Sevenfold Sword: Shadow

by Jonathan Moeller

  “I do not think that his people have treated him very well,” said Third.

  “Because he’s not part of this Unity of theirs, whatever it is,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Third. “I am uncertain of what the Unity is.”

  “So am I,” said Ridmark. “Kyralion seems unable to explain it adequately.”

  “I suspect it is something that can only be experienced, not explained,” said Third. “Nevertheless, I believe the Unity is some sort of spell or ward that joins the gray elves together. Because Kyralion is so highly resistant to magic, he is unable to be part of the Unity. He has said that he is not a criminal or an outcast from his people, but I suspect he is a pariah. I believe that is part of the reason he has difficulty communicating.”

  “Perhaps it is just as well,” said Ridmark. “If he was part of the Unity, he would be vulnerable to the plague curse that Qazaldhar put upon the gray elves, and he would be dying with the rest of them.”

  “Yes.” Third frowned. “And I think that is why the Augurs of the gray elves sent him to find me, because he was the only one healthy enough to attempt such a journey. The thought angers me. His kindred treated him as a pariah until they grew desperate enough to need his aid, and then they turned to him? That is not honorable conduct.”

  “Ah. Then you do care about him,” said Ridmark.

  Third blinked. “I do not understand.”

  “You’re getting angry on his behalf,” said Ridmark, looking back at her. “That wouldn’t happen if he meant nothing to you.”

  “I suppose not,” said Third. “Ridmark.” That caught his attention. She only rarely called him by his first name. “I do not know what to do.”

  “Well,” said Ridmark, “the way it usually works is the man pursues the woman, and if the woman likes the man, she lets herself get caught.” He scratched his jaw. “Though I don’t know if it works that way for gray elves. Or dark elves.”

  “Or hybrids of humans and dark elves?” said Third in a dry voice.

  “Exactly,” said Ridmark. “There are Mara and Jager, of course, but I suspect they are unique. Has Kyralion…approached you? You have spent a lot of time with him, both in the company of the others and while scouting alone.”

  “He has not,” said Third. “I suspect he may not know how. I do not know how such matters stand among the gray elves, but if Kyralion is a pariah among his people…”

  “Then none of the women of the gray elves would have him, which might mean he doesn’t know how to approach a woman,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Third. “That seems logical. Should…I approach him myself?”

  “You could,” said Ridmark. He sighed, his eyes going distant. “You remember what I was like when we first met.”

  Third nodded. “You were angry over the death of Morigna, and desired revenge.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “But before that, I was worse. I blamed myself for the death of my wife, and I was determined to get myself killed trying to stop the return of the Frostborn. Then I met Calliande. And Morigna.” He shook his head. “I talked myself out of letting anything happen with Calliande. She didn’t have her memory back, and for all I knew she had a husband and children sleeping beneath another ruin someplace. I did the same for Morigna. Except…she was persuasive. Very persuasive.”

  “Then I should seduce Kyralion?” said Third. She wasn’t entirely sure how to do that.

  “Do you want to?” said Ridmark.

  “No,” said Third. “And yes. It is immoral for those not married to lie together.”

  “That is so,” said Ridmark. “Do you want to marry Kyralion?”

  “I…do not know,” said Third. “I am so much older than he is. And I would not wish to leave the side of my sister and her realm. I know nothing of the gray elves and might not wish to settle among them. For that matter, he might not want to leave his people and accompany us to Andomhaim once we are victorious.”

  Ridmark smiled, perhaps in appreciation at the assumption that they would be victorious. “Maybe. Then it seems you have some things to discuss with Kyralion, do you not?” He shrugged. “And marriages…marriages can work and fail for all kinds of reasons. My father never met my mother before they were betrothed. But they had five children, my father never remarried after my mother died, and as far as I know, he never took a mistress or another woman. High King Arandar happened to meet Queen Cearowyn while we were on campaign against the Mhorite orcs, and they were happily married soon after. But my brother Kalmark got along with his wife at first, but now they cannot stand each other, and Kalmark is on his fifth or sixth mistress.” He shrugged. “But maybe things work differently for elves, Third. Barring misfortune, I think you will live for a long, long time after I am dust.”

  “I know,” said Third. She didn’t like to think on that, but she knew it was inevitable. Third had talked with Mara about it, the knowledge that she would outlive her husband Jager. Mara had concluded that it was important to cherish the time she had with Jager, which seemed to Third a reasonable course of action.

  “It’s up to you,” said Ridmark. “You have to decide. Maybe you want to marry Kyralion. Maybe you’ll want just a dalliance with him before we return to Andomhaim. Or maybe you’ll want to do nothing about it at all. But you are the one who must decide, I’m afraid.”

  “I know,” said Third. “I am surprised at how difficult matters of the heart are. Killing is simple by comparison.”

  “Yes.” Then he smiled. “But you’ve heard me make this speech to my sons often enough that you know what am I going to say next…”

  “Anything worth doing is difficult,” they chorused together, and Third laughed.

  It was such a strange sensation. She did not laugh often. But she did enjoy it when it happened.

