Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  She knew she was not all right. She knew that the grief had broken something inside of her and it wasn’t healing.

  So, Calliande did not mind numbness. At least the numbness let her come close to functioning. She knew she needed to act, to do something, to resume her duties, to do anything to take her mind from how badly she had failed her daughter, but both the grief and the numbness left her paralyzed.

  But now, for the first time in six months, she felt something other than sorrow or a numb stupor.

  She felt alarmed.

  It was like a dash of cold water across the face. Old reflexes, old instincts, came to the forefront of her exhausted mind. Calliande had fought in countless battles in two terrible wars across the centuries, and her magic rose at her alarm, both the power of the Well of Tarlion and the mantle of the Keeper.

  She looked at the figure approaching the dais.

  The cloaked man walked with a heavy limp, his left leg stiff, his staff clanging against the floor with every step. The Sight rose within Calliande, and she saw the power in the sword at her husband’s belt, the magic in the soulblades of the Swordbearers scattered throughout the hall, and the aura radiating from the Well of Tarlion within the Tower of the Moon.

  She also saw the magic surrounding the cloaked man.

  She had never seen anything quite like it. One moment it reminded her of the aura of power that had surrounded Ardrhythain. Or it reminded her of the power that had radiated from the sword of the Dragon Knight. The instant after that, it reminded her of the fiery elemental magic her apprentice Antenora wielded with centuries-honed skill.

  The cloaked man stopped halfway between the doors and the High King’s dais, and by then a dozen Swordbearers had placed themselves between the cloaked man and the High King, hands resting on the hilts of their soulblades. Calliande looked for Ridmark and saw him standing a few yards away, his hand grasping Oathshield’s hilt.

  He had put himself between her and the children and the cloaked stranger.

  Another new emotion went through her.

  Fear. She had brought Gareth and Joachim here. Were they about to be in danger?

  The fear hardened into resolution. Grief or not, sorrow or not, she was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, charged to defend the realm and its people from dark magic. If this cloaked man tried to hurt anyone in the hall, if he tried to hurt her sons, he would regret it.

  She stepped to Ridmark’s side, staff ready in her right hand.

  Yet while the magic around the cloaked stranger was powerful and wild, she didn’t think it was dark magic.

  For a moment, no one said anything.

  “Greetings,” said Arandar at last. He descended from the dais, his footsteps ringing against the stone floor. “I am Arandar Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim. If you come here in peace, stranger, then you are welcome. However, it would only be polite for you to introduce yourself.”

  The stranger’s ragged brown cowl turned towards the High King.

  “Polite?” he said at last. “It is the proper courtesy?”

  His voice was deep and melodious, but there was a sharp rasp to it. It sounded as if his throat had been injured years ago and it had never healed quite right. He spoke Latin, but with a strange accent that Calliande had never heard before.

  “Such is the custom of the men of Andomhaim,” said Arandar. “Wearing a mask, or hiding your face, is considered a sign of ill intent.”

  “Yes, polite,” said the cloaked man. “Such things are important. Forgive me, High Kingdom of Andomhaim. I have spent a very, very long time in my own company, and I sometimes forget the importance of such matters.”

  He reached up with his left hand, drawing back his cowl and throwing back his ragged cloak.

  A shock of astonishment went through Calliande, and a murmur rose from the lords and knights.

  The man was a high elf.

  Except…that didn’t seem quite right.

  He had the pointed ears of the elven kindred, the sharp and alien features. His eyes were an eerie shade of gold, much like the eyes of many high elves Calliande had met. Yet every high elf Calliande had ever seen possessed an ancient, ageless quality. They looked young but obviously were not.

  This man looked weathered and weary. Deep lines marked his face, and his hair was the color of cold gray iron. His skin looked as if he had spent a great deal of time under a cloudless sky, and it reminded Calliande of old leather. Calliande had never seen a high elf that looked so weary and battered.

  Was he a dark elf? No, that didn’t seem right either. The Warden and the Traveler and the other dark elves Calliande had seen had skin the color of chalk, their eyes filled with the void. This man, this elf, reminded Calliande of a veteran soldier, or perhaps a hunter who had spent decades wandering the wilds.

