The Swordsman's Oath

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “Do you think they need our help?” I heard one of the mercenaries ask his mate doubtfully.

  “Over there, he’s over there!” Guinalle gestured wildly at the far bank, toward the ruins of some kind of watchtower. “Their Artificer, he’s over there!”

  “Master, can you get us beside that wharf?” I shouted to the captain. “We have to get off quick if we’re not to be cut to pieces as we land!”

  “Let us.” Shiv nodded to Usara and the great serpent vanished, leaving only a few swimmers struggling among the flotsam of the ebbing tide. Our boat rode over the water, however, gliding impossibly through the exposed mud flats to wedge itself securely against an undercut shore, the mercenaries leaping over the rail to land on dry grass, which was soon running red with the blood of the Elietimm who charged down to meet our unexpected attack.

  After that first success our assault faltered as a handful of our warriors fell to their knees. The air felt heavy around me, almost as if a storm threatened. I wondered if some wizard’s magic was going awry. Then one woman, Jervice, Halice’s friend, struggled to her feet and I saw her eyes were black as pitch.

  “Drianon forgive me!” As Livak whispered her prayer, she threw a dart, hard and true and Jervice crumpled to the ground before she could plant her raised sword in the skull of the man next to her. Others were not so lucky and I saw more than one colonist, so long in waiting, sent straight to Saedrin’s door by an unexpected blow from behind. Rage threatened to overwhelm me and I clubbed the man responsible with a heavy hand, sending him bleeding to the ground.

  “Tror mir’al, es nar’an,” Guinalle set up a frantic chant somewhere close. “Parrail, repeat this after me and don’t stop, if you love your sanity!”

  As the peculiar rhythm built, the sense of pressure faded and our attack was pressed home with renewed bitterness. “Go for the commanders, the ones with gold or silver at their throats!” I heard Temar shouting. More of Livak’s darts went shooting past my ear to drop anyone she could see with a gorget in their steps. I spared her a glance, hearing her chanting something under her breath. “What are you saying?”

  “Whatever—it is—that she is,” Livak said between repetitions. “It can’t hurt, can it?”

  “Over there!” Dragging Parrail along with her other hand, Guinalle grabbed my sleeve and then pointed at the creeper-clad base of the watchtower. “He’s in there.”

  “Temar!” I pointed to the tower and looked around. “Tavie, Buril, with me, and you others!”

  “Maintain the ward, whatever you do.” Guinalle dropped Parrail’s hand and I noticed the bruises of her finger marks in his flesh. “It’s up to you now. I have to block the source of this Artifice.”

  She hurried toward the tower, heedless of danger, Livak and I hastening to put ourselves either side of her as we fought our way through the melee. As we reached the entrance, ’Sar sent magic from somewhere behind us to reduce the doorway to rubble and splinters. After an instant of recoiling from that shock, Temar and I led the charge inside. Those who came to meet us died quickly, as I found myself knowing every move Temar was going to make a breath before he did it. It seemed to be working both ways as well. As I darted to the side and an Elietimm sought to follow me, Temar’s sword was already moving to spill his guts over the dusty floor. As a second man thought he could smash his blade down into Temar’s outstretched arm, I was already poised to drive my crude blade into his head, ripping it out again to smash the hilt into the face of the gorget-wearer hoping to meet Temar’s retreat. The rest of the guard died bloodily under the swords of those beside us.

  “Upstairs.” Guinalle was flattened against the wall, blood on her skirts, eyes fixed on the beams above her head. Livak, similarly splashed, waited ready to defend her, but no assailants were getting past Buril and Tavie, who had set themselves at the threshold. The two heavy-set mercenaries were drenched in gore, some their own, grimly purposeful as they hacked down any Elietimm trying to seek sanctuary within the tower again.

  “Come on.” Temar set a foot on the lowest step of the stair winding up the inside of the wall and I hurried to follow him. I nodded and we both ran up the narrow treads, swords raised, ready to kill whatever we found but crashing helplessly into some unseen barrier that sent agony shooting through my skull. Gasping for breath, I stared into the hollow room in total disbelief.

