Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  “It wasn’t,” said Ridmark. “I couldn’t have saved her, but it took me years to understand that. At the time, I blamed myself. I even tried to kill myself, but my friends stopped me. There was another nobleman, Tarrabus Carhaine, who had courted Aelia, but she had chosen me over him. He pushed to have me expelled from the Order of the Soulblade and the realm, and I didn’t fight him. Later I realized that he had turned to the worship of the shadow of the dark elves, and wanted me out of the way to make it easier to usurp the crown of Andomhaim.”

  Kalussa didn’t say anything for a while. Ridmark wondered if she believed him.

  “I begin to suspect,” she said, “that you have led an interesting life, Lord Ridmark.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “So people tell me.”

  “All right. A happier question. How did you meet Lady Calliande?”

  Ridmark blinked, then laughed a little.

  “Why is that a funny question?” said Kalussa.

  “Because truth be told, I met her the same way that I met you,” said Ridmark. “She was naked and had been taken captive by a band of orcish warriors.”

  Kalussa blinked. “Truly? How many women do you meet that way?”

  “More than I would have expected,” said Ridmark. He finished off his bread, brushed the crumbs from his hand, and took a drink of his waterskin. Kalussa started to ask another question, and Ridmark held up a hand. “Wait a moment. We’re almost at the top of the hill. I want to have a look down the other side first.”

  Kalussa nodded, and Ridmark dropped to a crouch. He crept forward and looked over the crest of the hill, and came to a stop.

  There were muridachs in the valley below.

  A lot of muridachs, at least thirty or forty of them. Worse, they were coming right towards Ridmark and Kalussa. Ridmark cursed and looked around, seeking cover, but he didn’t see any. There was no way they could avoid the muridachs before they drew close.

  “Trouble?” said Kalussa.

  “Muridachs,” said Ridmark. “About forty.”

  Kalussa swore. “The wretched scavengers! No sooner do valiant men of Owyllain fall in battle then the muridachs come to loot the corpses.”

  “We can’t outrun them, and we can’t hide from them,” said Ridmark.

  “What are we going to do?” said Kalussa. “Even with my help, I don’t think even the Shield Knight can overcome forty muridachs.”

  “We’re going to bully them,” said Ridmark, shifting his bamboo staff to his left hand and grasping Oathshield’s hilt with his right. “Can you call magical flames around your hands? They won’t need to do anything, but they should look impressive.”

  “Of course,” said Kalussa, shouldering her bow. She struck a pose and thrust out her hands, and fires danced along her fingers and bronze bracers. “How is that?”

  “Excellent,” said Ridmark. “Stay close to me, and follow my lead.”

  He straightened up and drew Oathshield, took a deep breath, and strode over the crest of the hill and down the far slope. He heard Kalussa’s sudden intake of breath at the sight of all those muridachs, but Ridmark kept walking. The ratmen had smelled Ridmark and Kalussa before they saw them, and one by one beady black eyes turned up to look at him.

  “Muridachs!” roared Ridmark in orcish at the top of his lungs. “Hear me!”

  They all looked at him.

  “I am Ridmark Arban, Shield Knight of Andomhaim!” thundered Ridmark. “I have crossed the sea and come to Owyllain to wage war against the vile necromancer Archaelon of Castra Chaeldon.” He swept Oathshield up before him in a flourishing salute, the soulstones flashing with white light, while Kalussa kept pace behind him, fire crackling up her arms. “Will you hinder my quest?”

  He stopped halfway down the slope, watching the muridachs. Predators, he knew, preferred to attack weakened prey. When dealing with kindreds like the manetaurs or the tygrai or the lupivirii, it was best never to show weakness. Scavengers, on the other hand, preferred to attack from ambush or avoid fights entirely. It was easier to take from the dead than to fight the living. Ridmark suspected that the muridachs preferred to avoid direct fights. Certainly, those he had fought in the Qazaluuskan Forest all those years ago had preferred to avoid fighting in anything resembling a fair fight.

