Sevenfold Sword_Warlord

by Jonathan Moeller

  Calliande’s fingers tightened against her staff.

  An undead horror stood next to the King of Talyrium.

  Or, rather, floated. Like Khurazalin and Qazaldhar, the Maledictus glided a few inches off the ground. He wore an ornate robe the color of emerald, the cowl pulled up over the withered, mummified mask of his face. Ghostly blue fire danced in the empty pits of his eye sockets, and his tusks rose like yellowed daggers from the crumbling leather that had once been the skin of his face.

  His skin…glittered?

  Tiny crystals jutted from both his face and his hands. Calliande had never seen anything like it. It was as if the crystals had grown within his dead flesh and burst from his dry skin.

  A guard of Ironcoats stood behind the two kings and the Maledictus. One of the Ironcoats, a man who looked like a younger, stockier version of Justin, glared at Ridmark. Likely that was Prince Krastikon.

  Justin stopped a few yards in front of his men.

  ###

  This moment had been a long, long time coming, and Justin Cyros took a moment to savor it.

  Tomorrow, he would either be the unquestioned ruler of most of Owyllain (except for Trojas and Xenorium) or he would be dead.

  It had taken him years of work to reach this moment of decision, years of battle and conquest and planning to reach a moment where he would either win all or lose everything.

  To look at Hektor Pendragon, he had fought just as hard as Justin to reach this point.

  The King of Aenesium had aged, but it had been twenty-five years since they had last spoken face to face. Justin thought that he had aged better than Hektor, though maybe that was just vanity. Hektor looked like the image of a solid, wise old king, though Justin saw the shadow of grief in his eyes.

  Justin also recognized Sir Tramond and Master Nicion. Nicion, he noted with amusement, still had the exact same sour expression from his days as Talitha’s apprentice. There was a lovely blond girl in the armor of a Sister of the Arcanii. Probably one of Hektor’s daughters, Justin decided. She was attractive enough that he would have taken her as a new concubine once the battle was over, but out of necessity, he would have to kill all Hektor’s children.

  One of the Arcanii, Justin noted with surprise, was his own son. Justin didn’t recognize him, but the family look was obvious. Plus, the boy was glaring at him. Justin had sired a few children before he had realized the potential of the Swordborn, and he’d wound up having to kill most of them. Perhaps the gray-eyed Arcanius Knight was one of his early mistakes. Likely he was this Tamlin Thunderbolt that Justin had heard about.

  Justin recognized seven of the ten people who had accompanied Hektor, and none of them gave him any cause for concern, not even his Swordborn son.

  The three strangers, though, gave him pause.

  The first was a grim-looking man of about forty, with cold blue eyes and close-cropped black hair turning gray at the temples. He had a brand of a broken sword on the left side of his face, which was odd, because a mark of cowardice did not match his dark elven armor, gray cloak, and strange sword with the flashing crystal in the pommel. This had to be the mysterious Shield Knight who had disrupted Archaelon’s plot at Castra Chaeldon and terrorized the Vhalorasti warbands that Warlord Khazamek had sent south.

  The second stranger was a blond woman in a red tunic and a green cloak, a worn wooden staff in her right hand. She was older than Justin preferred in his concubines, but nonetheless pretty enough that he would have claimed her, and young enough that he could probably get two or three more pregnancies out of her before her fertile years ended. Justin also found a certain pleasure in taking a proud woman and breaking her into subservience, though there hadn’t been much time for that lately. Yet Justin had not survived as King of Cytheria and bearer of the Sword of Earth for twenty-five years by ignoring his instincts, and his instincts screamed that the blond woman was dangerous. The rumors had said that the Shield Knight’s wife was a powerful sorceress who claimed to be the Keeper of Andomhaim.

  Justin had no idea who the black-haired woman in the dark armor was. She was attractive enough to merit a place as his concubine, but only a fool would touch her with anything other than the edge of a sword. Justin knew a killer when he saw one, and the black-haired woman was a cold-blooded killer. Her pale, angular face and hard black eyes gave away no hint of emotion as she regarded him. He wondered where she had gotten the twin short swords of dark elven steel that hung at her belt.

