Sevenfold Sword: Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Do you think he is a threat to anyone?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark shrugged again. “He has one of the Seven Swords. That probably makes him a small army in his own right. Anyone can be dangerous…but the Masked One doesn’t seem inclined to act.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “That’s what worries me.”

  Ridmark frowned. “You think he’s planning an attack? Or an ambush? Even with one of the Seven Swords, he won’t get very far with only fifteen hundred soldiers under his command.”

  “The Sword of Shadows,” said Calliande. “What do you think it commands?”

  “Shadows, presumably,” said Ridmark. “Probably the shadow of Incariel, like the Enlightened did back in Andomhaim. The Sovereign was a dark elven noble, which means he was connected to the shadow of Incariel. When he forged the Seven Swords, he must have created one that drew on that shadow.”

  “I wonder,” said Calliande. “Maybe it’s a different kind of shadow. Like illusions. Or shadows cast into the mind.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ridmark.

  Again, she took a deep breath. “Ridmark…when we ask people about the Masked One of Xenorium, have you noticed how they always say he’s no threat to anyone?”

  He thought back over the last two months. Truth be told, he hadn’t given much thought to the Masked One. There had always been so many more urgent concerns.

  “Come to think of it,” said Ridmark, “yes, you’re right. Everyone who speaks of him dismisses him as a threat.”

  “Isn’t that strange?” said Calliande. “And they don’t just dismiss him as a threat. They always say the exact same thing. The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone. Those exact words.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Do they?”

  “Yes.” Calliande got to her feet, and his eyes flicked over her body. “I’ll show you.”

  “You’ll have to get dressed first,” said Ridmark. “Regrettably.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t want to shock the monks.” Her smile faded. “But…Ridmark, I think this is important.”

  He nodded, got to his feet with a grunt, and got dressed.

  They stepped into the courtyard of the Monastery of St. Paul. The sun had set, and nine of the thirteen moons were out, their position bathing the monastery in a reddish-silver glow. They walked across the courtyard and climbed to the curtain wall, and Ridmark saw Tamlin leaning against the battlements, gazing to the east.

  “Shield Knight, Keeper,” said Tamlin with a bow.

  “Sir Tamlin,” said Ridmark. “Cannot sleep?”

  “Not yet,” said Tamlin. “I figured I would come up here to think for a while.” He yawned. “But after the last few weeks, I am tired enough that I don’t think I can stay up all night brooding.”

  “A question for you,” said Calliande. “Do you think Trojas is in any danger from Xenorium?”

  “No,” said Tamlin. “The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone.”

  Ridmark felt a little chill.

  Those exact words…

  “Thank you,” said Calliande. “A good night to you, Sir Tamlin.”

  Tamlin looked puzzled but inclined his head. “Good night, Lord Ridmark, Lady Calliande.”

  They continued walking down the rampart, leaving Tamlin to his thoughts.

  “Why did he say that?” said Ridmark in a low voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande. She craned her head and looked towards the monastery’s keep. “I see Prince Krastikon is leaving the dinner. Let’s talk to him.”

  Ridmark nodded, and they descended from the rampart and headed across the courtyard. Krastikon was heading towards the barracks but changed direction towards them.

  “You left the dinner early,” said Krastikon.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “I felt in need of rest. I’m not as young as I used to be.” Calliande smiled a little. “I hope I did not offend the abbot.”

  Krastikon snorted. “After you slew the Necromancer? My lord, I suspect you could burn down the monastery and sow salt in the ashes, and the abbot would not take offense. Though I would not recommend such a course.”

  “I imagine God would take offense if we burned a house of prayer,” said Ridmark, “especially one inhabited by monks who have been nothing but helpful to us.”

  “I am sorry,” said Calliande, “that you had to leave your wife behind in Trojas.”

  “As am I,” said Krastikon. He sighed and then shrugged. “But she had her duties, and I have mine. It has always been thus in times of war. The men go off to battle, and the wives remain behind to rule the household.” He snorted. “Though my wife is a Queen and her household is a city, so that makes a small difference.”

