Toric's Dagger: Book One of The Weapon Takers Saga
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‘He says they would recognise his symbol and grant us passage.’
Belwynn stood for a while, absent-mindedly looking at the silver emblem. Soren knew what his sister was thinking. They were close, and not just because they were twins. They had lost both their parents when young and struggled to keep their family’s estates. They had struggled, also, with Soren’s gift. It had marked him out as different from a young age, and Belwynn had often had to act as an older sister or a parent, protecting him and hiding his secret.
Soren had needed help with controlling his magic powers. He had been lucky, in the end, to have found Ealdnoth. Wizards were a rare species. To have another living close by was one thing. For Ealdnoth to be open about his magic, to be friendly towards Soren, to be prepared to teach him—that was another; and Soren sometimes wondered what would have happened to him without Ealdnoth.
In the end their master and pupil relationship had come to an end. Ealdnoth had taught him everything he knew. Meanwhile, Edgar had befriended the older man through Soren, and invited him to his court. Soren knew that to improve, to enhance his powers, he had to learn from other wizards, who could teach him new skills and knowledge. He was ambitious. The desire to master magic burned through him. That ambition had led him to go to Delyth, the marsh witch. It had been the right choice as far as his development was concerned. But the experience had changed him, and his relationship with Belwynn had suffered.
Belwynn’s voice interrupted Soren’s train of thought.
‘What is the other reason?’
Soren knew that Belwynn didn’t understand his ambition, that she even resented it. Part of her would prefer it if he never tried to get his powers back. She certainly believed that it wasn’t worth risking his life over, that he should be happy just to have his health. But Soren also knew that Belwynn would do what he wanted.
‘The dagger. Gustav studied it, for a long time. I think he was hoping for some kind of reaction when he touched it a second time, but there was none. He even looked it up in some of his books, but found nothing. But he still feels that it is important, and I agree. He suggested I take it to the Caladri and see what they know of it. They have texts which go back hundreds of years, learned men who could examine it. Once we know what it is, why Ishari would want it, then we can make sensible decisions about what to do with it.’
Soren knew that Gustav had made sense on this. He also knew that Belwynn wouldn’t want to walk away after all they had been through. She was as curious about the dagger as he was.
‘So be it, Soren. I will come,’ she said. ‘Let’s explain this to the others.’
The conversation with the rest of the group was shorter than Soren had expected. He began by putting forward the case for taking the dagger to the Blood Caladri. Herin and Clarin nodded, as if there was nothing unusual in Soren’s suggestion. Elana, in that mysterious way of hers, agreed immediately. She and Dirk would go with them. Gyrmund was not so sure.
‘Our task was to take the thing back to Magnia, and its resting place in the Temple of Toric. I don’t see where this is all going.’
Belwynn answered him. ‘Look, we’ve completed that task of recovery. I have told Edgar this in my letter. If anyone chooses to go back to South Magnia now, I am sure that Edgar will pay the reward in full. You’ve done what was asked. No one is asking you to do any more. It’s just that some of us need to know what this dagger is.’
Gyrmund looked over at Moneva.
‘We need to discuss this,’ she said.
Gyrmund and Moneva walked out of the room. Until now, Soren hadn’t noticed those two becoming so close.
‘Soren,’ said Rabigar, leaning against the wall, his new eye patch a reminder of the terrible injury inflicted on him in Coldeberg. ‘I’ve made a good physical recovery, thanks to Elana. I can walk and ride fine. I don’t know how much use I’ll be with my sword any more. I’ve decided that I would like to see this thing through to the end. It would make things...’ The Krykker struggled—to find the right words, perhaps. To control his emotions. ‘It would make things seem like there was a purpose. But if you feel I wouldn’t be of any help, you only need to say so. I will understand.’
‘No,’ said Soren immediately. ‘I would like you to come.’
‘Then I will,’ replied Rabigar.
Gyrmund and Moneva re-entered the room.
‘We’ll go with you to the Caladri,’ Moneva said, flashing a quick smile.
Soren felt himself smiling, a bit foolishly, at the show of solidarity from this group, many of whom had been strangers to each other only a week before.
‘Well then…’ he began, but didn’t really know what he was going to say.
‘I think everyone should get ready immediately,’ began Belwynn, jumping into the silence in her slightly officious way. ‘I’m going to see if I can find Rainer and add something to the end of that letter, if Baldwin’s ambassador hasn’t left yet. Edgar should know what we’re up to.’
Belwynn found Rainer in time, and got much more from him besides. Their mounts were sent for from the Imps, and he arranged for supplies and equipment to be provided, including the weaponry of their choice. He also explained that they would have an escort. Duke Ellard and twenty of his retainers were leaving Essenberg at the same time, heading back to Guslar, the capital of his duchy.
It was still morning when Soren, his sister, their friends, and the men of Rotelegen set off north along the Great Road.
XIX
The Road to War
Shira walked slowly along the stone corridor, her footsteps echoing around the cold, seemingly empty fortress.
