The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “It is a lucky fool who escapes the drudgery of his lessons.”

  She sang it like a mantra, and Chantmer lifted his head, scowling. His eyes fell on Markal. “Oh, it’s you.” He slid to the side to open a space.

  “No, I didn’t come for that. The paladin is leaving.”

  “Good. And may we never see her again.” Chantmer said it, but the sentiment was reflected in the expressions of the other two. “Now that we’ve faced the barbarian, we should be able to seal the garden against her return.”

  “I want the gardens protected against wights,” Markal said. “That frightens me more than one misguided paladin.”

  “The paladin broke her way into the gardens. The wights couldn’t even cross the bridge.”

  “I don’t know if the wights will return or not, but Bronwyn isn’t the danger here. She’s a paladin on a quest for something related to this dark magic. I’m inclined to help her. We share an enemy.”

  “But Markal,” Nathaliey said, “it was Bronwyn who entered the gardens, not the spirits of the dead. She’s the one who wields this infernal talking sword. And what about Eliana? Are you going to forget her death?”

  “I think that was an accident. We were fighting the paladin, and she struck the keeper to protect her own life. Any of us would have done the same.”

  Nathaliey frowned. “Eliana is still dead. We can’t turn our backs on this woman—she’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m not turning my back on her. In fact, I’m going to travel with her to see what I can discover.”

  He explained his thinking. Bronwyn claimed she’d faced all of the dangers of the mountains to find a sorcerer. This dark wizard was responsible for some unknown threat to her homelands or her religious order. And the apprentices had evidence that Bronwyn’s enemy existed—the wights who’d chased Chantmer, Narud, and Nathaliey from Syrmarria could only have been controlled by a necromancer, a sorcerer of considerable power.

  Then there was the matter of the missing pages in the Book of Gods, the aggressive posture of the high king’s pasha in the aftermath of Memnet’s death, and the khalif’s treachery. Perhaps none of these things were connected, but Markal thought they were.

  “So you’ve made a proclamation,” Chantmer said. “You aren’t asking our opinion. What if we disagree? Or what if we agree with the general thrust of your scheme, but think that one of us would be a better choice to accompany this woman? For that matter, we could send an acolyte if it’s only to return and report. Why one of the four of us at all?”

  Markal didn’t precisely answer the questions. “The paladin is a solitary warrior. She keeps her secrets close and fights alone. But when I suggested accompanying her, she didn’t dismiss the idea.”

  “I am uncomfortable with the entire plan,” Narud said.

  “We all are, Markal,” Nathaliey said. “The master is asleep and recovering, and until he wakes, our duty is to obey his commands. We’ve been told to protect this sanctuary at all costs.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

  Chantmer rose to his feet and crossed his arms. The other two rose with him. “You never answered me. Why should it be you?”

  “It can’t be you,” Markal said. He chose his words carefully so as to feed his tall companion’s ego. “You’re too powerful, and your magic is needed to protect the gardens. Nathaliey escaped the palace dungeon—what if the khalif or the pasha is searching for her? She’s safest here, where she can’t be found.”

  “Then what about me?” Narud asked in a solemn voice.

  Markal turned to him with surprise. That suggestion was harder to dismiss. Narud had the sharpest senses of any of them, and he could read the natural world with uncanny accuracy, even listening in on the scattered thoughts of birds and beasts.

  “Yes, why not Narud?” Nathaliey said. “The paladin seems to hold no special hostility for him, and Narud proved his stamina on the road the night before last. And he knows when to hold his tongue. He won’t give up our secrets.”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” Markal said, seizing an opening. “We need to question this woman until we find out what information she holds. Narud isn’t the man for that, I am. Besides, I’m the weakest of the four, and the most easily replaced. You all know it—I can see it on your faces.”

  Nobody contradicted him. Instead, they glanced at each other, frowning, as if waiting for someone else to speak, either authorizing or denying authorization. Their primary objection seemed to be Markal’s initiative in the matter, but that could hardly sustain an argument against the plan.

  “Very well,” Chantmer said with a nod of finality, though it was no more his duty to give permission than to withhold it. “You may go.”

  #

  Bronwyn led the way up the road, crossing the bridge where they’d faced the wights, then continuing north toward Syrmarria. She rode confidently, as if she knew the terrain, and after about four miles, she took a small branch to the north that was little more than a sheep path.

  Markal pulled his horse alongside of hers. “Have you taken this road before?”

  “No, why?”

  “Then why did you leave the road?”

  “I’m following a trail. It’s heavy with the scent of wights.”

  “Your sword told you this?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Yes, if you must know.”

  “This doesn’t lead anywhere. There’s a small village by the name of Agria a few miles north. Shepherds and weavers and crofters. A hundred souls, more or less. But this little road stops at the village. After that, you’ll find the Sacred Forest. We’ll be forced to backtrack.”

  “Nevertheless, this is where the trail leads. I must follow it.”

  The thought that they might find the sorcerer in the tiny, indefensible village of Agria was laughable. If there was such a person, surely he would take up residence in one of the ruined castles that dotted the land, probably on a hilltop far from the road.

