Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  He slowed his pace, moving from boulder to boulder to conceal his approach. The road ahead rose slightly, following the slope of the hill, and opened into a large, flat area. There didn’t seem to be any cover, save for the scrubby grasses and a few short trees, but a wrecked wagon stood just at the edge of the slope. For the last few yards, Ridmark dropped to his belly and crawled forward, the staff clutched in his right hand.

  The voices grew louder as he approached, and he realized they were speaking the orcish tongue.

  Ridmark reached the edge of the wrecked wagon, went to one knee, and peered around the side.

  A strange scene greeted his eyes.

  The first thing he saw was Oathshield.

  The sword jutted from the ground, the first foot and a half or so of the blade driven into the earth. It listed to the side at a faint angle, looking almost as if it had fallen there from a great height. Ridmark had always thought a soulstone or an object containing a soulstone could not be transported by magic, but evidently, Rhodruthain had managed it. Perhaps the difficulty of the spell explained why Ridmark and the sword had been scattered across the hills of Owyllain.

  The second thing he saw was the naked woman with the bronze chain around her neck and her hands bound behind her back.

  Her hair was blond, and for an awful instant, he was sure that Calliande had somehow been overwhelmed and taken captive.

  But, no, the woman wasn’t Calliande. Her hair was the wrong color, more of an ash blond than Calliande’s lighter shade. For that matter, the woman looked barely twenty, young enough to have been Ridmark’s daughter if he and Aelia had conceived a child in the first year of their marriage. The woman was tall and fit, with toned legs and strong arms. A gag had been stuffed into her mouth, and her green eyes were wide with fear, her chest rising and falling with the draw of her breath.

  No, not fear. Rage. The woman looked furious, as if she was more enraged at the humiliation of her capture than frightened by the danger of it.

  There was a strange scar on her left shoulder. It looked like a red sword, point downward, the tip pointing towards her breast.

  The final thing Ridmark noticed was the nine orcish warriors standing around the soulblade and the woman, their voices raised in argument. Each orc had the blue sword tattoo upon his face. The biggest and oldest orc held the woman’s chain, and from time to time gave it a vicious tug that sent the woman falling to her already bloodied knees. She glared up at him and staggered back to her feet, hate filling her green eyes.

  “I say again,” said the orc holding the chain. Likely he was the leader. “We are not leaving without that sword.”

  “Then you are welcome to take it, Vhandak!” snarled a second orc. “Go on, draw the damned thing!”

  Vhandak hesitated. “One of you should do it.”

  “Because you know what will happen,” said the second orc. “It killed Qazillis and Mhordiz.”

  Two dead orcs lay near Oathshield. Both dead orcish men had likely tried to pick up the soulblade. A soulblade inflicted excruciating agony on anyone who attempted to use it save for its proper bearer, and both the dead orcs had likely been stubborn enough to try and lift the sword despite the pain.

  Either the agony had burst their hearts in their chests or exploded a blood vessel in their brains.

  “Best to leave the thing there,” said a third orc.

  “Don’t you understand?” snarled Vhandak, giving the chain another yank that sent the woman to her knees with a muffled cry of pain. As she fell, Ridmark saw that the bronze chain joined a collar of black steel. He had seen collars like that before. The dvargir made them to bind the magical powers of prisoners.

  Which meant that the woman could use magic.

  “That it’s magic and it kills anyone who touches it?” said the second orc. “Aye, I understand just fine.”

  “That sword must be one of the Seven!” said Vhandak, jerking the chain again. This time the woman did not bother to stand.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snarled the third orc. “It can’t be one of the Seven. All the Seven are accounted for. One of the swords wouldn’t be lying atop a hill waiting for someone to pick it up.”

  “Then maybe it is an eighth sword,” said Vhandak. The woman wobbled back to her feet, and Vhandak yanked her to her knees again. “The High King and the Guardian found seven swords in Urd Maelwyn. Why shouldn’t there be an eighth?”