She was feeling queasy. She was tired, for one. Yesterday she had led her Haskan troops through Trevenza and Grienna. She smiled to herself. Like a hot knife through butter. The Griennese were good talkers, and maybe they had brought the Empire into the fight. But that was all they could do: they barely had an army, and what they had soon melted away when faced with the numbers at Shira’s disposal.
She made a left turn, becoming more apprehensive as she went. When she had been given the news that Erkindrix demanded her presence here the next morning, she had actually laughed. How was she supposed to get to Samir Durg within a matter of hours? Now she knew better. Shira mistrusted magic. When the Isharite magi who accompanied her army had explained that they would teleport her to the meeting, she had told them where to go. Empty words, of course. Everyone knew she would do it, for who would refuse the demands of Erkindrix of Ishari?
The magi had worked together on the spell and sent her off. It had lasted hours—hours upon hours of stomach-churning movement. As soon as it began, her vision had left her. When she’d opened her eyes, they would not work, unable to focus on anything as strange lights shot past. She felt the wind on her face, the same sensation as when galloping a horse. Her sense of balance had gone, too. She had the sensation of travelling, but whether she was lying down, upside down, or some other position, she had no idea. When it stopped, Shira found herself lying in a crumpled heap, outside the walls of the fortress. She had retched on the ground. She had retched again, until there was nothing left to bring up. It was morning, and she had travelled all night without sleep.
But Shira was a soldier. She stood up and walked to her meeting.
At the end of the corridor the huge iron gates of the throne room loomed large. Shira made out a figure waiting in the shadows. It was Arioc. So, he had been summoned too. After their successful invasion of Persala, Arioc had been ordered to complete the occupation of the country, destroying any remaining opposition. Shira had been given the task of completing the conquest by taking Trevenza and Grienna. Although only briefly, it had been the first time that she had been put in sole charge of a campaign. She was gradually moving out of Arioc’s shadow.
Shira had first met Arioc in her home country of Haskany. She
had been attracted to him from the beginning. She was attracted to powerful men, and he was the most powerful she had ever met. Arioc was a great warrior and war leader. Well over six feet tall, he stood above most men in height, but stood above all in sheer presence. Only a few did not succumb totally to his authority. And there was Arioc’s Isharite heritage. His legend said he was the son of Erkindrix. If so, he had inherited his father’s magical abilities. Shira knew little of magic, but she knew that Arioc had few peers as far as that went.
When she had first met him, nothing had happened. But soon, Arioc’s ambitions and those of her family united. Shira’s uncle became a close ally, plotting with him to secure the throne upon the death of King Harel. It had been Uncle Koren who had first suggested their marriage, to lend legitimacy to Arioc’s seizure of the throne. But playing the part of the good wife had little appeal. When the fighting started, Shira played her part as a soldier. It was only once they had fought together that Arioc and Shira became true lovers.
Shira knew that becoming Arioc’s wife and lover might bring her power, but she was unprepared for what followed. Arioc proposed to Erkindrix that she become the new member of the Council of Seven. He had a good argument. The people of Haskany respected, or feared, Arioc. But they could love Shira like they could never love him. Having no magical powers, she posed no real threat to anyone in Ishari either. For Arioc, of course, it would strengthen his position on the Council.
Since becoming King of Haskany, Arioc was increasingly establishing himself as second in command in Ishari. He got his way and Shira—a human, a woman, with no magic—joined the Council of Seven. In a formal meeting of the Council, she was appointed by Erkindrix himself. It was the only time she had met with the leader of Ishari before today. Shira had never felt true fear before that day.
Shira was feeling queasy, but not just from her journey. From dread at what lay beyond the doors.
‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ said Arioc drily, as Shira approached the doors. ‘I’ve heard about Trevenza and Grienna. You look like shit, by the way.’
‘Yes,’ replied Shira, barely taking in what he was saying. ‘What are we here for? Is it a meeting of the Council?’
Arioc shrugged. ‘I don’t know why we’re here. It’s not a Council meeting, though. Just you and me.’
Arioc smiled, appreciating the look on Shira’s face as she realised that meant an even closer, more intimate meeting with Erkindrix. She felt angry at his pleasure in her weakness.
She asked Arioc a question she had not dared to ask before.
‘You are his son, aren’t you?’
The question hung in the air for a while. Eventually, Arioc shrugged again, his face showing little emotion.
‘I don’t know,’ Arioc paused. ‘I’ve never asked.’
An unbelievable answer, but Shira believed it all the same. For a second time, Arioc smiled at the reaction on her face.
‘Time to go in,’ he said.
Before Shira could say anything, something which might delay proceedings for a few seconds more, Arioc pushed open the doors and walked in.
Edgar was feeling pleased with the day’s proceedings so far.
The response from his neighbours had been good. Prince Cerdda had come himself. Lord Rosmont, the Cordentine ambassador, was here to represent King Glanna. From the Midder Steppe, two chiefs, Brock and Frayne, had come. Emperor Baldwin’s ambassador, Lord Kass, had arrived this morning. He was a heavy-set man with a large stomach and a handlebar moustache that gained a life of its own whenever his mouth moved.