  Hektor stepped forward a few paces, and Justin shook off his musings and looked at his enemy.

  Usually, in these sorts of negotiations, Justin waited until his opponent spoke first. But Hektor was the heir of Connmar Pendragon. He should have declared himself the High King a long time ago, Kothlaric and his prison of magical crystal be damned.

  “We’ve gotten old, haven’t we?” said Justin.

  Hektor inclined his head. “It’s been twenty-five years, Justin. A lot has happened since Cathair Animus.”

  “I prefer to remember Urd Maelwyn,” said Justin. “The Sovereign broken at last, and all Owyllain united under a strong and powerful king. A king who was strong enough to do what needed to be done, rather than letting his scruples hold him back from what was necessary.”

  Hektor snorted. “If your point is so subtle, Justin, I fear I shall miss it entirely.”

  “Then perhaps it is time you were replaced,” said Krastikon, stepping forward. Justin gave his son an annoyed look. He had told the Ironcoats to remain quiet during the parley. “I will break you, old man.” His gaze shifted to the Shield Knight, and he sneered. “And I will defeat you utterly, and claim your wife and concubines for my own.”

  The Shield Knight did not look impressed. The Keeper only raised a single eyebrow.

  “Krastikon, silence,” said Justin. At once Krastikon lowered his head and stepped back, though he kept glowering at the Shield Knight. Justin trained the Ironcoats to obey him without question. Unfortunately, that meant they often had a hard time thinking for themselves or thinking clearly at all. For that matter, Krastikon still had a kindly heart, a defect he tried to hide beneath bluster and threats.

  No matter. Justin would either train it out of him, or Krastikon would be killed in the coming battle.

  “Threats, Justin?” said Hektor. “If you wish to threaten me, I would hope you would do it yourself rather than passing the task to one of your sons.”

  “I don’t need to threaten you, Hektor,” said Justin. “You already know what is at stake. Perhaps not all of it, true, but a great deal of it. We are both trying to do the same thing.”

  “And what is that?” said Hektor.

  “To save the realm from the Seven Swords and what they will unleash,” said Justin.

  “To save the realm?” said Hektor. “I might argue that you are one of the things that threaten the realm of Owyllain.”

  “Really,” said Justin, amused. “And just why is that?”

  Hektor raised his eyebrows. “Must I enumerate your crimes to you, King Justin? You seized the Sword of Earth when the High King brought the Seven Swords to Cathair Animus to destroy them. You have allied yourself with the warlocks of Vhalorast and the pagan warlord of that city. You have permitted your Arcanii to wield dark magic and necromancy, allowing them to corrupt themselves and everyone around them. You commanded creatures of dark magic and flung them against men of Owyllain. You have allied with the Confessor and the Necromancer of Trojas against me when convenient, further corrupting our realm with dark magic. You sold your own subjects into slavery to the dvargir.” Hektor’s dark eyes narrowed. “And you murdered the first husband of Queen Adrastea and their children, and God only knows how many other innocents you have slaughtered over the last twenty-five years.”

  “Adrastea?” said Justin, and then he remembered. “Oh, yes. Her husband was one of my Companions, and he objected forcefully when I allied with the Necromancer against the Confessor for the first time.”

  “And you murdered
him and his children,” said Hektor, “and you would have murdered Adrastea if you had gotten the chance.”

  Justin shrugged. “So what? I deny it not. I killed him, his family, and I would have killed his wife and concubines if they had not escaped into your arms. You might call it murder, but I call it an execution. I was his King, and he betrayed me because he disagreed with my decisions.” He spread his hands. “You cannot tell me that you have never executed a man during your reign as King of Aenesium.”

  “I cannot,” said Hektor. “I have executed many men, I fear. But if I violated the laws of God and man and allowed dark magic within Owyllain, I hope my men would revolt and restrain my madness. And I have never executed a man’s wife and concubines and children with him.”

  “Mercy is not a good quality in a king, Hektor,” said Justin. “I feared you never learned that…”

  “You killed my mother,” said the gray-eyed Arcanius Knight, his voice a snarl.