  But Bronwyn would not be dissuaded, and so they continued north. By afternoon, they reached the hills outside of Agria, and soon went over the final crest and into the flatlands. The village spread along the road in a collection of twenty or so squat mud-and-thatch houses. Hedgerows divided the land into an irregular patchwork of green.

  “The hill country west of your kingdom is dry and the grass brown,” Bronwyn said. “A traveler on the road told me that drought had crippled most of the khalifates. But it doesn’t seem to have affected this territory at all.”

  “Aristonia is a blessed land,” Markal said. “The rains have been lighter the past couple of years than we are accustomed to, but enough has fallen to keep fields green and streams running. We are favored by the Brothers.” He nodded ahead of him. “There’s your village. You see there’s nothing to it. We’ll have to turn around.”

  “Why not follow the road north?”

  “I told you, there is no road, only the Sacred—”

  He pulled up his horse and stared. The road, which had previously stopped at Agria, continued north, slicing through the pastureland and disappearing in the distance.

  Bronwyn smiled. “I should wager that you do not pass this way often.”

  “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But there’s nowhere for the road to go. There’s nothing but forest in that direction, all the way to the border of Aristonia. That must be thirty miles, and it would take an age to fight our way through all of those trees. Some parts are so thick as to be nearly impassable.”

  She reached over her shoulder to touch her sword hilt as if looking for confirmation. “Keep going.”

  Markal intended on asking the villagers about this strange new development, but when they rode in among the humble buildings slouching along the road, they found Agria deserted. Not a soul in sight.

  It didn’t seem that any violence had visited the village, however, as the doors were all closed properly, and the interiors neat and tidied up when Markal stopped to look, although i
t seemed that cookware and bedding had been carted off. It was as if the entire population had gathered possessions for the road and left in an organized, peaceful migration. Markal hadn’t noticed before, but the pastures were deserted too, without a single sheep, pig, or chicken to be seen. The meadows were overgrown, ungrazed for several weeks, at least.

  Markal was more curious than alarmed as they continued north. The road stretched two more miles until it reached the edge of the woods, and then, even more surprisingly, it entered. Not much more than a footpath, it was true, but it was no mean feat to uproot and cut aside all those trees.

  “Who did this?” he said. “Who would defile this place? These woods were planted by the Forest Brother himself, and have been untouched since the foundation of the world. Who would do such a thing?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Bronwyn urged her horse to enter. It was now late afternoon, and Markal was reluctant to enter and be caught in the woods at night.

  “Wait,” he called.

  She held up. “I’m not afraid of forest creatures. Wolves, bears, gnomes and the like. Anyway, we have another hour or two until dusk, plenty of time.”

  “Why aren’t you listening to me? There’s thirty miles of dense forest ahead of us. And look at those stumps and downed branches—the horses won’t be moving very quickly.”

  “It isn’t thirty miles to the end of my trail. The sword is speaking to me—we’re drawing close.”

  “Even worse. Something or someone lured those villagers in here. Some monstrosity that drew them to it and devoured them. If we enter with our horses, it might be the end of us, too.”

  “What a vivid imagination you have, Markal. Look, you can stay or you can come with me, but it makes no difference. If the sorcerer is on the other end of this road, I mean to find him and see him destroyed.”

  Nevertheless, her horse seemed reluctant to enter the woods, and Markal’s horse outright balked. He had to coax and plead to get her moving forward. For a moment, he heard the mare’s worried thoughts, but his connection with the animal closed before he could determine what had her alarmed. Was that just the natural jitters of entering a dark, close space, or did the animal sense the sorcerer?

  Old sheep droppings on the trail indicated that yes, the villagers had taken their flocks, and here and there Markal caught other signs of passage: a child’s broken sandal, a scrap of torn clothing, a tuft of wool snagged on a branch. But it wasn’t much of a passageway through the woods, and travel was laborious. Meanwhile, the shadows lengthened, and the closed-in spaces were already nearly dark.

  Markal was about to suggest they find a place of relative security to wait out the night—perhaps with their backs against one of the largest oak trees—when he caught a whiff of smoke.

  He sniffed again. “What do you make of that?”

  “I smell nothing. What is it?”

  “Fire.”

  She turned in the saddle and gave a satisfied-looking nod. “You see. And you claimed it would take us thirty miles to cross the forest. There, now I smell it, too. You have a sharp nose.”

  She touched the sword hilt. “No sign of wights. Seems that they’re far away, if they ever passed this way in the first place. Perhaps we’ll find the sorcerer undefended.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  There was no longer any pretense that the sword wasn’t feeding her information, and Markal wondered if it was a good time to prod her for more about this supposed sorcerer. But the smell of smoke was growing stronger, and they urged their horses forward, guessing that they were drawing close to the camp.

  Up to this point, the cut through the forest had been tentative, curving around the largest obstacles, with trees only felled when the cutting of branches would not suffice. Enough of the brush and other undergrowth had been hacked away to allow for the passage of humans and animals, but a cart could not have passed. But shortly, larger trees had been felled, and sometimes nothing was left but the stump, as if they’d been chopped up and burned as fuel.

  The smell of smoke grew, until it was almost overwhelming.