Guivergne had also sent a representative. Bastien, Duke of Morbaine, was brother to King Nicolas. He had attended Edgar’s coronation, and they had got on well. Bastien himself was not here, but he had sent a rather brusque, red-headed man named Russell. Edgar had, at first, not taken to Russell, who seemed to be a soldier by trade rather than an ambassador. After a while, however, he began to take his presence as a compliment. Russell was not here to play with words or waste time. He was here to tell Edgar and the others the truth, then report back to the Duke.
Edgar had wanted the numbers at the Conference to be kept down to a minimum, and this had been achieved. He himself had excluded all the nobles of South Magnia, such as Otha and Wulfgar, who had both requested a seat at the table. Ealdnoth and Wilchard were his only advisers.
His guests had followed Edgar’s lead. Altogether, twelve men sat around a table in Edgar’s castle at Granstow, on the border between South and North Magnia. It was a good location for the Conference, but also it made Edgar feel good to be here—the castle which, until recently, had been held by Harbyrt the Fat.
Edgar had sent out invitations for the Conference on the same day he had Harbyrt beheaded.
Edgar was also pleased because Lord Kass had passed on a letter from his cousin, Belwynn. It was the first communication he had received from the group since they had set off over a week ago.
He had not fully digested the contents of the letter. Parts of Belwynn’s story sounded strange, and he did not fully understand why she and Soren had decided to head further north rather than bring Toric’s Dagger back to Magnia. But the central facts: they had the dagger; they were safe. This was good news.
Lord Kass began the proceedings with a formal request for help from Emperor Baldwin. He then outlined the position the Emperor faced: an enemy much larger in size, a divided Empire, and little prospect of help coming from anywhere else. The Magnians and the Steppe chiefs were eager for all the information from around Dalriya they could get. Lord Kass and Lord Rosmont were often the better informed and therefore did more of the talking.
‘In the margins, Ishari has been flexing its muscles for some time now,’ Rosmont was saying. ‘In the east, the Barbarians have gradually been subjugated by Ardashir, a member of the Council of Seven. He is now pushing into the territory of the Bearmen. The Shadow Caladri have allied with Ishari and are waging war against the Blood Caladri.’
‘We believe that King Dorjan of the Shadow Caladri is another member of the Council of Seven,’ added Kass, his moustache bouncing about.
‘In Halvia, Drobax are raiding the kingdom of Vismar,’ continued Rosmont. ‘The Vismarians have already lost Alta island to the Kharovians, who now have mastery of the Lantinen Sea. In the north, King Jonas of Kalinth has all but handed his realm over to Erkindrix. But now Erkindrix and Arioc are putting their cards on the table. The conquest of Persala has drawn Baldwin to the brink of war. The intentions of Ishari are becoming all too clear. They want the whole of Dalriya.’
‘The trouble,’ began Kass, ‘is that the rest of Dalriya is not ready. The Empire is perhaps as much to blame as anyone. The danger from Ishari had become a thing of history. We have become obsessed with our own petty quarrels. Brasingia has warred with Guivergne and the Confederacy. Magnia has fought itself. The Caladri and the Krykkers have left the humans to themselves and become insular. Now that the threat has returned, there is no alliance to withstand it. My Emperor, Baldwin, has realised this. He hopes it is not too late.’
Edgar nodded. ‘As do I, Lord Kass. I want to ask: you refer to the previous threat Ishari posed this land. For me, this is a story passed down from so long ago it has more the feel of legend than history. But I feel that we should now learn all we can from it.’
Kass chuckled. ‘I agree, Prince Edgar, but the legends I was told around the fire of an evening are likely to be no more illuminating than yours. If anyone here can teach us, perhaps it would be Lord Ealdnoth?’
Ealdnoth nodded. ‘It is history, not legend. But it is a history from hundreds and hundreds of years ago. A time before humankind recorded events through writing—or at least such writing has not survived. If written accounts do survive, they were written by the Caladri.’
Ealdnoth took a breath, pausing before recounting his knowledge.
‘The Isharites invaded. The humans had arrived in Dalriya by sea. The Isharites arrived from another world, transporting themselves here by magic. A terrible war of survival followed, when the Isharites aimed to take Dalriya for themselves. The people of Dalriya united together. If I were to stick to true history, then I know nothing else for sure except the end of this war. A great battle between the two sides was fought in the centre of the continent. Incredible magic forces were released. The cracking of the world was the result. In the stories, we are victorious. But what does history really tell us? This great conflict seemed to end the war, but it was not decisive. We survived, but so did Ishari. Not a victory, then. More like a bitter truce. That truce has lasted hundreds of years, but the Isharites, it seems, have not forgotten. They have been waiting. The truce is over. I don’t know why it has happened now. But we should know that Ishari wants total victory—Dalriya for themselves only.’
The formal meeting lasted until the end of lunch. It was then agreed that they would hold a series of breakout meetings, where small groups could discuss their goals in the hope that they would all be able to forge a deal that everyone could sign up to by the end of the day. After talking with Cerdda and Russell at first, Edgar found himself alone with Ealdnoth, waiting for news from others.
‘No one has really needed persuading that Ishari represents a threat to all of us,’ Ealdnoth commented.