  “A long time,” said the strange elf. “A long time since I have been here. How it has changed!”

  “You have visited Tarlion before, sir?” said Arandar.

  “Tarlion?” said the elf. “Is that what you call your city?” He limped forward another step, the dragon staff clanging. “No. I have not been here for fifteen thousand years. Not since it was still called Cathair Tarlias, the Tower of the Moon. I am pleased the Tower still stands. It was a lovely building. Humans.” He shook his head, the gray hair sliding against his neck. “I am surprised you are still all alive.”

  “Why is that?” said Arandar, with just a hint of threat in his voice.

  “I thought the urdmordar would have killed you all,” said the elf. “I thought that for the last five centuries, ever since I first encountered your kindred.”

  “Might we know your name, sir?” said Arandar. A dry note entered his voice. “At least among the kings of humans and orcs, it is customary to introduce oneself.”

  “Yes,” said the elf. He limped forward another few steps, the staff clanging as he leaned upon it. “My name is Rhodruthain, the Guardian of Cathair Animus.”

  Cathair Animus? Calliande had never heard the name. She knew the name of a few high elven cities, but most of them had been destroyed by the dark elves or the urdmordar, and Cathair Solas was the last city of the high elves in the world.

  “Do you come in peace, Guardian Rhodruthain of Cathair Animus?” said Arandar.

  Rhodruthain limped another step forward, the Swordbearers watching him. As he drew closer, Calliande saw that he wore worn leather armor reinforced with bronze studs, dusty trousers, and battered boots that looked as if they had seen many, many miles.

  Her eyes were drawn to the sword on his left hip.

  The sword’s hilt and pommel looked as if they had been forged from gold, which was ridiculous since gold was too soft to hold an edge. Perhaps it was some metal or alloy that Calliande had never encountered. There was a symbol on the pommel that she couldn’t quite make out, and to her Sight, the sword all but blazed with a strange magical power she did not recognize.

  “Yes,” said Rhodruthain. “I come in peace, High King of Andomhaim. I do not wish harm to you or your kingdom or your kindred, nor to any of the kindreds under the shield of your authority.”

  “Then I greet you in peace, Guardian Rhodruthain,” said Arandar. “Have you come as an emissary of your people?”

  Rhodruthain laughed at that and rubbed his throat as if laughing pained him. “No. No, I do not. My people are not at all fond of me, High King of Andomhaim. I represent only myself.”

  “Then what is your business with the High King of Andomhaim?” said Arandar.

  “I come with a warning for you,” said Rhodruthain, “and a question.”

  “Then what is the warning, Guardian Rhodruthain?” said Arandar.

  “The New God is coming.”

  “The New God?” said Arandar. “I fear you are mistaken, sir. There is only one God.”

  “Unquestionably,” said Rhodruthain. “But there are creatures in our world who have so much power that they might as well be gods to you, and some of them believe that they ought
to rule over you and everything else. And a new one is coming. The New God, or so its would-be devotees like to think. So, you must be ready, High King of Andomhaim.”

  “Then I thank you for the warning, Guardian,” said Arandar, “though greater detail would be welcome.”

  “In time.” Rhodruthain leaned on his staff for a moment, and then straightened up. “A question, though. I wish to speak with the Keeper of Andomhaim and the Shield Knight. Are they here?”

  Calliande blinked in surprise.

  Rhodruthain had come to speak with her and Ridmark? Why? For that matter, how did he even know of them?

  Arandar looked at her. “Keeper?”

  It had been a while since she had spoken with the emissary of a foreign power. To her mild surprise, the instincts had not faded. She settled her face into the cool mask of the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and aloof, her fingers tightening against the worn wood of the Keeper’s staff.

  How strange that she could make herself appear so calm when she didn’t feel it.

  Ridmark looked at her, and Calliande gave a shallow nod.

  “Stay here with the boys,” he murmured to Tindra and Octavius.

  Calliande walked towards the strange elf, Ridmark at her side.