  Justin blinked a few times and looked at him. “Have I?”

  “I am Sir Tamlin,” said the Arcanius, “a knight of the Order of the Arcanii and a Companion of the King of Aenesium, and you murdered my mother without justification or cause.”

  “Did I?” said Justin. “You’ll have to refresh my memory, I’m afraid. I’ve had sharp disagreements with a few of my concubines.”

  Yet something scratched at the back of his mind, some memory. Tamlin looked familiar because he looked like so many of Justin’s other children. Usually, his children inherited his gray eyes and black hair. But there was something in Tamlin’s face, something familiar that stirred a recollection…

  “The Monastery of St. James,” said Tamlin. “You burned and destroyed…”

  Justin didn’t hear the rest of it.

  Cathala. His mother had been Cathala.

  A storm of memories erupted into Justin’s mind. He had never really loved any woman – when it came to the task of bearing children and satisfying a man’s lusts, women were more or less interchangeable – but he had been quite fond of Cathala. He remembered her wicked laugh, her flashing green eyes, her long red-gold hair, her pale skin, her excellent physique. She had been intolerably arrogant, certain that she and the circle of apprentices around Master Talitha would shape the destiny of Owyllain once the Sovereign was defeated, but Cathala had made up for that arrogance by indulging in the pleasures of the bedchamber with remarkable enthusiasm.

  And then, of course, she had betrayed him, taking one of the seven infants and fleeing. It had taken Justin years to hunt her down, and he had transformed her into a statue with great satisfaction.

  But she had tricked him in the end, and he hadn’t been able to find the infant. For that matter, there had never been any hint that she had borne one of his children, and she had taken that secret to the grave with her.

  A wave of anger rolled through him. It was one of the great tragedies of Owyllain’s history that none of Master Talitha’s apprentices had been worthy of her. Nicion had her righteousness, Cathala her confidence, Taerdyn her courage, and Cavilius her foresight. But none of them had possessed her humility or her wisdom, and that had led all of them except Nicion to ruin.

  How might things have changed if Talitha had lived?

  “That bitch,” said Justin. “That lying, scheming bitch.”

  Tamlin’s eyes went hard, and he took a step forward. The battle might have started then and there, but Hektor raised a commanding hand, and such was the authority in the gesture that Tamlin halted.

  “She never told me,” said Justin. “Not a word. Not even a damned hint.” Briefly, he wondered if Hektor and the others knew about the seven infants, and decided to keep that information to himself. “And you have suffered for her arrogance, boy, have you not? It would have been far better if she had brought you to me.”

  Tamlin scowled. “So you could turn me into one of your pet Ironcoats?” Krastikon glared at him.

  “Yes, obviously,” said Justin. “The Ironcoats are the finest warriors in Owyllain, and every single Ironcoat has a great destiny in front of him. What happened to you instead, Sir Tamlin? I assume you were taken as a slave to Urd Maelwyn? You’re a Companion knight, so you must have some skill at weapons. Ah, the dvargir gamemasters trained you as a gladiator, did they not? What did it feel like to be owned as a man might own a hound? Had you been raised in Cytheria, you would have received the best training and the finest weapons and armor that gold can buy. Instead, you were treated like a whipped dog, locked in your kennel save when you performed for your masters.”

  “You know nothing about it,” said Tamlin, which showed that Justin’s words had hit the mark.

  “Perhaps not,” said Justin. “You can thank your scheming bitch of a mother for that, Tamlin. She took your rightful destiny from you, and instead made you into…well, whatever you are now.”

  Tamlin’s face had gone red, his hands curled into fists. Justin watched him with amusement, wondering if the boy would start the battle for him. He might have, but the Keeper stepped forward and murmured something that Justin did not catch. Chagrin went over Tamlin’s face. It reminded Justin of watching a boy rebuked by his mother. Whoever the Keeper was, Tamlin respected her.

  Come to think of it, Hektor respected her enough to have included the Keeper in his escort. Yes. Justin’s guess had been right. She was dangerous.

  “But we’re not here to talk about the past,” said Justin, dismissing Tamlin from his thoughts and focusing back on Hektor. “We’re here to talk about the future, are we not?”