  “This isn’t just a few villagers,” he said. “It must be a major encampment.”

  Bronwyn sniffed at the air with her eyes narrowed. “Smells like wildfire, like the kind that burns through the hill country during the dry season.”

  “This forest wouldn’t burn. The undergrowth is green, the forest floor covered in a mat of wet leaves. The larger trees are simply too big to catch fire. And old magic hangs here—no wildfire would ever take hold in the Sacred Forest.”

  Bronwyn had continued several yards ahead while Markal looked around him at the evidence of felled trees, but now she stopped the horse and stood in her stirrups to get a better look at whatever was in front of her. Her eyes were wide when she turned back to face him.

  “Well now, Markal of Aristonia. It would seem that you have been wrong about a good many things.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Nathaliey was repairing one of the wards at the vulnerable north gate when she spotted a figure stumbling down the road. He led a horse that pulled and tossed its head, trying to turn around and get away from this place. Magic confused and baffled any creature, living or dead, that approached the gardens unbidden. The mystery was how the man and his horse had crossed the bridge over Blossom Creek in the first place.

  The intruder was only two hundred yards away from the gate, but seemed to have difficulty staying on the road, let alone seeing the walls straight ahead of him. He scarcely lifted his head to look. A light drizzle fell from the sky, and he’d drawn the hood of his cloak about his face, and it disappeared in the long shadows of early evening.

  Nathaliey beckoned for Narud, who was working a few feet away. He threw back his cowl and stared at the intruder with a deepening frown.

  “First the paladin, now this fellow,” Nathaliey said. “What is wrong with our defenses? We need the master.”

  She and Narud had been working all afternoon to shore up the damaged wards and runes. Keepers and acolytes helped, but it would have gone faster with their two companions. But Markal had left with the paladin, and Chantmer had turned up his nose at the work.

  “Oh, no,” Chantmer had said loftily when Nathaliey tried to organize the three remaining apprentices for their labors. “You two will have to do that yourself. I must feed my strength into the master’s orb.”

  Chantmer, that crook, had confessed with a sly smile that he’d pilfered Memnet’s Orb from Markal before their fellow apprentice left the garden. A spell, undetected by Markal, had both snatched away the object and temporarily taken the memory of the object’s very existence from his mind. By the time Markal remembered enough to check his bags for it, he and the barbarian would be many miles away. And now Chantmer meant to dominate it for his own use.

  Wasted effort. Chantmer would never master the orb in time to aid their defense of the gardens. The last time he’d tried to wield it, Bronwyn snatched it away like a wooden sword from a naughty child who had been hitting his brother. Chantmer should have left it in the desert where it had fallen. The master could have recovered it when he was well.

  “Chantmer will come if we tell him there’s an intruder,” Narud said, still studying the figure fighting his way toward the gate.

  “We can manage this one,” she said. “He’s not even armed. And look at how he stumbles.”

  Narud exposed his sleeves. “It won’t take much to send horse and master fleeing in terror.”

  She put a hand on his wrist. “No, let’s see what he does. It might give a hint as to how he crossed the bridge. Come on, let’s take a closer look.”

  The two apprentices quietly made their way through the gate and out of the garden, then settled in with their backs against the wall. The brick was warm from the sun. Nathaliey let the wall’s protective magic draw her into its shadow and stood watching as the figure approached.

  The figure kept faltering, but whenever he seemed to
have the urge to turn around, he reached into his cloak and touched an object hanging from a cord about his neck. A talisman of some kind. How curious.

  At last, the man stood right at the gate. Two steps forward and he’d be inside. His horse was two paces behind, head pulled back, tugging at the cord. Nathaliey and Narud stood a few feet away, but the man paid them no notice, and the horse didn’t spot them, either.

  The wards were strong here, like a current of water against which the man had been swimming, and now he’d reached the source. Three times he touched whatever was inside his cloak, ducked his head, and tried to forge ahead, but he’d take a step or two forward only to fall back again. The yanking, snorting horse didn’t help. Soon, he was ten feet back from the gate, then twenty. The threat, Nathaliey knew, had passed.

  In a final, desperate attempt, he threw back his head and let his hood fall. She got a shock. “Natty, where are you? It’s me!”

  “What do you know?” Narud said. “It’s your father.”

  “I can see that,” she said peevishly.

  “Is someone there?” Her father squinted and stared straight at her, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “Hello?”

  She had no idea why he’d come or how he’d managed to get so close without permission, but she was inclined to ignore him. Let him struggle for a few more minutes before the garden defenses drove him away. She was still irritated that he’d done nothing to help when she was attacked in the khalif’s palace.

  Nathaliey glanced at Narud, who stood with his arms crossed, looking more curious than alarmed. He shrugged at her questioning look.

  She stepped away from the garden wall. “Father, what are you doing here?”

  “Natty,” he said. Relief washed over his face, and he came to her with arms outstretched.

  She fell into his embrace, and for a moment she was a child again, taking comfort in his strong arms, knowing he would protect her from the dangers and disappointments of the world.

  “Thank the Brothers. I thought I’d die in the wilderness. There were lions, and the thirst . . . it was terrible.”