Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  She did not like what it revealed to her.

  There were magical echoes around her, the fading presence of spells. Except those echoes never lasted very long, which meant that someone had used a great deal of magical power here recently. Some of the echoes were elemental, the traces of spells of fire and air and water, but others were dark, colder, and swam with corruption.

  Someone had used necromantic magic nearby recently.

  Calliande looked at her sons. She wanted to shield them from the cruelties that humans inflicted on each other, but there were worse things than humans loose in the world. Calliande had fought the wrath of an urdmordar, the powerful sorcery of a dark elven lord, the madness of an orcish shaman, and the corrupted shadows of the Enlightened.

  Was such a creature nearby?

  “I think we should keep going,” said Calliande. “The sooner we find your father, the better.”

  And the sooner they rejoined Ridmark and his soulblade, the better chance they would have against whatever had used necromantic magic nearby.

  The urgency in her voice must have reached their ears. For once, both Gareth and Joachim stood up without any complaining, and Calliande led the way up the slope, choosing her steps carefully in her long skirt. At least she had her staff to help her keep balance. She felt herself starting to sweat as she climbed, and before too much longer, she might become light-headed. As soon as they reached the top of the hill, she would use a spell of elemental water to create some ice, and then melt it with elemental fire. All three of them could drink their fill.

  “Is something burning?” said Gareth. “I smell smoke.”

  “I think it’s me,” said Joachim. “It’s so hot!”

  “Something is burning,” said Calliande, her voice grim. “When we get to the top of the hill, I’ll go first.”

  They climbed in silence, and Calliande saw several plumes of smoke rising into the cloudless sky. Her nose also detected the familiar scent of a battlefield, a mixture of blood and dust and spilled bowels.

  “What is that smell?” said Joachim, his voice a tired whine.

  “A battle,” said Calliande. She turned, tucked her staff into the crook of her arm, and grabbed Joachim’s shoulder and Gareth’s shoulder. “Listen to me carefully. I think we’re in danger. Do exactly what I tell you, and don’t make any noise. Do you both understand?”

  The boys nodded. Gareth looked solemn. Joachim’s eyes were wide and starting to brim with tears, but he nodded as well. Any other time, Calliande knew, he might have thrown a tantrum until Ridmark brought him to heel. Her husband had always been good at getting other people to follow his lead, and she had been amused (and relieved) to see that their sons were not an exception.

  Ridmark wasn’t here, but Joachim was holding himself together. Perhaps some of the danger of the situation had penetrated his young mind.

  “All right,” said Calliande. “Follow me and stay quiet.”

  She started up the slope, slowly, her magic and the Sight held ready. Perversely, the slope grew steeper as it reached the top, and the last few steps were a struggle.

  Then Calliande found herself looking at a battlefield.

  The land at the top of the hill was flat, though she saw more rocky hills stretching away to the east and the south. A road cut through the flat land, patches of scrubby grass and short trees growing here and there. The smoke came from a half-dozen of the small trees, which had been burned to charcoal. Dozens of dead orcs lay sprawled on the ground, surrounding a smaller number of slain human men.

  “Are…are they all dead?” said Joachim in a small voice.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. She cursed Rhodruthain that her sons had to see this at such a young age, and then focused on the slain men. Most of the orcs wore leather armor, though a few had coats of bronze ring mail, and all of them had an odd tattoo of a blue sword down the left sides of their faces. The dead human men had been wearing cuirasses and helmets of bronze, spears with bronze heads in their hands. She wasn’t sure, but it looked as if they had been trying to form a shield wall when they had been overwhelmed and killed.

  Quite a few of the orcs looked as if they had been burned. Calliande’s Sight caught the lingering aura of elemental fire over their corpses. That meant whoever had been using fire magic had been fighting on the side of the humans.

  A flicker of motion caught her eye.

  “Get behind me,” said Calliande, and the boys obeyed.