  “Sitting on the road to Castra Chaeldon?” said the second orc, his disbelief plain. “And it doesn’t look like one of the Seven. We’ve all seen the Sword of Water in the Lord Confessor’s hands. That sword doesn’t look anything like this thing. I say we take the human female back to Castra Chaeldon and let Archaelon deal with the sword, whatever the hell it is.”

  “Then he’ll claim it for himself!” said Vhandak, growling. “Don’t you see? This is our chance. If this is another of the Seven Swords, then we can claim it.”

  The other eight orcs burst out laughing. Ridmark suspected Vhandak’s soldiers did not hold their leader in high regard.

  “We?” said the third orc. “Or you, Vhandak?”

  “Why not?” said Vhandak. “Why shouldn’t I wield it? I’ve always been good to the warriors of my warband, haven’t I? Why not Warlord Vhandak? We could claim a city for ourselves, lads. We could claim a kingdom for ourselves, and rule it as we please!”

  “Or,” said the second orc, “the Lord Confessor or King Justin or the Necromancer of Trojas will find us, kill us all, and take the sword for himself. I say we let Archaelon deal with the sword.” He shrugged. “Maybe the sword will kill him and we won’t have to deal with the lunatic.”

  Vhandak scowled, but the big orc seemed amenable to the idea. Perhaps he had been worried his men would try and bully him into picking up Oathshield himself. And that meant all Ridmark had to do was wait until the orcs left. Then he could stroll over and pick up Oathshield without any challenge.

  Except the orcs would take their captive with them to Castra Chaeldon, wherever that was. Whatever the orcs intended for the woman, Ridmark doubted it was good, and he could not allow them to take her. For that matter, despite what Sir Tyromon had told Ridmark, he still knew next to nothing about this strange land, Owyllain or the Nine Cities or whatever it was called.

  A local guide would be useful.

  And Ridmark’s conscience would not allow him to watch the orcs walk off with a helpless prisoner. Fortunately, there would be little risk in rescuing her. Once the orcs moved off, and he had Oathshield in hand once more, he could take all nine orcish warriors without much of a challenge.

  “We should probably kill her first,” said the second orc.

  The woman’s angry green eyes turned towards the orc.

  “Damn it,” muttered Ridmark.

  “Why?” said Vhandak. “Archaelon will want her. He wants prisoners for whatever necromancy he’s brewing up.”

  “Aye,” said the second orc, “but she’s too powerful. You saw how many of our men she killed. If Archaelon steals her power, what will he do then?”

  Vhandak growled. “What’s that to do with us?”

  “Archaelon’s probably going to betray the Lord Confessor,” said the third orc. “Which means when he does, we’ll have to kill him. He’s already too powerful as it is.” He jabbed a thick green finger at the bound woman. “How much worse will it be if he can throw around fireballs like the human bitch?”

  Vhandak grunted again. “That’s a good argument. That’s a very good argument.” He glared at the woman, and she glared back at him.

  Ridmark saw the decision come over the orcish leader’s tusked face.

  Well, so much for his plan. Time to improvise.

  Ridmark straightened up and walked around the wrecked wagon, letting the end of the staff rap loudly against the ground as he walked.

  As one, the orcish warriors whirled to face him. The woman looked at him as well, and the green eyes went wide with surprise.

  Before a
nyone could speak, Ridmark started shouting.

  “Which one of you dogs is Vhandak?” he roared in orcish.

  They stared at him.

  “Well?” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at them. “Are you idiots deaf? Which one of you is Vhandak?”

  “I’m Vhandak,” growled the leader. “Just who the hell are you?”

  “I am an emissary of the Lord Confessor,” said Ridmark.

  “No, you’re not,” said Vhandak.

  “Yes, I am, fool.” Ridmark tapped his chest with his free hand, gauging the position of the orcish warriors. They were between him and Oathshield. “If I am not an emissary of the Lord Confessor, then where did I get this armor?”

  It was a gamble. Ridmark had never heard of this Confessor, but he had a strong suspicion than the Confessor was a dark elven noble or prince. The dark elven nobles had enjoyed hanging cruel nicknames on each other – the Warden was trapped by his own spells in Urd Morlemoch, the Traveler had never left Nightmane Forest, the Matriarch had murdered her own family to escape from the urdmordar. The title “Confessor” fit the pattern.

