Sevenfold Sword: Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  The door swung open in silence, and Calliande looked up as Ridmark stepped into the bedroom, grimacing a little.

  “Everything all right?” said Calliande.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “I just helped Tamlin to bed.”

  Calliande frowned. “Is he sick…ah. A self-induced sickness, I guess.”

  “That it is,” said Ridmark. “He just needs to sleep it off.”

  “I hope that doesn’t become a problem,” said Calliande.

  “It won’t,” said Ridmark. “He says he won’t drink anything once we’re on the road. And if he does, I’ll have Krastikon beat some sense into him. Or have Kalussa lecture that he needs to stay sober if he wants to save the seventh shard.”

  “He’d probably prefer to have Krastikon hit him a few times,” said Calliande.

  “Probably,” agreed Ridmark. He stepped closer and gave her a quick kiss. “Any news from Antenora?”

  “No news, but some useful ideas,” said Calliande. “She thinks the reason no one thinks the Masked One of Xenorium is a threat is because the Sword of Shadows might control oneiromancy.”

  Ridmark blinked. “Onerous…what?”

  “Oneiromancy,” said Calliande. “Magic that alters dreams.”

  Ridmark frowned. “I hope not. I’ve had enough of prophetic dreams to last a lifetime.”

  “It would make sense,” said Calliande. “Dreams are easily forgotten. And if the Masked One sent a dream to make people believe he wasn’t a threat…the dream could be forgotten, but the idea would remain in their heads.”

  “A neat trick,” said Ridmark. “I wonder why he would bother.”

  Calliande shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s part of some subtle plan. Or maybe it’s all he can do with the Sword. With only fifteen hundred hoplites, he would have to do something clever. Else the Confessor could just roll right over him.”

  “It is a mystery,” said Ridmark, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  “Yes.” Calliande sighed. “I suppose I shall be awake all night with my mind worrying about it.”

  “If you want,” said Ridmark, and he kissed her again, harder this time. Calliande found her hands sliding up his back. “There are ways to distract yourself, though.”

  Calliande smiled. “Well. Who knows when we’ll have the chance to sleep in a proper bed again? It would be a shame to waste it.”

  He was right. Once they had finished, Calliande wasn’t thinking about the mystery at all. She fell asleep without trouble.

  At least until Tamlin’s screaming awoke her in the middle of the night.

  Chapter 6: Meddling

  Tamlin collapsed drunk into his bed and fell asleep.

  And in his sleep, he dreamed.

  He was back in the Ring of Blood in Urd Maelwyn, the arena where the Confessor’s enslaved gladiators fought for the amusement of his soldiers. The half-broken towers of Urd Maelwyn rose against the gray sky like the stark white bones of some long-dead beast. The massive bulk of the central tower, once the seat of the Sovereign and now the tower of the Confessor, rose in the background.

  Tamlin walked through the center of the Ring of Blood. The gladiatorial matches had taken place at the bottom of the arena, in a massive oval-shaped pit ringed with dozens of tiers of benches that looked down at the combatants. The sand, raked clean after every death, rasped beneath Tamlin’s boots. The tiers of benches were empty. Silence hung over Urd Maelwyn, a silence that Tamlin had never experienced in all the years he had lived as a slave in the city.

  He stopped in the center of the arena, wondering why he dreamed of this place now. He never wanted to come back here, didn’t even want to remember it.

  But how often had he gotten what he wanted?

  “Find me again,” whispered Tysia as she died on the point of Khurazalin’s sword. “The New God is coming.”

  “Find me again,” whispered Tirdua as she died in the courtyard of the Blue Castra. “The New God is coming.”

  He supposed there were worse things that could have filled his dreams than an emptied Ring of Blood. Such as some of the things he had actually experienced in the Ring of Blood. Tamlin wondered if Calem had dreams like this as well. Sir Calem, too, had been an enslaved gladiator in the Ring. Yet someone had taken Calem and written spells of dark magic into his flesh, turning him into an enslaved assassin. Calliande had suppressed those spells, though she hadn’t been able to remove them all the way yet, and…

  “Tamlin Thunderbolt,” said a woman’s voice, sharp and acerbic and familiar.

  Tamlin turned and saw the Dark Lady standing a few paces behind him.

