Sevenfold Sword: Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  The battle settled into a pattern. Morigna held her ground in the center of the arena, deflecting the attacks of the Maledicti and striking back when she could. Tamlin chased the Maledicti, trying to close and strike down the orcish warlocks. Yet he could never get close enough, even with elemental magic to augment his speed, and the Maledicti always traveled away before he could land a blow. Yet his attacks forced the Maledicti to retreat, giving Morigna breathing space.

  But the battle was a stalemate. The Maledicti could not close on Tamlin and Morigna, but neither could Tamlin strike back against them. For that matter, Morigna seemed unable to strike the Maledicti. Either they deflected her magical attacks or traveled away before her spells struck home. How long could this stalemate last? For that matter, this was a dream. Tamlin felt no trace of the weariness that such a vigorous battle ought to have inspired, and his breathing came slow and steady. If one of the killing spells of the Maledicti struck him, what would happen? Nothing?

  Or would Zuredek and Michael find his corpse in bed tomorrow morning, and assume that his heart had stopped in the night?

  Khurazalin appeared on the sands a dozen paces from Morigna, raising his hands as he summoned elemental fire. Tamlin cursed, whirled, and leaped, raising the Sword of Earth high over his head. He hurtled towards Khurazalin like a falling arrow, and at the last instant, the Maledictus of Fire disappeared. The Sword of Earth plunged through the space that Khurazalin’s head had occupied a moment earlier.

  Tamlin landed, caught his balance, and turned towards the enemy.

  “Tamlin,” said Morigna. “Get…”

  She never finished the sentence.

  The air rippled and twisted a few yards away, and an armored form stepped out of nothingness and strode towards them.

  Tamlin blinked, his reflexes snapping up the Sword of Earth in guard. The figure was dressed from head to toe in black armor of some strange metal he did not recognize, the face hidden beneath a heavy masked helm. A black cloak hung from the armored shoulders, and in his right hand, the armored man carried a gray sword.

  Two things caught Tamlin’s attention.

  First, the sword looked identical to the Sword of Earth, save that it was a peculiar shade of grayish-black rather than green. The pommel was adorned with the same closed-eye sigil as the other Swords that Tamlin had seen.

  Second, a gray mist writhed around the sword’s blade, identical to the mist pouring from the cowl and sleeves of the Maledictus of Shadows.

  The gray sword was the Sword of Shadows…which meant that the man in the black armor was the Masked One of Xenorium.

  Tamlin yelled and charged towards the Masked One, and the armored figure raised his hand.

  Invisible force slammed into Tamlin and threw him to the ground, pinning him in place. He struggled and tried to rise, but the invisible power held him immobile. He turned his head just in time to see Morigna hurl a spell at the Masked One, and the black armored-figure deflected the bolt of white fire with a gesture.

  The Masked One gestured once more, and black chains appeared from nothingness and wrapped around Morigna. A collar of the same metal appeared around her neck and a gag in her mouth. The chains bound her elbows together behind her back, and she fell to her knees as more chains tied her wrists to her ankles. Her staff bounced from her hands and rolled away. Morigna knelt motionless before the Masked One, unable to move, her black eyes furious.

  Tamlin was stunned. He had never thought to see the Dark Lady overpowered.

  He tried to rise and aid her, but he still could not move.

  The five Maledicti gathered around the Masked One, gazing at Morigna.

  “What shall be done with her, my master?” said Khurazalin. “We cannot destroy her.”

  “No,” said the Masked One. His voice was a strange metallic rasp, made harsh by the helmet. “We cannot destroy her so long as the mantle of Guardian is bound to her spirit.” He gestured, and Khurazalin stooped and picked up her staff. “Take her to the Durance and leave her there. Let her spirit perform its Guardianship from within the prison. Perhaps she can keep Irizidur company.”

  Qazaldhar let out a wet laugh. “Fitting, master.”

  “Farewell, Tamlin Thunderbolt,” said Khurazalin, blue fire and shadow twisting around his fingers. “I would tell you the truth of your wife before I kill you, just so you can appreciate the scale of your failure…but, well, it would be just as satisfying to let you die in ignorance…”

  “Wait.”