  “Aye,” said Hektor. “And in the future, I see half of our realm spilling the blood of the other half, and the Confessor and the Necromancer and the Masked One falling upon our weakened realm like jackals upon a dying scutian.”

  “The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat,” said Justin with a dismissive wave of his hand. The Keeper gave him a puzzled look. “But the Confessor has been waiting for us to destroy each other so he can seize Owyllain for himself, and the Necromancer is far more dangerous than you know. Whoever prevails here will need to be ready to fight several more battles.”

  “Then perhaps we should not dance to the Confessor’s tune,” said Hektor.

  Justin smiled. “If you want to swear fealty to me, it’s not too late, Hektor. Owyllain has always had a Pendragon High King, but it is time for our traditions to change.”

  “I will not allow the use of dark magic in Owyllain,” said Hektor. “It corrupts and twists everything it touches. Did we not see this again and again during our history? How much harm did the corrupted Arcanii cause after Rhodruthain founded the Order? Did we not see with our own eyes the horrors the Sovereign raised within the walls of Urd Maelwyn?”

  “There is too much at stake,” said Justin. “Fold your hands and wait for God to save you as the fire engulfs Owyllain. I will not turn my hand from any weapon that might bring victory, no matter how unsavory you might find it.” He shook his head. “There is far, far too much at stake.”

  “I know what is at stake,” said Hektor. “The future of Owyllain and the unity of our realm. Do you not remember, Justin? The speeches my brother gave? What he wanted to do once the Sovereign was defeated? He wanted an Owyllain at peace, where men did not have to spend their lives in endless war, where children could grow up in peace and plenty.”

  “There is far more at stake than merely Owyllain,” said Justin. “Have you not yet realized it?”

  Hektor said nothing. Behind them, Justin saw the Shield Knight and the Keeper share a look.

  “You speak of the Kratomachar,” said Hektor. “The New God.”

  “Then you have learned of it,” said Justin. “How much of the truth do you know?”

  “That the high priests of the Maledicti have sworn their allegiance to this New God and foretell his coming,” said Hektor. Justin heard Urzhalar shift behind them, the Maledictus’s emerald robe rustling against the tough grasses. “Do you remember my son Rypheus?”

  “Yes,
your boy with Helen,” said Justin. He did recall Helen Pendragon, the woman who had become Hektor’s first Queen. How beautiful she had been. How young they had all been, how innocent of the darker truths that underlay the Sovereign’s empire.

  “He turned to the New God,” said Hektor, “and he tried to kill me and everyone in my court. He murdered Adrastea.”

  “Ah,” said Justin. “I am sorry. That is a bitter blow to bear, betrayal from one’s own kin.”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin, his voice like ice. “I would know.”

  Justin ignored the boy. “Then you see the stakes, Hektor Pendragon. I will stop the coming of the New God. If it rises, it will enslave mankind and every other mortal kindred on this world. And I am the only one who can stop it.”

  Hektor blinked at him and then burst into an incredulous, bitter laugh.

  “I fail to see what is so funny,” said Justin.

  Hektor shook his head and laughed that hard laugh again.

  “I think King Hektor is surprised that you voice opposition to the New God,” said the Keeper, her voice cool and at ease, “when you stand next to one of the seven high priests of the Maledicti. A Maledictus, in fact, who bears a medallion charged with dark magic and adorned with the double ring and seven spikes of the New God.”

  Justin glanced at Urzhalar. The Maledictus remained motionless, his bony hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robe, the crystals in the dead skin of his face glittering. A black medallion rested against his chest, marked with the symbol of the New God. The Maledicti called such medallions the Signs of the New God and could use them to work potent dark magic.

  “So you see the contradiction, King Justin,” said the Keeper. Her blue eyes met his without flinching. Few people could do that any longer. Yes, this woman was as dangerous as Justin thought. “You claim to oppose the New God, yet one of the seven high priests of the Maledicti stands next to you. It would be as if I claimed to scorn the Dominus Christus and his church, yet I attended mass every morning, and one of my closest advisors was a priest.”