The Sworn

by Gail Z. Martin

  Hungry for more information, Tris moved to the next panel. Here, the king was shown in armor, wielding a sword. But it was the artist’s depiction of the king’s foes that caught Tris’s attention. Some were drawn in chalk tones, crudely, like corpses standing upright. Ashtenerath, Tris thought. Around the battlefield, the trees were hung with the dismembered bodies of men and animals. And behind the chalky fighters was a line of black-robed opponents. The next panel showed the victory, but Tris stared as the details became plain in the glow of the handfire. All of the black-robed foes lay vanquished on the ground, and the corpse fighters were fallen. The trees with their rotting fruit of dangling bodies, offerings to Shanthadura, were aflame. But it was the figure of the king that made Tris catch his breath. Hadenrul was on his knees, hands pressed against his chest, eyes turned skyward. And an unmistakable fountain of blood poured from the chest of the king.

  The next panel showed a great funeral procession. It was drawn in haste and lacked the artistry of the earlier murals. The materials used for the drawing had not held up as well, and some parts were smudged beyond recognition. But it was clear that the body of the king was borne on a bier carried by a sea of mourners. Musicians with drums and cymbals followed, and the faces of the mourners were painted to show unbearable grief. The king’s hands were clasped over a sword that he held on his chest. On the King’s right hand, the artist had taken pains to draw a gold ring. Tris bent closer, because the ring stood out. Whoever had drawn the mural had left out many details, giving only suggestions of the attire and adornment of the mourners or the king’s grief-stricken court. But the king’s ring was drawn in exceptional detail. As Tris squinted for a better look, he could see a complicated knot pattern set with dots of color that he assumed were meant for gems. He straightened, pondering the meaning of the mural.

  Nexus thrummed with power and a faint nimbus shone around it. Whether that was warning or warding, Tris had no way to know. As he had often complained to Soterius during their last campaign, no one had told him how its magic worked. Neither Royster nor Fallon could find any details about its forging or its origin in the annals of the Library at Westmarch, except that it was made for Bava K’aa on the eve of the Great War against the Obsidian King and it was said to hold a shadow of her magic. Wary of the sword and its price, Tris used it as infrequently as possible. For combat against a mortal foe, he had a beautiful and deadly long sword. But one of Nexus’s abilities was to manifest on the Plains of Spirit as a weapon that could destroy even the dead. And so, for this journey among the restless dead, Nexus was his weapon of choice.

  Tris had worried that he might not recognize Hadenrul’s tomb. Whoever had carried Hadenrul’s bones to the shrine had been a devoted servant of the king. A chamber opened off of the passage, and above the doorway, runes marked the name of Hadenrul. It was old script, long fallen into disuse and difficult to read. Tris paused at the door and extended his magic, careful to sense for traps and wardings. He sensed none.

  He let the mage fire illuminate the interior of the room. Unlike the catafalques in the outer chamber, there was no box to hold the body of the king. Instead, there was an altar in the center of the room. Tris entered, ducking to avoid the low transom of the doorway. Inside was a room with a domed roof. Murals covered these walls, too, as well as the ceiling. Eight panels of murals led the visiting mourner around the room. With a start, Tris realized that each panel depicted Hadenrul with one of the Aspects of the Sacred Lady, the deity whose worship he established in Margolan with the defeat of the followers of Shanthadura.

  As a summoner, Tris had glimpsed the Aspects. Whoever had drawn Hadenrul’s journey had been given accurate descriptions of the Lady in all Her faces. In the first panel, Hadenrul received his crown from the Mother, who was a generously proportioned woman with a broad face and full breasts and hips, standing on the bank of a wide river. In the next panel, Hadenrul received a blessing from the Childe, slim and robed in white. Doves ascended all around Hadenrul, and the Childe presented him with an armload of flowers and an ornate baldric.

  Next, the sultry Lover greeted Hadenrul with a kiss and laid her hand in blessing on his groin, in what Tris guessed meant that Hadenrul’s lineage would prosper and multiply. From Chenne, the Warrior Aspect, Hadenrul received a sword. Tris peered closely. Either the paint had smudged over the century or the artist meant to suggest that the sword itself shone with light.