  The Maledictus of Air had spoken. To Tamlin’s surprise, it was a female voice. Harsh and cold, but nonetheless female.

  “The Keeper is cunning and skilled in magic,” said the Maledictus of Air. “If the Arcanius is found dead in his bed, that will arouse her suspicions.”

  “Perhaps,” said Khurazalin.

  “And if he proceeds in ignorance,” said the Maledictus of Air, “then he will prove an additional liability to the Keeper and the Shield Knight once they reach the Tower of Nightmares and our trap is sprung.”

  “Your counsel is sound,” said the Masked One, and he beckoned.

  The Maledictus of Shadows glided forward and raised its mist-shrouded hands. Tamlin glimpsed skeletal, undead fingers within the writhing mists.

  “Forget,” whispered a voice inside his head.

  Mist exploded from the sleeves, and the gray blankness swallowed the world.

  Tamlin awoke with a shout and surged from his bed, yanking the Sword of Earth from its scabbard and whirling to face…to face…

  A moment of utter confusion gripped him.

  Why did he need to face anyone? Why was he alarmed?

  The door to his bedroom burst open, and Ridmark stepped through. He was only wearing a pair of trousers, and Oathshield was in his right hand. Calliande was right behind him, wearing one of Ridmark’s tunics that hung to mid-thigh and had plainly been donned in haste, her hair disheveled and white fire playing around her hands.

  “Are we under attack?” said Tamlin. “Are there foes?”

  “You tell us,” said Ridmark.

  “What?” said Tamlin, his confusion growing.

  “Tamlin, you were shouting,” said Calliande. “I think you woke half the house.”

  Tamlin stared at her, baffled. Through the confusion choking his mind, he couldn’t help but notice that she had attractive legs, long and shapely and toned. Embarrassed guilt surged through him at the thought, and then his confusion redoubled.

  What the hell was he doing, standing here with the Sword of Earth?

  “I…I…don’t know,” said Tamlin. He crossed to the bed and returned the Sword to its scabbard. “I…was dreaming? Yes, I think I was dreaming. But…I can’t remember any of it…”

  “Hold still,” said Calliande. She stepped closer to him and cast a spell, her eyes going hazy as she drew upon the Sight.

  “I think you were having a nightmare,” she said. “One so intense that you started drawing on magic in your sleep. That happened before at the Monastery of St. Paul.”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. He blinked and wiped some sweat from his forehead. He was drenched with it. “I…a nightmare, yes, that has to be it. But…I don’t remember anything about it.”

  Calliande and Ridmark shared a look.

  “Nothing of it?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Tamlin.

  “But you’ve had these nightmares before,” said Ridmark. “I’m going to take a guess. Sometimes these nightmares warn you of events to come?”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. “There is a woman who appears in my dreams, and she gives me warnings of things that are about to happen.”

  “Tysia?” said Calliande, her eyes widening a bit.

  “No,” said Tamlin. “It was before her, during one of my first nights in Urd Maelwyn. The dvargir gamemasters had flogged me for the first time, and I was in so much pain I couldn’t think clearly. I thought about killing myself, but I was exhausted and fell asleep before I could manage it. The woman appea
red in my dreams and counseled me not to kill myself, that if I lived, I would have work to do. I don’t know her name. I always thought of her as the Dark Lady.”

  Ridmark nodded. “That was how you warned us against the wraiths at Castra Chaeldon. And how you knew that Rypheus intended treachery.”

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. “She warned me about our duel with Justin…and she tried to warn me that I would find Tirdua in Trojas.”

  Calliande frowned. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “What would I have said?” said Tamlin. “That I’ve heard voices in my sleep since I was a child? You would have thought me mad.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “Dreams can be used as a form of magical communication, with one mind speaking directly to another without needing the lips or the ears. I’ve had friends communicate with me in that way.” Her expression hardened. “Enemies, as well.”