  On the other side of the road lay a large heap of piled boulders, and orcish warriors emerged from behind it, about twenty of them. They looked much like the dead orcish warriors, with deep green skin, black hair bound in topknots, thick tusks rising from their lower jaws, their features coarse and rough by human standards. The orcs all had black eyes, and those eyes were beginning to glimmer red with the battle rage of orcish blood.

  All the orcs had those blue sword tattoos on the left side of their faces. They carried a mixture of swords and axes and spears, and Calliande saw with surprise that the blades had been fashioned of bronze. Why bronze? It might have been a pretty metal, but as a weapon, the alloy was inferior to steel.

  One of the orcs held up a hand, and the others stopped.

  “Children?” rumbled one of the warriors, speaking the orcish tongue.

  “And a noblewoman,” said a second.

  “Her costume is strange for a woman of Owyllain,” said a third.

  Owyllain? Calliande had never heard that name.

  “Listen to me!” Calliande shouted in orcish, and the orcs looked at her. “I only wish to pass through in peace.” Had the orcs attacked Ridmark? “Let me go, and I will let you go.”

  The leader snorted with amusement. He was older than the others, his face and arms marked with faded scars. “And if we don’t?”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” said Calliande, “but I will.”

  The leader snorted. “With a stick and a dagger? Unlikely.”

  “She might be another damned Arcanius, Torzul,” said a warrior.

  “I doubt it,” said Torzul. “The Arcanii don’t bother with words when they can fight. Take all three of them. Archaelon wants slaves for his sorcery, so he can have them.”

  The tattooed orcs started forward, and Calliande attacked first.

  She struck the ground with the end of her staff, unleashing a spell of elemental earth backed by the magic of the Keeper’s mantle. The ground folded and heaved and knocked the orcish warriors from their feet. Bellows of fury rose from the warriors, and before they could react, Calliande cast another spell, one she had seen Morigna use many times all those years ago. White mist swept across the orcs, and any orc who breathed it fell unconscious.

  “Take her!” roared Torzul, surging back to his feet. A half dozen of the orcs aimed short bows at her and Calliande cast another spell, drawing on the magic of the Well of Tarlion. A ward against weapons of metal sprang into existence before her, taking the form of a shimmering dome of translucent light, and the bronze-tipped arrows shattered against the ward.

  She drew together power to strike again, and then she made a mistake.

  Calliande’s ward had been shaped to deflect metal weapons, and it served admirably. But it did nothing against stone or clay, and she glimpsed one of the orcs whirling something above his head.

  A sling.

  She started to dodge, calling more power, and that was the only thing that saved her life. The sling bullet of fired clay that would have landed in the center of her forehead instead clipped her left temple. Even so, it struck with terrific force, and pain exploded through Calliande’s head and down her neck and into her back as the impact spun her around, worse than any pain she had felt since Joanna’s birth had started prematurely.

  She staggered back, trying to catch her balance, and found that she could not stop herself. Calliande fell backward off the edge of the hill, rolled until she struck a boulder, and stopped. She tried to pull healing magic into herself, but her thoughts were fuzzy,
cloudy, and she could not seem to focus her will.

  There was something hot and wet on her face. Blood, that was it.

  For a moment, she wasn’t aware of anything.

  “Mother!” shrieked a voice. “Mother! Mother! Mother!”

  Joachim, that was it.

  Her sons needed her!

  Calliande tried to stand, tried even to move. She had failed Joanna. She could not fail Gareth and Joachim.

  But she could not summon the strength.

  She heard Joachim screaming, heard Gareth shouting, the sudden sound of a fist striking flesh.

  “What about the female?” said a rough voice in orcish.

  “You cracked her skull, you idiot,” said Torzul. “She’s bleeding from her damned ears. If she doesn’t die in another hour, she’ll have lost her wits.”

  “Don’t blame me!” snarled the warrior. “You saw her magic. If I hadn’t hit her she’d have killed us all.”

  Torzul grunted, conceding the point. “True enough. Leave her there. We need to get back to Castra Chaeldon. The Thunderbolt’s still out there, but Archaelon and his pet Champion can deal with him. Leave the female for the muridachs. Maybe the damned rats will appreciate a warm meal for once.”