  It was him, the priest from Shek Kul’s domain—Kramisak, the bastard who had fled and left me to watch over Kaeska’s agonized death. He sat, calm, within a circle of eerie radiance, a mocking half-smile on his thin lips as he nodded toward me in a taunting salute. Stripped to the waist, his hands were raised and he was once more covered in black sigils, shocking against the white of his skin and hair. “I will attend to you later, Tormalin man, I have bigger fish on the hook at present.”

  I glared at him and waved Temar over to test the circle on the opposite side. We found we could move around the enchanter easily enough but could not reach him; even touching a sword to the baleful light sent agony shooting up the arm that held it. As I walked slowly round, I looked over the river to see how the battle fared. The walls of the encampment were wreathed in scarlet fire; Naldeth or Kalion must have set all the creepers alight, which did not suggest the fight went well for our side. Where were Otrick’s lightning strikes, which had shattered Elietimm ambitions the year before?

  “It’s a ward, a strong one.” Guinalle stood at the top of the steps, peering around Livak’s shoulder. Livak’s face was pale and set and I knew just what it must be costing her to come face to face with the Elietimm magic that had tortured her so foully before. Kramisak’s attention wavered for a moment and the circle brightened, but Guinalle raised a hand with a stream of liquid syllables and whatever the bastard was attempting against her went past in vain.

  “Livak, do you trust me?” Guinalle moved to one side, her eyes never leaving the Elietimm enchanter. “Believe me, anything he can do, I can match. Hold my hands, echo my words and understand that he cannot touch us.”

  Livak’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but she took Guinalle’s pale and delicate hands in her own tanned ones and repeated the arcane chant that the younger woman raised, Guinalle’s ancient accents, unheard for so many generations, mingling with the cadence of Livak’s Forest blood, songs learned in childhood from her long absent father giving her the pattern of the lost magic.

  “No, you cannot!” Kramisak leaped to his feet with a shout of outrage as his circle flickered and died. He seized a mace that lay on the floor and launched himself at Guinalle. I dashed forward to intercept him, catching the crushing head of his weapon on the battered edge of my sword. He spat at me, slime just missing my face, and cursed me in his own tongue before hissing a familiar chant at me. I braced myself but no confusion threatened me, no dizziness robbed me of my wits.

  “Daughter of whores and mother of vermin!” Kramisak tried to go for Guinalle again but I sent him sprawling backward into the far wall with a kick in the stomach.

  “It’s time for a fair fight, you pox-rotted bastard,” I heard myself say. “There’s unfinished business between us, gurry-breath!”

  “Then it’s my turn.” Temar was circling around behind me now, making sure Kramisak had no opportunity to reach Guinalle and Livak if he somehow evaded me.

  “I took you once, prince’s man. I can do it again,” the enchanter snarled, hefting his mace in both hands.

  Not today, I thought, going in hard against his rapid blows, sweeping his iron-bound mace aside to rip a long tear down his near arm. To have his own blood let like that seemed to enrage Kramisak still more and he came at me with a flurry of furious strokes. For all his ferocity, I found myself evading him with ease. He seemed completely unable to read my moves, and equally was unable to stop himself mistakenly anticipating my strokes and stepping into a blow rather than defending against it. I cut him again, a deep wound to the upper arm that weakened his blows considerably. He still managed to get a bruising strike i
n on my leg, but in doing so laid himself open to a sideways slice that left his ribs showing white bone within the torn red flesh. This ragged sword was sawing into him like wood and I leaned all my strength into my blows.

  He was fighting Temar. I saw it in an instant of incredulous understanding. Kramisak did not realize that the mind behind my sword in our battle before Shek Kul had been another’s. He was fighting Temar and was losing to me. What would Temar do to that lunge, I asked myself rapidly. He would parry, just so. I stepped in the other direction and slid my notched sword around and over Kramisak’s mace to rip into his throat, great gouts of his blood making the hilt slip in my hands as the disbelief in his eyes faded and he fell forward, the foul and all too familiar stench of death rising from his body as his last spasms ended. I leaned down and cut the belt, with its antique buckle, from his corpse.