  “Do you think Trojas will be in any danger from the Masked One?” said Calliande. “It is but a short march from Xenorium to Trojas.”

  “Certainly not,” said Krastikon. “The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone.”

  Ridmark’s chill got worse.

  “Why is that?” he said.

  Krastikon shrugged. “He has spent the War of the Seven Swords skulking behind the walls of Xenorium. Once we have overcome the Confessor, it will be a simple matter for King Hektor to defeat the Masked One and claim the Sword of Shadows. The Masked One, after all, is no threat to anyone.”

  “Indeed not,” said Calliande. “Good night, Prince Krastikon.”

  He inclined his head. “Good night, Lord Ridmark, my lady Keeper.”

  Krastikon headed towards the barracks, leaving Ridmark alone with Calliande.

  “Isn’t that strange?” said Calliande. “You see what I mean?”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, disturbed. “Krastikon is harsh and direct in speech, and Tamlin tends towards the flowery. But for both men to use the exact same phrase…”

  “I’ll wager it is about to get stranger,” said Calliande, gesturing towards the doors to the great hall. An elderly monk emerged into the courtyard, walking with a limp towards the gate. “Talk to him.”

  Ridmark nodded and stepped forward. “Pardon, brother? A moment of your time.”

  The old monk stopped and bowed. “Of course, Lord Shield Knight.”

  “What is your name?” said Ridmark.

  “Brother Diocles, my lord,” said the old man. “I was a hoplite in service to King Brasidas until I grew too old to fight, and then I took the vows of a monk. Tonight, I will serve as the night watchman at the gate.” He smiled. “I did that many a time in King Brasidas’s camps. It is much more comfortable to do so from a curtain wall, I can tell you.”

  “I agree,” said Ridmark. “Tell me. What do you think will happen next in the War of the Seven Swords, now that both King Justin and the Necromancer have been defeated?”

  “At your hand, my lord,” said Brother Diocles. “You need not my counsel.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to hear it.”

  Brother Diocles shrugged. “Well…it seemed plain the main contest was between King Justin, King Hektor, and the Confessor, with the Necromancer waiting to unleash the Bronze Dead. The Confessor withdrew from battles, letting King Justin and King Hektor fight. But now that King Hektor rules most of Owyllain and the Necromancer has been slain, King Hektor will have to face the Confessor, and the victor shall rule Owyllain. May God grant strength to King Hektor’s sword arm!”

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark. “What about the Masked One of Xenorium? Surely he is a danger.”

  Brother Diocles laughed. “The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone, my lord.”

  The uneasy feeling in Ridmark’s mind worsened.

  “Thank you for your words, Brother Diocles,” said Ridmark. “God keep you in your watch.”

  “And you in your duty, my lord,” said Diocles with another bow. The old man continued to the gate.

  “You see?” said Calliande once the monk was out of earshot.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “And that is damned peculiar. I wonder…”

  He
looked around and spotted a saurtyri servant heading for the gate.

  “Pardon!” said Ridmark. “Saurtyri?”

  The lizard-like little creature stopped and trotted over. “Yes, lord?”

  “Just one question,” said Ridmark. “What do you think of the Masked One of Xenorium?”

  The saurtyri blinked. “The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone, my lord.”

  God and the saints! Even the saurtyri were repeating that phrase?

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. “I am sorry to have interrupted you.”

  The saurtyri bowed and then walked off.

  “What the hell is happening?” said Ridmark.

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande. “I first noticed it before the battle with Justin. Whenever someone mentioned the Masked One, they inevitably ended up saying that he was no threat and changed the topic. At first, I paid no heed to it. There were so many more pressing concerns. But for so many people to say the exact same thing, even the exact same words…”

  “Is that the power of the Sword of Shadows?” said Ridmark. “To cloud the minds of men? And saurtyri?”