  The muridachs had a hurried conversation in their own language. He saw them look at him, take in his dark elven armor and his glowing soulblade, saw them note the fire curling around Kalussa’s hands. The muridachs were an alien kindred with alien expressions and emotions, but nonetheless, Ridmark saw them arrive at a consensus.

  “Greetings, Shield Knight of Andomhaim,” said one of the muridachs. His whiskers twitched as he spoke, his thick tail lashing with agitation. “We do not wish to oppose you, no, no. We muridachs are wise enough not take sides when the mighty go to war.”

  No, thought Ridmark, they were wise enough to loot the battlefield once the mighty had killed each other.

  “I salute your wisdom, then,” said Ridmark. “What is your name?”

  The muridach leader twitched. “I am Rynofael, Strike Commander of the glorious city of Camphylon.”

  Ridmark glanced to the side.

  “Camphylon,” said Kalussa. “The chief city of the muridachs in the Deeps.”

  “Very good, Strike Commander Rynofael,” said Ridmark. “So long as you answer a few questions for me, we can part without coming to a fight.”

  Rynofael shuddered, his whiskers and tail twitching. “Fine! Fine! But you must hasten. There is great danger here, Shield Knight. Great danger! The undead gather in Castra Chaeldon, and we have no wish to join Sir Archaelon’s army.”

  “Why are you fleeing?” said Ridmark. “There are still dead hoplites and abandoned wagons on the road. Surely their bronze armor is worth stealing.”

  “It is,” said Rynofael, “but it is folly to steal it now. Better to eat half the carcass and escape than to eat the whole carcass and fall victim to the beast that slew it.” The other muridachs nodded. Evidently, this was a proverb among them.

  “Then Archaelon is raising the dead as undead soldiers?” said Ridmark.

  Rynofael bobbed his head. “He is, he is. Many undead. Your sword has great magic, yes? Great magic, indeed. I can smell it. Perhaps it shall let you prevail against Archaelon and his Champion. Or perhaps they shall tear you asunder. That is why we flee. There are too many great powers here. Archaelon, the Arcanii of King Hektor, the mad sorceress…”

  “Mad sorceress?” said Ridmark, and a bolt of hope tore through him. “Was this mad sorceress wearing green?”

  “She was,” said Rynofael. “She wielded great magic, and she questioned us also. She smelled of power and madness and illness, and I fear she would kill us all."

  "Where did you speak with her?" said Ridmark.

  "About six miles northwest of here," said Rynofale. That would put her closer to Castra Chaeldon than Ridmark. "Have you any other questions, Shield Knight? If you and the mad sorceress seek to war against Archaelon, we want to be well away by the time the fighting starts.”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “Go in peace.” He gestured to Kalussa, and they moved to the side, leaving a clear path for the muridachs to flee. “So long as you do not raise your blade against us, I shall not raise mine against you.”

  “This is agreeable,” said Rynofael. “Come!” He barked orders to the muridachs, and they hastened up the hillside. Ridmark’s fingers tightened against Oathshield’s hilt, but Rynofael and his men did not seem inclined to start a fight. The musky stench of the muridachs filled Ridmark’s nostrils as they passed, and soon the creatures vanished over the far side of the hill.

  “I am surprised,” said Kalussa, “that they did not attack us.”

  “As am I,” said Ridmark. “Something must have put a fright into them.”

  “Lady Calliande, perhaps?” said Kalussa.

  “She could have done it,” said Ridmark. It was the first proof he had heard that Calliande was here. If she had bee
n questioning the muridachs…she must have been looking for either Ridmark or their sons. A cold finger of fear went down his spine. If Gareth and Joachim had been brought here as well, they might have landed far from Ridmark and Calliande. Anything could have happened to them.

  No. He could not give up hope yet. Calliande had the Sight, and she could find the children anywhere. She would not give up, and neither would Ridmark.

  “Come,” said Ridmark. “Let’s see if we can find what frightened the muridachs so much.”

  He led the way down the hill, the stink of the muridachs’ fur lingering in the air. Ridmark sheathed Oathshield, his staff still in hand. They walked for another mile and a half, sometimes scrambling over the hills, sometimes using the road when it looked clear. With the muridachs withdrawing, Ridmark thought the road might be safer, but they still might run into the Confessor’s orcs…

  Oathshield trembled in its scabbard.