  Rhodruthain’s weary golden eyes turned towards them, and he nodded to himself.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see. Ardrhythain must have partially unlocked the Well of Cathair Tarlias for your use. That explains your magical aura.” His eyes flicked to Ridmark. “And a unique soulblade. Ardrhythain likely forged it for you. Little wonder the urdmordar failed to destroy your kingdom. Connmar should have waited a few more years. But the young are always impatient.”

  Connmar? She had heard that name before somewhere. No, she had read it. It was something from the history of Andomhaim…

  “You seem familiar with us, sir,” said Ridmark, “but we do not have a similar advantage.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Rhodruthain. “But you are right. I have an unfair advantage, I am afraid. She pointed me out to you.”

  “She?” said Calliande.

  “The Guardian,” said Rhodruthain.

  Ridmark frowned. “I thought you were the Guardian.”

  “I am the Guardian of Cathair Animus,” said Rhodruthain. “I am hardly the only one. There are Guardians of other places and other kindreds. She is one of them. And she sent me to you.” He stared at them, the golden eyes unblinking, and then nodded. “I see why she chose you. Yes, I do. There is grief there, terrible grief, but strength.”

  Calliande began to wonder if Rhodruthain was completely sane. Something in his manner reminded her of the Sculptor or perhaps the Traveler. The Traveler had been violently insane, and the Sculptor had been methodically insane, but both dark elven lords had been mad and dangerous. Yet there didn’t seem to be any malice within Rhodruthain.

  But Calliande had been wrong before.

  “Then what do you want with us?” said Ridmark.

  “Do you love your children?” said Rhodruthain.

  Years of experience kept Calliande’s calm mask in place, but she saw Ridmark’s hand curl into a fist.

  “With all my heart,” said Ridmark. “Is that a threat, Guardian?”

  If it was, Rhodruthain of Cathair Animus would not leave Tarlion alive.

  “No,” said Rhodruthain. “No, it is not a threat. It is a warning. The New God is coming, and if it arises, it will kill your children. It will kill you both. It will kill everyone in this hall, and anyone who survives will be bound in slavery.” He drew himself up. “That is my mission as the Guardian of Cathair Animus. That is my task. I must keep the New God from arising. She sent me to you, and I think she chose wisely.”

  “Then you have come to ask for our help?” said Calliande.

  “Time,” said Rhodruthain.

  “I’m sorry?” said Calliande.

  Rhodruthain rolled his shoulders, reached up with his free hand, and cracked his neck. Calliande had seen Ridmark do something similar a thousand times while getting ready to practice with a sword or a staff or while preparing for an actual fight.

  Would Rhodruthain attack them? It seemed madness. He was surrounded by a score of Swordbearers and a dozen Magistri, to say nothing of the magic Calliande could bring to bear.

  But if Rhodruthain was not sane…

  “Forgive me,” said Rhodruthain, “but there is not time. The hour of the New God draws near, and I am the only one who sees the danger.” Magic began to burn before Calliande’s Sight as Rhodruthain summoned arcane power. “I do what I do because I must. Because we must save your children from the horror that will be the New God.”

  “Stop him!” shouted Calliande. “He’s casting a spell!”

  The Swordbearers yanked their soulblades from their scabbards. The soulstones worked into the tangs glimmered with white light, but the weapons did not burst into flame. Whatever Rhodruthain was doing, it wasn’t dark magic. Ridmark drew Oathshield as well and stepped forward, taking the sword in both hands. Calliande called her own magic and sent a shaft of white fire at Rhodruthain. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it would collapse whatever spell he was trying to cast.

  But the Guardian was ready for her. He made a sharp gesture with his free hand, and a ward of fiery light appeared around him. Calliande’s attack struck the ward and collapsed it, her spell and Rhodruthain’s ward canceling each other out.

  Rhodruthain struck the end of his staff against the ground, and magic erupted from him.

  It was a simple spell of elemental air, but it was effective.

  A gust of wind exploded through the great hall of the Citadel, and it knocked over the Swordbearers and knights and lords like stalks of grass. The wind caught Calliande, and she lost her balance, the staff of the Keeper clattering on the floor next to her. She saw Ridmark fall, saw his head hit the stone floor with far more force than was safe.