  She looked as she always did in these strange dreams, black-haired and black-eyed, her face sharp, her body clad in wool and leather and a cloak of tattered brown and green and gray strips. She carried a black staff in her right hand, its sigils sometimes flashing with white light, and she looked at him with a strange mixture of pity and pride.

  “I am pleased,” she said, “that you survived the trial that awaited you in Trojas.”

  “I shouldn’t have,” said Tamlin. “I should have died there. I would have died there, if not for…”

  “For little Kalussa, yes,” said the Dark Lady. “But she has grown, has she not? She proved equal to the challenge set before her. I hope that she is equal to the challenge that now awaits her.”

  Tamlin felt a wave of misgiving. When the Dark Lady appeared in his dreams, that was a sign that trouble was coming. Her warnings had saved his life more than once.

  “And what challenge is that?” said Tamlin.

  “Neither you nor Kalussa are yet at the proper point in time to learn of it,” said the Dark Lady.

  Tamlin sighed. “Of course.”

  “And there are,” said the Dark Lady, “things you want to know rather more urgently. Things that I can now speak of, for you have encountered them.”

  “Tirdua,” said Tamlin. “Tysia. Please. Anything you can tell me about her and Tirdua, anything at all…”

  “Very well,” said the Dark Lady. “I will tell you what I can. Ask what you will.”

  “Who is she?” said Tamlin. “Who is she really?”

  “Tirdua and Tysia,” said the Dark Lady, “were the same woman. The Keeper was correct. Your wife and Tirdua and the five others were shards of the same original woman. Or, rather, the same soul split into seven different bodies. They each developed their own personalities but subconsciously share the same memories. That was why Tirdua had dreams of both you and her death at Khurazalin’s hands.”

  “How did this happen to her?” said Tamlin.

  “She did it to herself. Or, rather, she asked someone else to do it to her.”

  Tamlin blinked. “Why? What could possibly be worth it?”

  “She did it,” said the Dark Lady, “in hopes of defeating the New God.”

  “Find me again,” Tysia and Tirdua whispered as they died. “The New God is coming.”

  “She recognized the danger,” said the Dark Lady. “She was one of the few that did, and she foresaw the rise of the New God long before anyone else. And her life was ending, and she feared that her knowledge would die with her. So, she made a difficult choice. She would live again, and not just once, but seven times. Her soul was split into seven and divided among seven bodies. And each one of these seven lives carried the knowledge she needed, the truth of the New God.”

  Tamlin considered that.

  “Did the Maledicti know?” said Tamlin.

  “Yes,” said the Dark Lady. “And they knew that the woman of seven lives was a threat to the New God. They set themselves to hunting down all seven children and killing them before they could reach maturity. Your mother realized the danger, which is why she fled with you and Tysia to the monastery, though Justin Cyros found her anyway, and Khurazalin discovered Tysia in Urd Maelwyn. The Maledicti managed to find and kill four of the other shards, and the sixth was killed before you in Trojas. There is only one left, and she waits in the town o
f Kalimnos.”

  “Do the Maledicti know where she is?” said Tamlin. Might they have to race Khurazalin and Qazaldhar and the other Maledicti to Kalimnos?

  “Not yet,” said the Dark Lady. “The New God has given his Maledicti many tasks, and they labor diligently to carry out its will. Finding the seventh and final shard is only one of those duties. But they will find her in time, and she will need you to protect her.”

  “Will she?” said Tamlin. “I failed Tysia, and I failed Tirdua. Why should I not fail again?”

  “You could not have saved either of them, Tamlin Thunderbolt,” said the Dark Lady. “Do not blame yourself for things beyond your control. But you can save the seventh shard. If you are ready, you will be able to protect her. But first, you must save yourself.”

  “From what?” said Tamlin.

  “From the trap the Maledicti have set for you,” said the Dark Lady.

  Tamlin frowned. “What trap is that?”

  “The Maledicti have realized that the Shield Knight and the Keeper represent a grave threat to their plans,” said the Dark Lady, “and so they will strike. They have foreseen that you will go through the Pass of Ruins and Kalimnos on your way to the Monastery of St. James, though they do not yet know the seventh shard awaits in the town. Consequently, the Maledicti have set a trap for the Shield Knight and the Keeper in Kalimnos. They intend to kill you all, and present the Swords of Earth, Air, and Death to their master.”