  “Wait,” said Ridmark.

  “Something is moving on the road ahead,” said Kalussa at the same moment.

  They were atop a rocky hill overlooking the road itself. This stretch of road was clear of corpses and wagons, and Ridmark suspected they had passed the point where most of the fighting had taken place.

  Yet he saw something coming up from the south.

  “Take cover,” said Ridmark, coming to a decision. There were several large boulders scattered across the hilltop, along with more of those tough little trees. Ridmark ducked behind one of the boulders, Kalussa crouching next to him. He watched the road and caught the morning sunlight flashing off bronze armor.

  “Those are our men,” said Kalussa. “They must have rallied and recovered. Maybe Sir Aegeus or Sir Tamlin is commanding them.”

  “Then why,” said Ridmark, “are they marching with the Confessor’s soldiers?”

  Kalussa opened her mouth, closed it again, and a look of dawning horror started to spread across her features.

  A ragged group of about fifty bronze-armored human hoplites and the Confessor’s orcs marched up the road. Their movements were stiff and jerky, and even in the sunlight, Ridmark saw the blue glow in their eyes.

  They were undead. Every single one of the men was undead.

  “Oh,” said Kalussa in a small voice. She suddenly looked very young and very frightened.

  “We know how Archaelon plans to recruit his army,” said Ridmark.

  Another strange sight caught his eye. At the back of the mob of undead soldiers was a towering figure in a crimson robe. The robe was covered with elaborate, angular designs, and a heavy cowl concealed the face. The robed figure stood over seven feet tall, and there was something strange about it, something that Ridmark could not quite place…

  Then he realized it.

  The robed form wasn’t walking.

  It was gliding.

  The robed figure floated a few inches off the ground, drifting after the undead soldiers as they marched north. As the figure drew closer, Ridmark saw that its hands were a grayish-yellow, the fingers tipped with black claws, and a pale blue haze danced around the fingers.

  He wasn’t sure, but the thought the thing in the robe was controlling the undead.

  “Is that Archaelon?” whispered Ridmark.

  Kalussa shook her head, her eyes wide. “I am not sure, but I think that is the robe of a high priest of the Maledicti.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Is this Maledictus serving Archaelon, or is Archaelon serving the Maledictus?”

  “I do not know,” said Kalussa. “Yet someone had to teach Archaelon necromancy.” She shivered. “It is said that the greatest necromancers in Owyllain are the Necromancer of Trojas and the Confessor himself. But the high priests of the Maledicti are a close second.”

  Ridmark watched as the undead column passed, watching for any sign of Calliande and Gareth and Joachim. The thought of seeing their corpses marching with the dead, their eyes glowing with blue fire, was almost too much to bear.

  But he saw no trace of them.

  Soon the undead soldiers passed out of sight.

  “They are heading straight to Castra Chaeldon,” said Kalussa. “The Maledictus must be raising the dead of the battlefield to strengthen Archaelon.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark. If Calliande and the children were imprisoned within the castra, undead soldiers would make it harder for him to rescue them. “Let’s continue towards Castra Chaeldon, but stay off the road. Oathshield can destroy any number of undead creatures, but I would prefer to fight on a more advantageous ground.” For that matter, he did not want to fight that Maledictus until he had a better idea of the creature’s powers.

  “Agreed,” said Kalussa, and they started northwest once more.

  Chapter 12: Survivors

  Calliande and Tamlin set off just before dawn.

  As they left the camp, Calliande again sent her Sight seeking towards her sons, and she found them at once. Gareth and Joachim had not moved during the night, and they were still within that necromantic haze. Calliande was relieved that they were alive and unharmed, but she shuddered to think of the night they must have spent in a stronghold of a renegade necromancer. Gareth would have tried to put on a brave face for his brother, but Joachim would likely have cried until exhaustion overwhelmed him.

  Or until one of the other prisoners or guards had enough of his crying and decided to shut him up.