  The Light Aspects had given Hadenrul their gifts, and in the next panels, the four Dark Aspects bestowed their thanks. Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of the vayash moru and the outcast, handed Hadenrul an ornate chalice full to the brim with what appeared to be blood. Sinha, the Crone, splayed a reading of bone and runes, holding up the Jalbet card of the Victorious King, all omens of fate. From the Whore, Hadenrul received mountains of gold. Women knelt beside him, reaching up, caressing his body. Many of the women already showed bellies swollen with child. Heaps of grain, apples, and potatoes stood as tall as a man, and fields heavy with produce for the harvest surrounded the goddess. Finally, Hadenrul stood before the Formless One, the Aspect of the Wild Host, so feared that there was no name spoken for her. Nameless was drawn as Tris had glimpsed her, a shrouded figure without a face. Behind her were her ghostly Host, wraiths, and revenants riding the skeletons of steeds. Nameless did not bestow a gift. Instead, the Aspect of chaos and genesis held out her hand, demanding a gift of the king. Hadenrul’s hand held out a human heart, torn from the gaping wound in his chest.

  Tris felt a shiver run down his spine as he turned back to the altar in the center of the room. Four candles made a semicircle around the three golden boxes. Someone had replaced the candles far more recently than Hadenrul’s death, Tris thought, and he wondered where the acolyte was hidden. Tris passed his hand over the candles and willed them into flame. Respectfully, Tris knelt in front of the altar and made the sign of the Lady in blessing. Then he stretched out his magic and carefully opened the first box. A man’s skull, yellowed with age, lay on a bed of crumbling velvet. The second box held the king’s sternum on silk that might once have been a brilliant red but now was the color of dried blood. In the third box lay the bones of a right hand, and on the index finger was the golden ring Tris had seen in the mural in the passageway.

  Tris felt the temperature in the crypt plummet. He felt the ghost’s presence behind him before he had time to rise. Nexus flared blindingly bright in his hand.

  “What do you seek?” The voice was deep and resonant, weary with years. It held both command and sorrow in equal measure, and a power that seemed to vibrate through Tris’s bones. Cautiously, Tris rose to his feet and turned, inclining his head in respect.

  “Tell me how you defeated the Durim,” Tris said. Hadenrul’s appearance without Tris’s need to summon him gave Tris to guess that the spirit of the dead king knew who he was and judged his lineage worthy.

  “You mean the Black Robes. The followers of Shanthadura.”

  Tris nodded. “You vanquished them four hundred years ago. But they’ve returned. They may be working with a dark summoner from across the Northern Sea. I don’t know how to fight them.”

  Hadenrul’s ghost looked solemn. “The Durim had caused great turmoil in Margolan when I saw the vision of the Sacred Lady. She wanted to end the slaughter, and her ways won over many of the worshippers of Shanthadura. As the worship of Shanthadura declined, so did the power of the Black Robes. But they had enough power for a final stand. It took all of my army’s strength and my mage’s cunning to win the day.”

  “You died in that battle, didn’t you?”

  Hadenrul nodded.

  “Were you a summoner?”

  Hadenrul looked startled for a moment, and then he smiled sadly. “Is that what the chroniclers say? My, how the stories have grown! No. No, I had no magic, unless you count exceptional intuition.”

  “Some would call that a type of magic.”

  Hadenrul shrugged. “Perhaps. But to your question, I did not have power
over the dead, or the spirits, or the undead. I sense that power in you. Your magic animates even those of us who have not stirred in centuries. I can… feel… your breath, feel the blood flowing in your veins, feel the beating of your heart. Things I have not felt in a very long time. Great magic courses through you, my son.”

  Hadenrul had been in his fourth decade when he died. He still had the features of a relatively young man, with dark hair cropped short for battle and a warrior’s build. He stood a head shorter than Tris, with broad shoulders and solid arms. A dark beard was braided, common for men going into combat. Whether he was a warlord or a king, Tris knew that Hadenrul had been a supreme warrior.

  “What turned the Durim? I need to know.”

  Hadenrul’s eyes were solemn. “Blood called them, and blood turned them. Not the blood of their sacrifices, taken by force. The blood of my troops, given in loyalty, given freely. Many men bled that day. But from that blood, the mages turned back the Durim.” His voice was a low whisper. “Not all magic that involves blood is to be feared, my son. In blood we’re birthed, and with the shed blood of the deer and cattle we fill our bellies. Blood can damn, and blood can redeem. It is the first magic, and the strongest.”