  “What manner of trap?” said Tamlin, alarmed at her words, but relieved that she was being far more specific than usual. If Tamlin could warn the others, perhaps they could turn the tables on the Maledicti.

  “The Tower of Nightmares,” said the Dark Lady. “It…”

  She frowned, and then her dark eyes went wide. She took two quick steps back, raising her staff, white light shimmering in the depths of its sigils.

  “Tamlin!” said the Dark Lady.

  Tamlin turned, and a jolt of alarm went through him.

  A robed shape stood upon the lowest tier of seats, watching them.

  It wore the elaborate ornamented robe and sash of a Maledictus. Khurazalin’s robe was red, Qazaldhar’s black, and Urzhalar’s had been green, but this robe was a strange shade of dull gray. Somehow the eye did not want to linger upon it. Tamlin stared at the heavy cowl, trying to see the face beneath the hood.

  But he couldn’t.

  Mist filled the interior of the cowl. It was a strange sensation, one that made Tamlin’s head hurt. The Maledictus stood with its hands concealed in its voluminous sleeves, and wisps of mist swirled and fell from within the hems of its robe. It was as if the mist was pouring off its body.

  With a shock, Tamlin recognized the figure. It had appeared in one of these dreams before the battle at the Blue Castra, and the Dark Lady had warned him against it.

  “The Maledictus of Shadows,” said Tamlin.

  He had the distinct feeling that the creature in the robe was looking at him, that its will and attention were focused on him and the Dark Lady.

  “Yes,” said the Dark Lady, her voice tight, her staff glowing. “It has been looking for you, and it has found you. You need to flee, Tamlin.” She drew in a breath and gestured at him. “You need to wake up right now.”

  Tamlin felt the dream start to dissolve around him, felt himself start to wake.

  And then something unseen seized him and dragged him back into the dream.

  Tamlin staggered. The sensation was almost like falling from a great height, though he had not moved from his position on the sands of the Ring of Blood.

  “Come now, Sir Tamlin,” said a familiar, hated voice, dry and scholarly. “It would be a shame to leave so soon.”

  Tamlin snarled and turned his head, and saw the speaker standing a quarter of a way around the tier from the Maledictus of Shadows.

  Or floating, rather, a few inches off the ground.

  Khurazalin stood swathed in his fire-colored robes, his tusked green face half-hidden beneath his cowl. Elemental fire danced around his right hand, while shadow and ghostly blue fire flickered around the fingers of his left. A livid scar marked the left side of his face, a legacy of their last encounter, and his left eye was missing.

  Blue fire burned in the empty socket.

  “You,” growled Tamlin, looking at the orcish warlock who had murdered his best friend and killed his wife twice.

  “Yes,” said Khurazalin, a hint of amusement in that dry voice. “You could comfort yourself, Sir Tamlin, with the thought that this is only a dream, and you would be correct. But I fear this is a dream from which you will not awaken.”

  “Come to try your luck at last, Maledictus?” said the Dark Lady, her voice thick with scorn. “It has taken you long enough.”

  “There have been many tasks to occupy the servants of the New God,” said Khurazalin, “and the Guardian Rhodruthain has led us on a merry chase more than once. But, fear not, Guardian Morigna. Your turn has come at last.”

  “Morigna?” said Tamlin, blinking. Ridmark had mentioned a woman named Morigna, a sorceress who had been his lover before she had been killed.

  Dear God. The Dark Lady was the spirit of Ridmark’s dead lover? Had she appeared to Ridmark as well? Or to any of the others? The Dark Lady had been talking about Kalussa a great deal. Had she appeared to Kalussa?

  Then Tamlin realized that he had far more immediate problems.

  “Is this it, then?” said Morigna, taking a step to the side so she could keep both Khurazalin and the Maledictus of Shadows in sight at the same time. “You have decided to come to your deaths?”

  “Guardian, you ought to know better than that,” said Khurazalin. “I have died several times. Death has no hold upon the priests of the New God. No, you have meddled in our affairs for the last time, as has Sir Tamlin. I confess we underestimated you, Sir Tamlin, but that ends now.”