  Great cries rose from the mercenaries outside. I stepped to a ruined window to see what was going on. To my total surprise, those Elietimm still standing were throwing down their weapons, kneeling, arms spread wide, unmistakably suing for mercy, something the mercenaries were rather more inclined to grant than the colonists, who slew most that they could reach before the mercenaries stopped them. Across the river the fires around the steading suddenly died and Shiv vanished in a flash of azure light, leaving the knot of colonists he had been defending with spears of lightning looking at each other, completely astounded. He reappeared next to me a moment later, chest heaving.

  “Is it over?” I demanded, Temar at my side, Livak and Guinalle still clutching each other’s hands by the stairway.

  “For the present!” Shiv let loose a wild yell of triumph, embracing me, a gesture I returned without hesitation before turning to do the same to Livak, kissing her soundly as well.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taken from the family archive of the House Den Rannion,

  Bremilayne.

  From Lyal, Sieur Den Rannion, to Ingaret, Messire Den Perinal, by the hand in person of Milral Arman, of common height with red hair and blue eyes, a scar on his sword arm and a brand of horse theft on his off hand.

  My dear cousin,

  I write with the sad tidings that my esteemed father, Vahil, late Sieur of this House was received by Saedrin’s grace on the 44th day of For-Summer. I would ask that you convey this news to your mother, my beloved aunt, Maitresse Elsire, in such a manner as you feel appropriate for her age and infirmity. I leave it to your discretion as to whether or not you tell her his final words were of their parents, the friends of his youth, and sorrow over some undischarged vow. I regret to say that this last caused him no little distress and consequently, I assured him that, when circumstance allowed, I would seek to rediscover the lost colony of which I know your mother also still speaks.

  Between, ourselves, I can only pray that Saedrin is able to pacify my father on this matter, else we face the prospect of his inconsolate shade wandering our halls for some generations to come. Our situation is not as desperate as some but Misaen will halt the moons before I have resources to spend chasing an old man’s disappointments with only half-remembered tales and inadequate records to guide me. The fighting has passed us by for the moment and I am in negotiation with sundry Houses in support of the Sieur D’Aleonne. I would appreciate your thoughts on this matter and, of course, any assurance of military aid that you might care to make available, should the situation in your locality become more stable. You might also care to know that the Sieur D’Istrac has approached me in respect of a betrothal between my daughter Kindra and his eldest nephew. How go your negotiations with D’Evoir?

  Kel Ar’Ayen, 22nd of For-Autumn

  Are you all ready to go?” Shiv sauntered down the wharf, his own baggage slung negligently over one shoulder.

  “I think so.” I looked up to the gateway to the Den Rannion steading, now cleared and roughly repaired. Halice and Livak were deep in conversation, Halice in workaday breeches and jerkin while Livak stood with her kit-bag leaning against the wall. I rubbed a hand against my pocket to reassure me that the parchment bearing Halice’s account of the healing done to her leg was secure there. If I were going to hand back my oath, I would be rendering a full accounting.

  “I was rather surprised when she said she was staying,” Shiv remarked. “How’s Livak taking it? I know they’ve been close a long time.”

  “Whatever else, she wants Halice to be content,” I shrugged.

  “Yes, she’s sad, and she’s done every cursed thing she can to change her mind, but when all the runes are thrown, it’s still Halice’s decision. Livak can’t deny her that.”

  “Do you know why, exactly?” Shiv looked curious. “I haven’t liked to ask.”

  “Halice says she’s had enough of fighting in Lescar, of spending every season losing friends only to have all the runes swept back into the bag and drawn afresh the next year. I can’t say I blame her, that’s one of the reasons my friend Aiten got clear of the civil wars. Now Halice reckons she’s found a place where her skills can be useful and she feels she’s fighting for a worthwhile cause.” I grimaced, wondering where I would find such a thing now and still feeling a dull pang at Aiten’s name.

  “I hope she doesn’t have to do any more fighting this year,” Shiv grimaced. “Until we can get some more people over here, they’re still cursed vulnerable.”