  Fear for him flooded through her. Calliande had barely kept herself together over the last year, but without Ridmark, she would have collapsed entirely. She heard Joachim start to cry, heard shouts of alarm go through the hall.

  Calliande went to one knee, seized her staff, and started casting a spell, turning the full force of her will and magic towards Rhodruthain.

  But the Guardian had already finished his spell.

  He struck the end of his staff against the ground, and ribbons of harsh blue light ripped from the staff and shot across the hall. One of the ribbons struck Ridmark and coiled around him, encasing him in a shell of blazing blue light. Two more shot past Calliande and struck Gareth and Joachim, and Joachim’s cries came to an abrupt halt as the blue light engulfed him.

  He was attacking her children!

  Blind rage howled through Calliande, and she poured all her fury into her spell.

  Before she could finish, one of the ribbons of blue light struck her in the chest. Blue light filled the world, even as agony erupted through her limbs, and Calliande screamed.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 3: Battlefield

  Images drifted through Ridmark’s mind.

  He saw faces from his past, defeated enemies standing before him. Gothalinzur, the urdmordar he had slain in his first year as a Swordbearer, the urdmordar who had warned him the Frostborn would return. The cold, bloodless face of the Warden, who had used Ridmark as a pawn and nearly freed himself from Urd Morlemoch. Tymandain Shadowbearer, his face half-burned from Calliande’s fire, his quicksilver eyes narrowed as he ranted and raved at Ridmark. Mournacht and the Weaver, Tarrabus and Imaria, Prince Kurdulkar and the Seeker Arlmagnava, the faces of his defeated enemies drifted before his mind.

  Then he remembered Calliande sobbing uncontrollably as she bent over the small, motionless form in her arms.

  Pain burned through him at the sight, and then for a moment, he knew nothing more.

  And then Ridmark saw…he saw…

  The ocean?

  It was an ocean, anyway. It s
tretched away in all directions as far as he could see without a trace of land.

  Odd thing to dream about, that.

  Once more Ridmark drifted away.

  Then he saw land before him, mountains and deserts and grassy plains, rough hills and jungles and a broad, sluggish river. White ruins jutted from the earth, and he saw cities built around towering pyramids, strange scaled creatures moving through them. Orcs and humans and halflings blurred before his sight, and then he saw a proud lord of the dark elves clad in blue armor, a sword of mist and ice in his right hand.

  “I am sorry to do it this way, Shield Knight of Andomhaim,” said a rusty voice. Ridmark recognized it. Rhodruthain? “But it is necessary. It is to save the lives of your children. Their lives, and all the lives of the children who will ever be.”

  The voice and the vision faded, and Ridmark knew nothing more.

  Bit by bit his mind came back to awareness.

  He did not feel good.

  The first thing he noticed was the heat. It had been a mild spring day, but now he was uncomfortably hot, and he felt the blazing sun overhead. His back and shoulders ached from lying on the hard ground. And by God and the apostles and all the saints, he had a headache. Ridmark had been hit in the head, more times than he wanted to remember (and despite the blows to the head he could remember them all), and this felt like a hangover combined with a sharp blow to the back of the head.

  In fact, he had hit his head, hadn’t he? That mad elven wizard had cast a spell, and Ridmark had fallen and hit his head…

  And Calliande and the children were only a few yards away.

  Alarm surged through Ridmark, and headache or no headache, he surged to his feet and reached for Oathshield’s hilt.

  And then sheer amazement drowned out his alarm.

  Ridmark wasn’t in the Citadel any more.

  He wasn’t in Tarlion.

  In fact, he had no idea where he was, but he didn’t think it was anywhere near Tarlion.

  To the east the morning sun climbed its way into the sky, revealing a landscape of rocky hills and broad, shallow valleys. Tough brownish-yellow grasses grew in the valleys, and small trees dotted the rough slopes. To the west Ridmark saw a bay that opened into the wide sea, waves smashing against a rocky beach. The air smelled of salt and dust, though he also smelled smoke and…