  Her sons. Her poor sons. They were too young for this kind of horror.

  Calliande tried not to think about it and clasped her dagger, casting the spell to find Ridmark. She found him, and she realized that he was already on the move, heading in the same direction that she was. Likely she and Tamlin would cross his path today.

  That thought gave her a surge of hope. If he was alive and well, they could accomplish more together than they would otherwise. Surely together they could rescue their children.

  “How far to Castra Chaeldon?” said Calliande as they climbed yet another rocky hill.

  “Only a few more miles,” said Tamlin, adjusting his sword belt. “We ought to reach it by noon. Faster, if we take the road.”

  “Best to avoid the road, though,” said Calliande.

  “I agree.” Tamlin shook his head. “If you will forgive the observation, my lady, you do not look nearly as dangerous as you really are. Anyone coming across us will only see a lone soldier and a woman. We may draw attention we might otherwise avoid.”

  “Then let us endeavor to avoid it,” said Calliande.

  They lapsed into silence as they walked. Calliande kept hold of the Sight, sweeping it in search of any hidden foes. Yet she wrestled with a curious sensation as they walked. Calliande was tired, her muscles unused to so much exertion after her illness and bed rest. Fear for her children and husband consumed her heart, and her mind turned over endless worries.

  And yet, peculiarly, she felt better than she had in a long time.

  Perhaps it was the exercise. Calliande had not left their domus in months, had done little more than wander the halls, lost in her black musings. The grief for Joanna had paralyzed her, she realized. Only the dire necessity of saving her children had broken that paralysis.

  Or maybe it was the urgency of her task. Calliande had spent most of her life in pursuit of urgent goals in the two wars against the Frostborn. Having a task of dire importance, even one so near to her heart, was…familiar with her. She knew how to respond to the challenge. Perhaps a soldier felt this way when returning to the battlefield after several years of peace. Calliande knew she faced a grim task, but she knew how to approach it.

  The human heart was a peculiar thing. How could she feel so many contradictory things at once?

  They traveled for about an hour. Tamlin, for once, did not talk, his eyes wary beneath his bronze helm as he scanned the countryside around them.

  “Where did you get that sword?” said Calliande at last.

  “Hmm?” said Tamlin, gazing at the hills.

  “All the weapons and armor I’v
e seen so far have been fashioned from bronze,” said Calliande. “I assume that iron is rare here, but tin and copper are common.”

  “They are,” said Tamlin. “To my knowledge, there are no iron mines in all of Owyllain. The only iron comes from trade with the dvargir, and they charge a dear price for it. Even the Sovereign equipped most of his soldiers with armor and weapons of bronze.”

  “Then that sword must be beyond price,” said Calliande. “Where did you find it?”

  “Ah.” Tamlin grinned. “I didn’t quite find it, you understand. The Sovereign did give weapons and armor of dark elven steel to his most trusted soldiers and servants. One of them was the chief gamemaster of the Ring of Blood, the gladiatorial arena in Urd Maelwyn. I killed him during our escape from Urd Maelwyn, and I took his sword.” He grinned. “Since I had fought in the Ring without pay for years, it seemed like a just recompense. And you are right. It is a priceless weapon and extremely useful in battle. The blade bites into bronze like an axe into wood, and with it, I’ve won some fights I might otherwise have lost.”

  Calliande nodded. That thought cheered her. Ridmark had been wearing his dark elven armor when they had been transported here, and blades of regular steel had a difficult time penetrating the dark elven alloy. Likely bronze blades would find it even more difficult.

  “Just as well,” said Calliande. “We will need every advantage…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “My lady?”

  A ripple went through her Sight.

  Someone had cast a spell nearby. A spell of elemental magic, she thought, like the ones that Tamlin employed in battle. It had been cast just over that ridge.

  “Tamlin,” said Calliande, but he frowned and held up a hand.

  “Quiet for a moment, please,” he said, pulling off his helmet so he could listen better. As he did, Calliande heard what he had caught his attention. It was a faint roaring sound, almost like the sea crashing against the breakers, but Calliande had heard that sound so many times she could not mistake it for anything else.