“You understand,” said the Dark Lady.
“Forgive my outburst,” said Tamlin. “I am…overwrought…”
“You are weary and wounded at heart,” said the Dark Lady, “for almost all your life. And I understand.”
“Do you?” said Tamlin.
She smiled a little. “I was once young and in love.”
“You were?” said Tamlin, surprised. She looked young, of course, no older than Tamlin himself. But this was a dream, and she had claimed that she was a spirit. Likely she could make herself look like whatever she chose.
“I understand more of your pain than you think, Tamlin Thunderbolt,” said the Dark Lady. “When I was a child, dvargir mercenaries slew my mother and father in front of me. All my life I wondered why, and when I learned the truth…ah, that was a dire day. And I loved a man the way you loved Tysia. I loved him so much I followed him into dangers that few can scarcely imagine.”
“Then I am sorry for your losses,” said Tamlin.
“Do not be,” said the Dark Lady, that faint smile returning. “Do not the scriptures say that the dead are not married and given in marriage as the living are? The needs of the flesh are past me, Tamlin. I know what it was to endure sorrow, thirst, hunger, and the lusts and needs of the flesh, but such things are no more.”
“Then who are you?” said Tamlin. “You say you were once a living woman. Now you are a spirit. Are you some damned ghost condemned to wander the earth? Or a hallucination of my own mind?”
“What I am,” said the Dark Lady, “is a woman with a mission. Mankind faces many dangers in this world, both in Owyllain and in Andomhaim. My task is to ensure that mankind is ready to face those dangers. And you are going to help me.”
“Why choose me for this?” said Tamlin.
“Because you stand in the path of the storm,” said the Dark Lady. “And because you are an anomaly.”
“An anomaly?” said Tamlin.
“The Swordborn were never supposed to exist,” said the Dark Lady. “You and proud little Kalussa and all the other Swordborn. You were not part of our enemy’s plan. He did not intend you, he did not expect you…but here you are. The thought that the bearers of the Seven Swords might have children while wielding the Swords never occurred to him.”
“To him?” said Tamlin. “Who are you talking about?”
“If you survive what is coming tomorrow,” said the Dark Lady, “you shall find out.”
“And what is coming tomorrow?” said Tamlin. The answer came to him even as the question left his lips. “The battle.”
“Yes,” said the Dark Lady. “The bearer of the Sword of Fire shall face the bearer of the Sword of Earth, and whoever triumphs shall rule Owyllain.”
“Do you know who will win?” said Tamlin.
“Either King Hektor Pendragon or King Justin Cyros.”
Tamlin let out an aggravated sigh. “I could have told you that.”
“You already knew that,” said the Dark Lady. “But tomorrow you will face your father, and you must be ready for it. For your heart is wounded, Tamlin, but he carved the first wound into your heart.”
“Do you think I fear to face him?” said Tamlin. “No. After what he did to my mother, to me, to all of Owyllain…no, I do not fear to face him. I look forward to it. Either I shall kill him, or he shall kill me.”
“Do not scruple to face the King of Cytheria,” said the Dark Lady. “For he has wrought great evil, and will work greater yet if he is not stopped. No. You must be ready to face him.” The black eyes held him transfixed. “He is the most powerful and most dangerous foe you have ever faced in your life, Tamlin Thunderbolt. Remember this in the moment of defeat – to save your sword, you must first break it.”
“I don’t understand,” said Tamlin, frustration welling up in him. What did that mean? She had given him cryptic warnings before, like when she had warned him of rubies and gold at the banquet. As it happened, that had foretold the goblet holding the poisoned wine that Prince Rypheus had presented to King Hektor.
So what did her cryptic prophecy mean this time? To save his sword, he had to first break it?
“You will,” said the Dark Lady. “When the time is right.”
Tamlin awoke as the sun leaked through the tent flap, his body refreshed, but his mind weighed down with his questions.
###
As the sun climbed into the morning sky, Ridmark and Third walked to the eastern end of the camp.
He had seen Calliande do a lot of both remarkable and strange things during the eight years they had been married and the ten years he had known her. She had healed terrible wounds with her magic, commanded packs of beastmen in battle, dueled powerful sorcerers, and even fought Tymandain Shadowbearer himself to a draw.
Ridmark had not, however, ever seen his wife leading a herd of fifty-seven giant lizards.
“They are ugly things, aren’t they?” said Ridmark, watching as the herd approached, the ground shivering a little under the impact of so many massive feet. He glimpsed Calliande riding one of the trisalians, perched about a third of the way up its back behind the bony shield. Sir Jolcus and the Arcanii she had taken with her were scattered atop the other trisalians, their bronze armor glinting in the sun. He guessed that each Arcanius Knight was controlling five or six of the beasts, though he suspected that Calliande was controlling at least a dozen.
“Perhaps that is why all the horses of the men of Owyllain died out,” said Third. “The trisalians trampled them.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “But if the Arcanii can control them…would they not make effective beasts of war? Each one of them must weigh five or six tons. Those bony shields on the back of their heads are as thick as my arm, and their hide is like leather armor.”
“Massed together,” said Third, “they would make for a formidable force. Assuming they can be compelled towards battle and do not panic at the sight and smell of blood.” She blinked a few times. “Of course, if they panic, they might trample both our men and King Justin’s.”
“Elephants,” said Ridmark, watching as Calliande and the Arcanii brought the trisalians to a halt.
“An�
��elephant?” said Third. “I am unfamiliar with the word.”
“They were animals upon Old Earth,” said Ridmark. “I heard about them from my tutors when I was a child. Evidently, the enemies of the Empire of the Romans used them as war beasts from time to time, but they were as dangerous to their own men as they were to the enemy. Maybe that is why the men of Owyllain never tried to use large numbers of trisalians in battle.”
But if it worked…God, those things were huge. And if Calliande was right and all the creatures crashed into Justin’s army at once…
“It seems we are about to find out,” said Third.
Ridmark headed towards the trisalian herd, Third following him. Calliande slid off the back of her trisalian with smooth grace, landing in a crouch as her legs flexed to absorb the impact. The Arcanius Knights followed suit, albeit less gracefully.
“Sir Jolcus!” called Calliande as Ridmark drew near. “I think you can manage them from here. The spells I’ve left ought to hold, and they should obey you. Just remember to focus and influence the animal’s natural instincts rather than trying to override them.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Jolcus. Ridmark suspected that he had heard the same thing several times over the last day.
“It seems you were successful,” said Ridmark.
Calliande grinned, leaned up, and gave him a quick kiss. “We were. It took a bit of work to get the trisalians under control, but once we had them going mostly in the same direction, the herd instinct took over, and we just had to keep them moving.”
“Was it difficult to keep your seat atop the creature?” said Ridmark, eyeing the trisalian. The beast gazed at him with placid indifference, from time to time lowering its massive head to take a bite of the tough grass in its beaked mouth.
“Actually, it was easier than it looked,” said Calliande. “The spine starts to dip as it approaches the head, so it’s a natural seat. And the skin is so pebbly that it’s hard to slide off.” She gave the creature a fond smile and patted it on the side. “It was easier than riding a horse bareback, and I’ve done that a few times in an emergency.”
“Do you think they’ll be effective in battle?” said Ridmark.
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