  “It might be,” said Calliande. “Some kind of magic that only affects the mind, and subtly. I cannot see anything with the Sight. Perhaps it is a spell that implanted a false memory once, and then vanished.”

  “Then why isn’t it working on us?” said Ridmark.

  “At a guess?” said Calliande. “You’re the only Swordbearer in Owyllain, Ridmark. I think Oathshield is protecting you. Perhaps the mantle of the Keeper is shielding me.” She shook her head. “The next time I speak with Antenora, I will ask her to search the tomes in the library of the Tower of the Keeper. The dark elves knew much of the magic of the mind, and perhaps one of the ancient Keepers wrote something down.”

  “What would happen if we tried to force the issue?” said Ridmark. “To claim that the Masked One was a threat?”

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande. “They might just laugh us off. We’ll have to try, though. Maybe with Kalussa. Or Kyralion. He might be immune to the effect. Or…”

  Her sentence trailed off in a wide yawn, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth.

  “Or we should sleep on it,” said Ridmark.

  “Aye.” She smiled. “I think we wore each other out.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ridmark. “And it’s at least twelve days to Aenesium from here. We might as well enjoy the opportunity to sleep in a real bed.”

  ###

  The Maledictus of Shadows stood atop the curtain wall of the Monastery of St. Paul and watched the Shield Knight and the Keeper retire to their cottage.

  They could not see him. No one could see the Maledictus save for when he wished it, though the Master and the other Maledicti could see him.

  Not even the Keeper’s Sight could penetrate the mist that surrounded him.

  And the Maledictus could not even see himself.

  Nor could he even remember his name, or his past, for he had forgotten it when the Master had bestowed the power of Shadows upon him before the fall of Urd Maelwyn to Kothlaric Pendragon. He remembered that he had been male, but since he was now undead and no longer had any needs or desires of the flesh, that was irrelevant to his duties.

  The loss of memory did not trouble him. That did not matter. Nor did the loss of his name and identity.

  The New God was coming. That was all that mattered.

  The New God was rising…and the Shield Knight and the Keeper would have to be stopped.

  The Master’s enemy Rhodruthain had acted wisely to bring them to Owyllain. In a month, they had overcome two of the bearers of the Seven Swords and suborned one more to their side. What more might they do, if left to act unchecked?

  No. The Maledicti had tried to destroy the Shield Knight and the Keeper, and that had failed at Aenesium and during the battle against King Justin. Khurazalin and Qazaldhar had tried to kill them at Trojas, and even with the aid of the Necromancer, they had failed.

  Main force had proven useless.

  It was time for a different approach.

  A different weapon.

  For the Maledictus of Shadows understood the truth. Power didn’t matter. Strength didn’t matter. It was the mind that ruled both, and the mightiest power and greatest strength relied upon the mind to direct them.

  And if the mind filled with shadows, how then could it fight?

  The Maledictus of Shadows started casting a spell of travel. He had a great deal of work to do.

  For the Tower of Nightmares awaited the Keeper and the Shield Knight.

  Chapter 2: Family

  Thirteen days after leaving the Monastery of St. Paul, Ridmark and the others looked across the River Morwynial at the walls of the city of Aenesium.

  They stood at the edge of a broad, shallow valley, looking down at the River Morwynial. The city rose over the southern bank of the river, its walls and watch towers of red granite reflected in the river’s rippling waters. Within the heart of the city rose the enormous copper-plated dome of the Great Cathedral of Aenesium. Beyond it stood the sprawling white stone edifice of the Palace of the High Kings, a tangled maze of towers and terraces and green gardens.

  “Aenesium,” announced Tamlin. He smiled a little. “I hope your second visit, Lord Ridmark, is more peaceful than your first.”

  Ridmark snorted. “I keep hoping that, but it never seems to work out.” He rubbed his face. He needed a shave again. “We’ll rest here for a few days. God knows we could use it. If you don’t object to us staying in your house once more, Sir Tamlin?”