  The gamble paid off. Vhandak and the others looked at Ridmark's dark elven armor, doubt going over their faces.

  “If you are an emissary of the Lord Confessor,” said Vhandak, “then why are you wearing a cloak of the gray elves?”

  Gray elves? Ridmark had never heard of them. Perhaps Rhodruthain was one of them, though he hadn’t worn gray.

  “A man must have a cloak,” said Ridmark. He took several steps towards them. “Now. Did you fulfill your mission from the Lord Confessor?”

  “Mission?” snarled Vhandak. “We were sent to help that traitorous Arcanius Knight. We did.”

  “Not that mission,” said Ridmark. “Did you find the sword?”

  “Sword?” said Vhandak. “What sword?”

  “The sword Oathshield,” said Ridmark, taking another step closer. The woman stared at him as if he were insane. Maybe he was.

  “Oathshield?” said Vhandak, and Ridmark took one more step. “Why would a sword be called an Oathshield?”

  “Because it was given to the Shield Knight of Andomhaim by the archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves,” said Ridmark.

  They all stared at him.

  “He’s insane,” said the third orc at last. “Why else would a man carrying a bamboo stick claim to be an emissary of the Lord Confessor?”

  Bamboo? Was that the name of the ridged wood?

  “Kill him and take the armor,” said Vhandak. “It will make a good trophy.”

  Ridmark took the bamboo staff in both hands. Two of the orcs advanced, bronze swords in hand. They didn’t see him or the staff as much of a threat, which was good. Ridmark waited until the last possible moment as the orcs drew back their swords to stab.

  Then he moved.

  The bamboo staff blurred in his hand, and the weapon smashed against the side of the nearest orc’s head with a loud crack. The orc staggered, and Ridmark stepped into the stab of the second orc’s sword. The blade rebounded from his dark elven armor, and Ridmark slammed his staff against the orc’s leg. The orc toppled, and Ridmark shoved past him and started running.

  The other orcs fanned out around him, weapons raised. Vhandak kept his grip on the woman’s chain, but his right hand grasped a mace with a stone head. There was one orcish warrior between Ridmark and Oathshield, a bronze-headed axe in hand. Ridmark raced towards the orcish warrior and flicked his staff at his head. The warrior snapped up his axe in response, and Ridmark feinted left, drove his staff at the warrior’s legs, and sidestepped.

  Then he was clear, running past the orcs and towards Oathshield.

  The orcs thundered after him in pursuit. Ridmark knew he couldn’t outrun them.

  “Arrows!” roared Vhandak. “Arrows, arrows! Shoot the dog before he gets away!”

  Ridmark definitely couldn’t outrun an arrow.

  But he didn’t need to outrun anyone.

  He reached down and seized Oathshield’s hilt with his right hand, wrenching the sword from the ground. Both soulstones in the weapon glimmered with white light, and a faint haze of white fire appeared around the blue blade. At once Ridmark felt strength and speed flood into him through his bond with the soulblade.

  He turned to face the orcish warriors, Oathshield in his right hand, the bamboo staff in his left.

  The orcish warriors gaped at him. They looked horrified, frightened out of all proportion to what he had just done. Perhaps they had never seen a soulblade before. Or maybe they thought Oathshield really was one of these Seven Swords, whatever they were. Vhandak was so alarmed that he dropped the woman’s chain. At once she fell backward upon the ground. Ridmark wondered why she had done that, and then he realized that she was trying to get loose from the ropes around her wrists.

  “Last chance,” said Ridmark, lifting Oathshield. The soulblade seemed to thrum in his hand. “Turn around and…”

  “Kill him!” thundered Vhandak. “Kill him and take the sword!”

  The orcs charged to meet him, and Ridmark moved.

  Oathshield could enhance his speed and his strength, and Ridmark drew upon that power now. He shot forward, the soulblade drawn back to stab, and his sword’s point met the throat of the nearest orc. Green blood sprayed from the wound, and the orc fell dying to the ground. A second warrior lunged at him with a short bronze sword, and Ridmark swept the bamboo staff before him. The staff pushed aside the thrust of the sword, and Oathshield punched through the orc’s leather armor and into his heart.