  “Could the Dark Lady be one of the Maledicti?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Tamlin. “No. Why would one of the Maledicti help me?”

  “A good point,” said Calliande. “Could she be the spirit of your mother?”

  “Definitely not,” said Tamlin. “I know a spirit could take any appearance it wished…but the Dark Lady was not my mother. I would know my mother. I’m absolutely certain of that…and I can’t remember the dream that woke me up. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Again, Ridmark and Calliande shared a look.

  “Do you think it was a magical attack of some kind?” said Ridmark.

  “I don’t know,” said Calliande. “The Sight didn’t detect anything…but I think Tamlin had already been screaming for a while when we woke up. The spell might already have ended.”

  “It could just have been a nightmare,” said Tamlin. “God knows I have reason enough for them.”

  “Aye,” said Calliande at last, though she looked doubtful. “Maybe that was it.” She shook her head, blond hair brushing against her shoulders. “Perhaps we should…”

  Something tapped in the hallway, and Michael limped into sight, cane in his right hand, a sword in his left hand.

  He froze in surprise, looking at the three of them. Michael’s eyes flicked towards Calliande’s legs, to Tamlin’s mild amusement, then the old man caught himself and turned towards Tamlin.

  “God and the saints!” said Michael. “What is all this noise? I thought someone was getting murdered in their bed.”

  “A…bad dream, that is all, Master Michael,” said Calliande.

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. “A bad dream.”

  “Well, better than a murder,” said Michael. He yawned. “If you’ll forgive me, Sir Tamlin, if you’re having the night terrors, it might be time to cut back on the wine.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Tamlin.

  A bad dream. That was all. Just a bad dream that he could not remember.

  Yet Tamlin could not escape the feeling that something horrible had just happened.

  ###

  Two days later, Calliande, Ridmark, Tamlin, Kalussa, Third, Krastikon, Calem, and Kyralion left Aenesium and headed south towards the Gray Mountains. Krastikon led a train of ten scutian lizards loaded with supplies, using his skill with earth magic to keep the beasts under control, though little ever troubled the placid scutians.

  Calliande walked with Ridmark, the staff of the Keeper in her left hand, her green cloak hanging from her shoulders. She had awakened before dawn and spent a good half hour crying into his shoulder.

  Then she had gotten ready, kissed her sons farewell and told them to behave in her absence, and joined the others as they left Tamlin’s domus.

  Because her duty as the Keeper called…and if she failed in it, Calliande feared that her sons, and countless thousands more, would die.

  The pieces of the mystery swirled in her mind. The Seven Swords. The seven Maledicti. The double ring with seven spikes. The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone.

  Her vision of the woman of the seven shards.

  Calliande touched the vial of blood.

  The final shard of that woman awaited in Kalimnos.

  Calliande just hoped they could find her before the Maledicti did.

  Perhaps the seventh shard would hold the key to the mystery.

  Chapter 7: Outcasts

  The older Tamara got, the more nightmares she collected.

  Which didn’t make sense, because she had never actually experienced any of the things that haunted her dreams.

  For years, she had dreamed of her death.

  Or more specifically, of different kinds of deaths.

  The first of the nightmares had started about ten years ago. In one of them, Tamara ran across a plain, and urvaalgs chased her. They caught her and tore her apart. In the second nightmare, Tamara was on a ship, and it was broken by a storm, and she drowned. In the third, she was burned alive in a house with the door locked. In the fourth dream, someone held her down and cut her throat.

  The fifth dream had only started a few years ago. In the fifth dream, Tamara was stabbed to death from behind. As she died, she stared at a man with black hair and gray eyes, a warrior, his face twisted with anguish. Tamara felt grief as she looked at the gray-eyed man.

  Which was strange, because she had never seen him before.

  The sixth dream had only started a few weeks ago.

  In this dream, she ran through a towering fortress of blue stone, tall columns rising far overhead, their capitals topped with statues of wise-looking kings. Tamara sprinted through the courtyard, running towards the warrior with gray eyes. He wore the bronze armor of an Arcanius Knight, much like Sir Rion’s, and in his hand, he carried a strange green sword.