  Hadenrul’s image began to waver. “Stand firm, my son,” his voice said, as if from a great distance. Hadenrul’s spirit was gone. Shaken, Tris extinguished the candles and said a prayer to the Lady in blessing. Hadenrul’s ghost had not required his power to appear, and had not asked his permission to leave. Tris might have been able to follow the ghost on the Plains of Spirit, but something warned him not to try.

  Here in the gloom of the crypt, Tris had no idea how much time had passed. But before he could return to the world of the living, he had one more visit to make. Tris took a deep breath to steady himself. Nexus still had a faint glow, but if the sword sensed either danger or strong magic, it gave no sign. Making one last bow in respect, Tris left Hadenrul’s crypt and returned to the outer corridor, calling handfire once more to light his way.

  The murals ended with Hadenrul’s crypt, and, for a while, Tris walked along a passage with bare stone walls. He wondered if he had missed a side corridor or a hidden room. The passageway rounded a bend and ended in a dark opening. Once again, Tris extended his magic. He sensed no threat, but there was a presence in the darkness, something ancient that was waiting for him to enter.

  Nexus glowed brightly, and Tris sent more magic to the handfire, illuminating the end of the corridor. At the doorway to the darkened room were two very old vases. They were finely shaped and painted with faded images, fit for the grave goods of a barbarian king.

  Tris sent his magic into the room, and the handfire filled it with a cold, blue glow. Tris felt the echo of magic, a preservation spell. A man’s form lay on a slab of stone. A coat of animal skins covered the body from shoulder to ankle. Gold vambraces glistened from wrist to elbow on both arms. Rings sparkled on the corpse’s fingers, and an intricate talisman of hammered gold set with gems glittered on his chest. A thin, plain circlet was held between the corpse’s hands. A crude iron sword lay beside the body. All around the king’s resting place lay a wealth of items intended to secure his comfort in the Nether. Leather quivers, fine sets of bows, knives with carved bone handles, and beautifully made spears and pikes lay ready for their master’s use. At the foot of the slab lay the skeletons of two large dogs. Wolfhounds, Tris guessed by the bone structure.

  The walls of the crypt were covered with runes and symbols Tris did not recognize. Even after a thousand years, he could feel the vestiges of old magic in the room, magic that preserved Marlan the Gold’s body and his grave goods. Tris took a deep breath and willed his magic to fill him. He felt his magic resonate with the wardings in the tomb. His intent had been to probe the wardings and not to disturb them, but at the first touch of his power, a blinding light flared, and a rush of magic forced Tris to his knees, knocking his breath from him.

  The crypt grew cold, and a fine mist formed in the torchlight, swirling and coalescing into the shape of a man. The figure scowled, as if the interruption displeased him, but when he spoke, Tris did not recognize either his words or his accent.

  It’s been a thousand years. His language is as dead as he is.

  The power that had forced Tris to his knees receded, allowing Tris to regain his feet. An image became clear in Tris’s mind. A man with long, unruly golden hair and a thick, reddish beard wore clothing that matched that of the ancient corpse on the slab. Marlan looked to have been late in his third decade, at the height of his power as a warrior. His eyes glinted with intelligence and ruthlessness, and the set of his mouth was a grim, thin-lipped half smile, as if, even now, he was sizing up Tris. Marlan’s gaze lingered on the signet ring on Tris’s right hand, the crest of the kings of Margolan.

  Tris held up his hands, palms outward in a placating gesture as he stood, watching the spirit warily. He pointed toward the runes and markings on the crypt walls. “Tell me about the war,” Tris said carefully. The ghost frowned. “About the Dread.”

  Marlan’s eyes widened as if he recognized that single word, “Dread,” and images flooded Tris’s mind. Memories that were not his own overwhelmed him with the sights and sounds of battle. Tris suddenly stood at the fore of a large force, facing the army of the Cartelasian Empire, whose numbers looked to be much greater than his own force. The battle raged all around him, and Tris knew he was seeing through Marlan’s eyes. What Marlan’s forces lacked in powerful weapons they made up for with courage and savagery. More of the empire’s soldiers than Marlan’s troops lay dead on the ground, and Tris watched as Marlan’s soldiers drove off the Cartelasian soldiers, riding down the stragglers and beheading the captives.