  Ridmark tore through the orcish warriors, Oathshield flickering with white fire in his hand. With the sword’s speed, he stayed ahead of their blows, and with its strength, his strikes punched through their armor to land killing wounds. Even their bronze swords were useless against Oathshield. A steel sword might have been able to parry a blow from a soulblade, but a bronze sword had no such luck. Twice Ridmark shattered bronze swords in the hands of their bearers, his soulblade striking through their guard to land lethal blows.

  Soon only Vhandak and one of the other orcish warriors were left on their feet.

  “Which one are you?” said Vhandak, backing away. “Which one of the Seven are you?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ridmark. “If you want to live, then tell…”

  Vhandak roared and lifted his mace over his head with both hands, preparing to charge at Ridmark.

  Then a bolt of fire screamed through the air and slammed into both Vhandak and the remaining orcish warrior. Both warriors erupted into flames. Burning was a horrible way to die, but the orcish warriors were dead before they hit the ground, their bodies reduced to shapes of blackened chair, greasy smoke rolling off them in waves.

  The smell was horrendous.

  Ridmark turned and saw the woman standing a few yards away, magical flames curling around her fingers and forearms.

  Her harsh green eyes met his, and the flames around her hands brightened.

  Chapter 6: A New Realm

  For a moment, Ridmark and the woman stared at each other.

  Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed staring at her, and he rebuked himself for the thought. He was married, and she was young enough to have been his daughter. More immediately, he thought she might try to attack him. She was wielding the magic of elemental flame, much the way that Antenora did. While Oathshield could protect him, if he wasn’t careful he would join the smoldering orcs lying dead on the ground.

  “If I wished you harm,” said Ridmark in Latin at last, “I would have gone on my way and let the orcs kill you.”

  The woman took a shuddering breath, and Ridmark’s eyes wanted to linger on her chest. Again, he rebuked himself. He was nearly forty, not some randy young squire. He ought to have better self-control.

  “I…thank you for your assistance, stranger,” said the woman at last. Her voice was throaty and confident. “While I was well underway to executing my escape, your timely arrival made it much easier.”<
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  “Of course,” said Ridmark in a dry voice.

  “Who are you?” said the woman. If her nudity bothered her, she didn’t let it show. “Are you one of the Seven?”

  “I don’t even know who or what the Seven are,” said Ridmark, “and until this morning, I had never heard the term ‘Seven Swords’ in my life. My name is Ridmark Arban, and I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim.”

  The woman blinked. “Did you say Andomhaim?”

  “I did,” said Ridmark. Did she recognize the name? “Who are you?”

  The woman made a little bow. It was a pleasant sight. “My name is Kalussa Pendragon of Aenesium, and I am a Sister of the Order of the Arcanii.”

  “Then I am pleased to meet you, Lady Kalussa,” said Ridmark. “But save for your family’s name, I have heard of none of those other titles or places before.”

  “Truly?” said Kalussa, and a thoughtful look came over her face. “Though if you claim to hail from the realm of Andomhaim…yes, that would explain much. There is a mystery here.”

  “There are a thousand damned mysteries here,” said Ridmark, “and I would like some answers. First, though, we should find you some clothing.”

  Kalussa blinked and then smiled. “Yes, I imagine I am a rather distracting sight, am I not?” Ridmark could think of nothing appropriate to say to that. “It is just as well for me that orcish men rarely have any interest in human women. I think my armor…yes, they left it over there.”

  Kalussa walked to another overturned wagon, and Ridmark followed her, Oathshield still in hand. She had far more poise than he would have expected, given that she had just been taken captive. Of course, if she was used to wielding magic, and if she was of royal blood, then perhaps he had the self-assurance to go with that power.

  Or perhaps she was terrified and was hiding it well.

  “Ah!” said Kalussa. “Here we are.” She bent over, and Ridmark grimaced and looked away until she straightened up. “I suspect that oaf Vhandak was planning to melt down my armor and sell it.” She began to dress herself. “He ought to have run while he still had the chance.”