  Then fire exploded around her, burning into her flesh with waves of agony.

  She lay upon the hot stone of the courtyard, gazing up at the gray-eyed man’s face as she died.

  Again.

  The nightmare ended, and Tamara blinked awake.

  A wave of terrible disorientation went through her, and for an instant she couldn’t remember where she was or even who she was.

  Then her mind snapped into focus.

  Her name was Tamara, and she was lying in her bed in her room at the Javelin Inn, the finest (and, admittedly, only) inn of the town of Kalimnos. Her father owned the inn, and Tamara had grown up here, fully expecting to work in the inn until she became the wife or concubine of one of the town’s craftsmen.

  Then the magic had manifested.

  Her dreams had started soon after.

  Tamara sat up with a groan, swinging her bare feet to the smooth old boards of the floor. Her room was small, with space for her narrow bed, a wooden desk, and a chest of clothes, but not much else. Nothing looked out of place, and Tamara tapped her head a few times.

  She didn’t think she was insane, but if she was, would she know?

  Well, she would probably go insane eventually. What else explained her strange dreams?

  But until then, she had work to do.

  Tamara dressed in her usual clothes, boots, trousers, a loose shirt, a vest of scutian hide in the Takai fashion, and a long brown coat of the sort favored by the herdsmen of Owyllain. She had always favored long coats, and she could never quite say why. Certainly, the heat of the plains never troubled her. Tamara plucked her staff from its resting place and stopped in front of her door, glancing at the little shard of cloudy mirror she had mounted there.

  If she ever looked into the mirror and her reflection changed, it was a sign that the dreams had finally overwhelmed her sanity and she had gone mad.

  But her reflection hadn’t changed, thank God for that.

  Her face was lean, her hair dark and long, and her right eye was a cold blue.

  Her left eye was a brilliant, unsettling shade of purple. She had no idea why. It had been that way when she had been born. Or at least it had been like that when her adoptive father had found her. It didn’t impede her sight in any way, but she didn’t like the way it looked. Sometimes,
when she had been younger, she had considered wearing an eyepatch to hide her left eye, but that would have been stupid. God had given her two good eyes, so she ought to use them, even if her left eye frightened people.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if she would marry anyway.

  Tamara pushed aside all thoughts of nightmares and left her room. The Javelin Inn was a long, low building of brick and adobe since her adoptive father Melex thought multi-story buildings were a fire hazard. A narrow courtyard encircled the inn, providing space for her father’s small flock of scutians and a chicken coop. Tamara strode down the corridor and into the common room, a wide space with tables and benches. Her father emerged from the kitchens, followed by his sons. Melex was a paunchy man in his late fifties, with a bald head, a bushy gray beard, and arms that were thicker than Tamara’s legs. His three sons looked like younger versions of him, and Melex had named them Primus, Secundus, and Tertius.

  It was efficient, if unimaginative.

  Sometimes she wondered why Melex had named her Tamara. Perhaps the name had come from Melex’s late wife.

  “Good morning, father,” said Tamara. “Brothers.” Primus, Secundus, and Tertius nodded to her. Tamara had always gotten on well with them, probably because there was no way she would inherit the inn before any of Melex’s sons.

  “Good morning, daughter,” said Melex, his voice a rumble. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did not,” said Tamara. “So, the usual.”

  Melex grunted. “Does Sir Rion want you early today?”

  “Not until noon,” said Tamara.

  “Good,” said Melex. “There’s a caravan coming from Najaris, so I’ve got the maids washing the bed linens and cleaning the rooms. Can you tend to the chicken coops? Also, I’ve butchered some of the pigs for meat. Can you cast your magic mist over them? I’d prefer not to sell rotten meat to men with swords.”

  Tamara nodded. Some men, if their daughters manifested magical ability, would have reacted with fear or anger, or shipped her off to Aenesium to train in the Arcanii. Melex had immediately began thinking of ways to use her abilities to enhance the inn’s profitability, sometimes to astonishing effect. Little wonder he got on so well with Sir Rion.