  On Marlan’s side, there were score upon score of men wearing crude helmets and leather armor, wielding maces or swords. But among them, Tris glimpsed shadow warriors, opaque, black forms without faces. These shadow warriors carried no visible weapons, but the Cartelasian generals fled before them, stumbling over their own men to escape.

  The shadow warriors moved like a cloud against the enemy. In front of the dark shapes, soldiers ran screaming, casting away their weapons as they ran for their lives. Behind the shadows, mangled corpses and skeletons lay on the battlefield.

  Are they the Dread, or the beings that the Dread guard? Tris wondered.

  Other strange shapes caught Tris’s attention. Dimonns? Tris wondered, and immediately decided differently. The shapes were amorphous balls of light, dark blue or bright red, and the light shifted to take on different, glowing forms. Some became huge beasts with fangs as long as a man’s forearm and claws that could eviscerate with a single swipe. Others became great winged reptiles that ripped their prey into pieces. Still others took on the form of men, but these fighters had six arms and carried vicious scythes, dismembering the enemy soldiers unlucky enough to get in their way.

  Marlan’s soldiers held the field, but few men remained on their feet, and most of those were badly wounded. Severed arms, legs, and heads were strewn across the ground, along with entrails and the torn carcasses of battle steeds. The flag of the Cartelasian Empire lay bloody in the muck, trampled underfoot as its soldiers fled.

  The creatures turned on Marlan and his soldiers.

  Trapped within Marlan’s memories, Tris saw a yellow glow radiate from Marlan’s body. Light streamed from his hands, and the corpses of his fallen soldiers staggered to their feet against the new enemy. Against this foe, the former victors were badly outclassed. The creatures of blue and red swept aside Marlan’s soldiers, living and dead, and Tris realized that they wanted the magic that surrounded Marlan. Powerful magic. Summoner magic.

  Just as the blue and red creatures reached Marlan, the shadow warriors rallied, raising their arms in a gesture of warding. Blinding light filled the sky. Tris felt the memories blur, and he guessed that Marlan was choosing which images to show him. When the memories once again took shape, Marlan stood beside a large mound, one of the barr
ows of the Dread. His hands were outstretched in warding, and a procession of shadow warriors filed into the mound. Behind Marlan stood what remained of his living soldiers.

  The onslaught of images ended abruptly enough to make Tris stagger. Tris drew on his own power as he turned back to face the ghost, drawing them both onto the Plains of Spirit.

  Why have you come? Whether Marlan’s voice sounded in the tomb or just within his own skull, Tris could not tell. Here in Nether, their spirits could communicate without the barriers of speech and language.

  Someone is trying to raise the Dread—or whatever it is the Dread guard. I need to know how to stop them.

  What the Dread bind, they choose to bind. And if they choose, they can loose the First Spirits, the Nachale.

  Were you a summoner?

  The old king’s spirit hesitated, as if it had to search to understand Tris’s words. Finally, Marlan spoke. We did not use that word, “summoner.” My people called me a ghost caller, and my enemies called me Sja Kun. It meant Death-bringer.

  How can I persuade the Dread to ally with us? We think a dark summoner is trying to win the Dread to his side. It may become a War of Unmaking.

  There were tales, even in my day, about Wars of Unmaking. For the dead, every war is a war of unmaking.

  Tris remembered the warning Alyzza had given him. What of a bridge? Is there a bridge between the Dread and the Nachale? A bridge that the Dread guard?

  I know nothing about a bridge. The Dread guard the passage to the world of the living. The Sworn are their guardians.

  How can I persuade the Dread to side with Margolan to defend your kingdom again? How did you gain them as allies?

  The Dread sought me. I did not seek them.

  If they’re as powerful as you say, what did you have that they wanted?

  Marlan paused. I was a channel for their power, and they were a channel for mine. They had not been alive in so long, I believe they had lost their connection to the power of breath and blood. Magic is born of both spirit and sinew. Whether they could have found another channel, I do not know. But together, we were enough to bind the Nachale, although they were too ancient to destroy. Whatever power now calls to them, it will be up to the Dread to decide whether to listen or whether to turn away.