  I shook my head and pointed at the walls of the steading where busy figures were repairing the crenellations and wall walk. “Most of the mercenaries are staying and, with all the colonists we could revive, they should be all right through the winter. They’ve been putting the prisoners to work building houses and defenses as well as picking everything they can find to eat or store, so they’re well enough prepared.”

  “I still think it’s odd so many of them surrendered like that.” Shiv shook his head. “How can we be sure there are no magic-wielders among them?”

  “Guinalle is sure of it.” I shrugged. “She’s been picking their minds apart if they so much as look at anyone sideways. Parrail was telling me it’s all connected with a hierarchy of authority in the Elietimm culture.” I did my best to mimic the young scholar’s earnest tones. “Once their leader was dead, they had no choice but to submit to the leader of those strong enough to defeat him.”

  “Sounds highly implausible to me,” muttered Shiv darkly.

  “I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it. Remember, those islands aren’t like Lescar, able to keep ripping each other apart year after year because so many other people get fat off the spoils or have an interest in keeping the fighting going. If the Elietimm fought like Lescaris, all they’d have in a couple of seasons would be bare rock to eat and cold sea to drink.”

  “Maybe.” Shiv did not look convinced.

  “The prisoners aren’t a threat, Shiv. If they all die of a fever tomorrow, the colony can manage without them.” I wouldn’t grieve if they did, I thought, silently acknowledging that I shared Shiv’s reservations to some extent. “No, everyone here will be safe enough over the winter; the Elietimm won’t be able to cross the ocean again this year. Better yet, losing their expedition should give them pause for thought before they set sail in the spring, even if they know what happened to them, which I would doubt.”

  “Has anyone come up with an explanation for those bastards having copies of the ancient Tormalin charts of this place, the ones made by Den Fellaemion or whatever he was called?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” I tried to look unconcerned, not wanting to think about Planir’s request that I use my possible new status to investigate this on Messire’s behalf. “I hardly think it’s important.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Shiv sighed. “I suppose that’s one advantage we have over them. We can cross the ocean this late in the year, though Trimon knows I’m not looking forward to it without Otrick or Viltred to help.”

  “Dastennin grant us safe passage,” I agreed, none too keen myself at the prospect of the imminent voyage in the teeth of the autumn
storms.

  “So what will you be doing?” Shiv rummaged in a pocket and handed me a little horn beaker. I held it while he filled it with water, which soon began to steam gently. “Go on, tell me,” he urged as he dropped a twist of muslin fragrant with herbs into the cup. “I saw you talking to Planir, what did he have to say?”

  I handed Shiv his tisane. “It seems the Archmage gave your old friend Casuel letters to take to Messire before we started our voyage. Anyway, Cas was asked to stay on, so that Planir could advise Messire directly of the success or otherwise of our quest.”

  “And?” demanded Shiv.

  “And Messire feels I should be raised in rank from sworn man to chosen man,” I said dryly.

  “But that’s an honor, isn’t it?” asked Shiv doubtfully, seeing my expression.

  “It could be, if I choose to accept it,” I nodded, still looking at Livak who was hugging Halice. “I have the voyage home to decide in, haven’t I? Have you another one of those cups?” I wasn’t about to discuss this with anyone before I had talked everything through with Livak. “Anyway, what will you be doing with yourself?”

  “After I’ve taken Pered to Col for the Equinox, you mean?” Shiv grinned as he handed me the tisane, but his expression suddenly became serious as he made another for himself. “Planir will have every mage with wits or breath busy testing everything we learn about aetheric magic, sorry, Artifice I suppose we should be calling it now. That and threatening every scholar, university and temple with fire and flood unless they give up everything they know about the slightest magical tradition. Saedrin knows, the magic we’ve won has been costly enough.”

  “Viltred’s visions did him no real service, did they?” I commented. “So much for his predictions of a glorious future with us all dressed up in our festival best.”

  “Auguries are most accurate the closer they are in time.” Shiv shrugged. “The warning about the Elietimm was clear enough; he’d have died if he stayed, no question.”