  She heard Joachim’s shrill, terrified cries.

  Calliande struggled to reach for them. She could not fail her sons as she had failed her daughter.

  But everything went black.

  Chapter 5: The Prisoner

  Once more, Ridmark saw the signs of recent fighting along the road.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he knew what had happened. It looked as if a large force of human soldiers had been heading north, escorting dozens of those lizard-pulled carts. They had been attacked by a force of blue-tattooed orcs that struck from the east and the west simultaneously, and the attack had shattered the column. The fighting had turned into a dozen smaller battles, and one by one the less-organized orcs had overwhelmed their better-armored human foes.

  Judging from the footprints, it also seemed the orcs had taken a great many captives north.

  Were Calliande and the children among those captives? It seemed unlikely. Calliande could have fended off a small army by herself. Yet ill fortune could rule a battle. A single arrow that caught her by surprise…

  His fingers tightened against his staff.

  No, he couldn’t dwell on that, not now.

  He needed to find Oathshield, and once he had his soulblade, he could defend his family from nearly anything. It was also possible that Calliande and the children were still safe in Tarlion. Ridmark found he would prefer that, though the agony of not knowing their fate would be nearly intolerable.

  He kept moving north, scanning the occasional wrecked cart and the boulders alongside the road for any sign of foes. Nothing moved, and he did not see any muridachs lurking among the dead. Maybe the group he had killed had been only an isolated band of scavengers.

  Maybe the best looting was elsewhere.

  Nevertheless, Oathshield was close. Ridmark thought the sword was only another mile to the north. He wondered why it had arrived so far away from him. It had been in his hand when Rhodruthain’s spell had struck him.

  Perhaps Rhodruthain was simply incompetent.

  Ahead Ridmark saw a flash of red.

  He paused for a moment and then realized it was a ragged banner flying from a spear driven into the middle of the road. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was a massive crimson banner adorned with the symbol of a golden helmet with a T-shaped slit for the eyes and nose and mouth. Ridmark had seen the design before somewhere. A Corinthian helmet, that was it. The ancient Greeks upon Old Earth had worn helmets like that as their city-states went to war.

  Why was a Corinthian helmet used as a sigil upon a banner here?

  It looked as if a last stand had taken place beneath the ragged banner. A score of dead men lay at the foot of the banner, surrounded by twice as many slain orcish warriors. Ridmark moved closer, staff ready. The dead men had finer armor than those he had seen otherwise, with inlays of gold and silver over the bronze.

  One of the dead men moved, his head turning towards Ridmark.

  No, he wasn’t dead. He was just wounded. And he was the first living human Ridmark had seen since arriving here.

  He hurried forward, stepping past the slain, and looked at the wounded man.

  The man was at least sixty years old, lean and tough, the lines deep in his weathered face. An axe blow had shattered the center of his bronze cuirass, and Ridmark saw at once the wound was mortal. It was nothing short of miraculous that the man was still alive. Oathshield had limited power to heal wounds, but it wouldn’t have been any use here. Calliande herself might not have been able to heal this.

  The man looked at Ridmark, his eyes bloodshot. He jerked, trying to lift his bronze sword, but his limbs had no strength left.

  “Can you understand me?” said Ridmark in Latin.

  It took three tries for the old man to get the word out. “Water.”

  Ridmark nodded and knelt next to the dying man, lifting one of his waterskins to the man’s lips. The man managed a few swallows and slumped back with a sigh, fresh sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Thank you,” he croaked. “I’m dying as a failure. Least…least I’m not dying thirsty now.”

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark.

  The man’s breathing was coming faster and shallower, and every breath seemed to pain him. “I am Sir Tyromon Amphilus, a Companion of King Hektor Pendragon of Aenesium.” He spoke the title with obvious pride, despite his pain.

  Hektor Pendragon? As far as Ridmark knew, there were only four living people with the right to the name of Pendragon – Arandar, his wife Cearowyn, and his children Accolon and Nyvane.