  “I do not,” said Tamlin. “I hope Michael and Zuredek have kept the place from falling into ruin while I’m gone.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande, gazing at Aenesium. “A rest would be most welcome.”

  Her face and tone her calm, but he saw the longing in her eyes. It had been over a month since they had left the city with King Hektor’s army, and that was the longest she had ever been separated from their children. Duty was a stern master.

  Still, Ridmark reflected, at least her sacrifices had not been wasted. If they had not accompanied Hektor, then likely Justin would have destroyed his army, and then the Bronze Dead would have smashed Justin’s host. Had they not accompanied Hektor, perhaps even now the Bronze Dead would be climbing the walls of the city, spreading the Necromancer’s plague curse across the face of the world. A ghastly vision flashed across Ridmark’s mind, of Gareth and Joachim dying from that evil curse, the pustules distorting their faces.

  He banished the thought, rebuking himself. Taerdyn was dead, and his dark magic had died with him, thank God. There were far more concrete things to fear than to brood upon what might have been.

  “A large city,” said Third, gazing at the river.

  Tamlin blinked at her in surprise. “You’ve not seen it before?”

  Third shook her head. “I have not yet come this far south, Sir Tamlin. My sister Queen Mara and High King Arandar bade me to find the Shield Knight and the Keeper, and I found them in the redwood forest north of here. There was not yet any reason to come further south.”

  “Well,” said Tamlin with an echo of his old gallant manner, “then you are in for a splendid sight, my lady. Aenesium is the chief city of the realm of Owyllain and the jewel of the Nine Cities. Indeed, I do not think there is a greater city in all the world.”

  “I agree with Sir Tamlin,” said Kalussa. Ridmark expected her to say more, but her voice was still troubling her.

  Third considered that as they descended the slope of the valley towards the riverbank and the waiting ferry station. “It is a defensible location, much like Tarlion. The river wards its northern wall and the sea its western. Any attacker would have to come from the south or the east, and a besieger would need to bring a powerful fleet. Else Aenesium could be resupplied from the sea indefinitely.”

  “Aye,” said Tamlin.

  “That said, Tarlion is larger, and its fortifications are stronger,” said T
hird. “Additionally, the Citadel of Tarlion is near-impregnable. That large building – is that the Palace of the High Kings?” Ridmark nodded. “It looks extremely difficult to defend.”

  “It was,” said Ridmark, remembering Rypheus and the night of the banquet.

  “Tarlion is twice as old,” said Tamlin. “It has an unfair advantage in that regard.”

  “The city is loud and quite crowded,” said Kyralion. “It is difficult to find silence and solitude there.”

  “Cities are usually like that,” said Ridmark.

  “I still agree with Sir Tamlin,” said Kalussa.

  “Speaking of crowds,” said Krastikon, pointing, “it seems that someone else wishes to use the ferry.”

  Ridmark looked towards the riverbank. He saw a group of a half-dozen men heading towards the ferry station. They wore leather armor reinforced with bronze studs and carried short bows and quivers of arrows at their belts.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “Is that Sir Parmenio?”

  “Aye, I think it is,” said Ridmark. “Come! Perhaps he’ll have news.”

  There had been little enough news at Castra Chaeldon. The gathered army of the realm of Owyllain had been encamped there and in the nearby hills, waiting to defend against the Confessor and the undead hordes of the Necromancer. King Hektor had left King Brasidas, King Aristotle, and Sir Tramond in command while he attended to matters in Aenesium, and the kings had been overjoyed to hear that Taerdyn had been slain and the Bronze Dead defeated.

  Yet there had been no news of the Confessor, or indeed any news from Urd Maelwyn. Whatever the Confessor was doing, he had kept his movements secret so far. Ridmark and the others had passed a constant stream of scutian-pulled supply wagons lumbering north to feed the army, and they had heard a dozen conflicting reports – King Hektor had gone to take a new wife, or King Hektor had traveled to Megarium to deal with an attack of the muridachs or the Takai nomads.