  “Good luck killing me in a dream,” said Tamlin.

  Khurazalin let out a dusty chuckle. “Alas, Sir Tamlin, the Shield Knight and the Keeper will find you dead in your bed tomorrow morning. Perhaps you drank a little too much, or perhaps Kalussa could not heal all the strains you underwent in Trojas, or maybe you were born with a defect in your heart that finally caught up to you. A tragic loss, to be sure…and neither you nor the Guardian shall warn the Shield Knight and the Keeper against the doom that awaits them in the Tower of Nightmares.”

  “I doubt that very much, Khurazalin,” said Morigna, pointing her staff at him. “Two of you are not enough to take a Guardian.”

  “And you will not fight alone,” said Tamlin.

  It was only a dream, but the Sword of Earth was still at his belt. Tamlin drew the Sword, and the green blade seemed to flash. Khurazalin’s lip twisted. Contempt? Amusement? Tamlin wasn’t sure.

  “Guardian,” said Khurazalin. “I am disappointed in you. Did you really think only two of us would come to deal with you?”

  A dark figure moved down one of the aisles between the tiers of seats, gliding towards Khurazalin. This Maledictus’s robe was black, and the undead face in the cowl was a rotting horror, decayed and glistening and caving into itself, ghostly blue fire dancing in the empty eye sockets. Tamlin recognized Qazaldhar, the Maledictus of Death.

  “Sir Tamlin,” said Qazaldhar, his voice bubbling and raspy. If illness and disease could speak, they would have a voice like that. “You escaped my plague curse. A pity. I would have preferred to give you an agonizing death, but I suppose I shall settle for a swift one.”

  “Try it, you rotting maggot,” said Tamlin. “You…”

  A fourth Maledictus appeared on the other side of the Ring of Blood, clad in an ornate robe of emerald green that was almost the same color as the Sword of Earth, the right sleeve pinned to the sash. The Maledictus of Earth had lost his right arm to one of Third’s swords.

  “Urzhalar,” spat Tamlin, remembering the Maledictus who had advised his father.

  Urzhalar said nothing, the crystals jutting from the
leathery skin of his undead face glittering in the dim light. A fifth Maledictus appeared near Qazaldhar, and this Maledictus wore a robe of silvery-gray that looked metallic, the face and hands hidden in the cowl and the sleeves. The Maledictus of Air, maybe?

  Five Maledicti. Could Morigna fight five Maledicti at once and win?

  “Tamlin, run,” said Morigna, her staff leveled before her, white fire crackling up and down its length.

  “No knight would abandon a woman in need,” said Tamlin. “And where could I run within my own dream?”

  “How noble,” said Khurazalin. “So good to see a man hew tightly to his principles. Come, brothers! Let us give Sir Tamlin the chance to die for his duty.”

  All five Maledicti started casting spells at once. Khurazalin called fire, Urzhalar a vortex of whirling crystalline shards, and Qazaldhar one of his plague clouds. The Maledictus in the silvery robe lifted its hands, lightning snarling around withered undead fingers, and the Maledictus of Shadows remained motionless, the mist swirling within its cowl.

  Morigna swept her hand before her, white light blazing from her free hand. A dome of light appeared around her, and the volley of magical attacks from the Maledicti smashed into it. Morigna rocked back and started casting another spell.

  And in that instant, Tamlin moved.

  He sprinted to the edge of the sand and leaped, casting a spell with the magic of elemental air. The spell carried him into the air, and Tamlin vaulted over the edge of the pit. He landed on his feet and sprinted towards Khurazalin, the Sword of Earth drawn back to strike. Khurazalin whirled to face him, his remaining eye flashing with blue fire in the depths of his cowl. Tamlin lunged, but Khurazalin vanished in a swirl of shadow and blue flame, reappearing on the other side of the Ring of Blood.

  Morigna struck back, hurling a spell that looked like a rippling distortion in the air mixed with white fire. The distortion hurtled towards Qazaldhar, and the Maledictus of Death disappeared in a pulse of blue light, reappearing a third of the way around the Ring. Morigna rocked back beneath a blast of lightning from the silver-robed Maledictus and a whirling ball of blue flame from Urzhalar and then began a new spell.