  “Where am I?” said Ridmark.

  Tyromon snorted. “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t,” said Ridmark.

  “This is…this is the road from Aenesium to Castra Chaeldon. Go far enough north, and you’ll come to the city of Cytheria and King Justin Cyros’s lands,” croaked Tyromon. “The damned traitor.”

  Ridmark had heard none of those names before and had no idea who King Justin Cyros was.

  “But where am I?” said Ridmark. “What is the name of this land?”

  For a moment, bewilderment overruled pain on the old knight’s face. “You truly do not know?”

  Ridmark shook his head.

  “This is the Nine Cities, the realm of the Nine Kings of Owyllain, ruled by the Pendragon High King in the city of Aenesium,” said Tyromon. “At least, it used to be. Then that harlot Talitha betrayed High King Kothlaric, and the Seven Swords appeared, and…”

  Tyromon winced and closed his eyes. He went rigid, and Ridmark feared that death had claimed the old warrior.

  “Who are you?” said Tyromon. “I have not long until I stand before the judgment seat of the Dominus Christus, and it seems my vision becomes clearer. You wear the armor of a dark elven lord, yet you have the brand of a coward upon your left cheek, and while you speak Latin, your accent is strange.”

  “My name is Ridmark Arban. I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim.”

  “Andomhaim?” said Tyromon, blinking. “No, impossible. The urdmordar destroyed Andomhaim long before our ancestors came here.” His voice was growing fainter.

  “An elven wizard called Rhodruthain brought me here,” said Ridmark.

  That brought a blaze of wrath to Tyromon’s face. “Rhodruthain? Are you certain?”

  “Entirely,” said Ridmark. “He carried a staff of red gold with its end shaped into a dragon’s head.”

  “He betrayed us,” said Tyromon. “High King Kothlaric defeated the Sovereign and scattered his hosts, but the Master Talitha and the Guardian betrayed us. This damned war could have been averted.”

  “What happened here?” said Ridmark.

  “We were betrayed,” said Tyromon. “King Hektor sent us to reinforce the Arcanius Knight Archaelon at Castra Cha
eldon. But that scoundrel Archaelon has betrayed us and sided with the Confessor. The Confessor’s soldiers ambushed us, and we were overwhelmed. The orcs took many prisoners and carried them off to the castra. I fear…I fear for their fate. Archaelon has turned to necromancy.”

  He shuddered again, sweat pouring down his face.

  “Listen to me,” said Ridmark. “Rhodruthain brought my wife and children here as well. A blond woman in a green dress and two small boys. Have you seen them?”

  “No,” croaked Tyromon. “Only…one woman. Not her.” His shaking hands grasped his sword hilt, reversed the weapon, and offered it to Ridmark. “Take…take my sword. Give it…give it to King Hektor. Tell him that I am sorry. Tell him that Archaelon is a traitor.”

  “If it is within my power, I will tell your king,” said Ridmark, “and I will tell him that you died fighting as a knight should.”

  Tyromon sighed, slumped against the ground, and stopped breathing.

  Ridmark gazed at the dead knight for a moment, and then reached down and closed his eyes. He knew nothing about Tyromon Amphilus, and nothing about this realm of the Nine Cities of Owyllain and the wars of which Sir Tyromon had spoken, but Ridmark suspected a brave and valiant knight had just passed.

  He reached removed the scabbard from the old man’s belt and sheathed the bronze blade. Ridmark’s first priority was his wife and children. But if the opportunity came, he would make sure that Sir Tyromon’s blade and final message returned to his king. And at least Ridmark had learned more about this place. He had never heard of Owyllain nor of Aenesium or any of the other cities that Tyromon had mentioned, but perhaps Calliande would know more.

  First, he had to find her.

  Again, Ridmark reached for his bond with the soulblade. Oathshield was less than a mile away now. He hooked Tyromon’s scabbard to his belt and started forward, picking his way past the corpses that dotted the road.

  After about three-quarters of a mile, Ridmark heard rough voices raised in argument.