  “Thank you,” said Third. “You are right. I have much to consider. But I am grateful I was able to discuss the matter with you. It did help.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “Considering all the mad things that we’ve done together, what is a slightly awkward conversation?” He looked around the valley again, gazing up at one of the solemn statues of robed gray elves. “We ought to head back and rejoin the others. I don’t think we’ll encounter any obstacles, but…”

  He fell silent, and Third saw what had drawn his attention.

  Ridmark stooped next to a small bush. He reached down and picked up several long, black hairs that had been on the ground. Ridmark lifted the hairs to his nose, sniffed, and tossed them aside with a scowl.

  “Muridach fur?” said Third.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Nothing else stinks like them. Recent, too. Within the last day, I think.” He looked at her. “Have you ever encountered the muridachs?”

  “Infrequently,” said Third. “They rarely came to the surface in Andomhaim, and hardly ever in the caverns of the Deeps. My father detested the muridachs, and exterminated any who came within his reach.” She considered, looking for any signs of enemies. “Kyralion said that his people have been the bitter enemies of the muridachs for centuries.”

  “He did,” said Ridmark. “And Tamlin said there have been rumors that the Takai nomads and the muridachs have been fighting.” He took a step back. “We might be about to walk into the middle of another war.”

  “At least Kalimnos is only a short distance beyond the Pass of Ruins,” said Third. “Once we have located the seventh shard and convinced her to accompany us, we had planned to cross the Takai steppes to reach the Tower Mountains and the Monastery of St. James. It might be wiser to cross back into Owyllain proper and approach the monastery’s ruins from the north.”

  “It might,” said Ridmark. “Come, let’s rejoin the others. If we run into a muridach warband, I want to be ready for them.”

  “I thought the muridachs were scavengers and disliked confrontation,” said Third.

  “They are scavengers,” said Ridmark, “and they won’t hesitate to attack targets they think too weak to fight back. But if t
hey attack us, let’s give them an unpleasant surprise.”

  They hurried to the north, the silent mountains and the crumbling ruins rising overhead on either side.

  ###

  Calliande kept a loose hold on the Sight as she walked, sending it sweeping around them every so often.

  She did it partly to keep track of Ridmark’s location. He was about a mile and a half to the south, and as far as she could tell, he had encountered no trouble. She also did it to keep watch for any foes, but so far, none had shown themselves. The Pass of Ruins was as silent as a deserted graveyard.

  Which, she thought, was an appropriate comparison.

  The downside of using the Sight here was the echoes that flickered before her vision.

  The ruins clinging to the walls of the valley were old, and she saw the echoes of ancient magic. Once mighty fortresses had guarded this pass, tall and proud and reinforced with potent warding magic. All that was gone now, destroyed centuries before men had ever come to Owyllain, and the Sight showed Calliande the ghostly echoes of the terrible battles that had been fought here. She glimpsed echoes of spells strong enough to rip down towers in a single instant, and a faded vision of orcs struggling against collapsing lines of gray elves in golden armor, driving them back step by step.

  “There were,” murmured Calliande, “many battles here, were there not?”

  “You speak truly, my lady,” said Kyralion, gazing at the ruins of his ancestors.

  They walked together through the center of the Pass of Ruins, Calliande and Kyralion bringing up the front, Calem and Kalussa the middle, and Tamlin and Krastikon the back with the scutian pack animals. They all had fallen silent, gazing at the ruins rising from the sides of the mountains like tombstones from the earth.

  “Did not the gray elves make their last stand here in ancient days?” said Krastikon.

  “They did,” said Tamlin. “I remember that from the books in the monastery.”

  “All of Owyllain north of the Gray Mountains had fallen to the Sovereign’s hosts,” said Kyralion. He gestured at one of the ruined towers. “No doubt the Augurs and Lorekeepers of the Liberated could tell you the names of each of those towers and the deeds of those who fell defending them. All I know is that my people fell back over the Gray Mountains, fortifying themselves in the city of Cathair Avamyr. To hold the Pass of Ruins, they built great fortifications and towers, layering them in mighty wards. And the Sovereign’s hosts destroyed them one by one. My kindred retreated to Cathair Avamyr, and that too was destroyed. Our final survivors fled into the Illicaeryn Jungles and founded the Unity, and that was able to keep the Sovereign’s hosts at bay, though we were no longer any threat to him.”

  “A sad history, sir,” said Krastikon.

  “It is,” said Kyralion. “Once the civilization of the Liberated covered this land. Now we are but a single remnant in the Illicaeryn Jungles, and soon Qazaldhar’s plague curse will finish us. I may live to see the end of my people.”

  “Unless Lady Third is somehow the salvation of your people as the Augurs predicted,” said Tamlin.

  “Lady Third is a noble and valiant woman,” said Kyralion, his hard expression softening. “But I do not see how one woman, even her, can save my people.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I think…”

  She blinked and focused the Sight.

  “What is it?” said Kalussa. She coughed once. Her voice had been getting better, but it was still rough.

  “Ridmark’s coming back in a hurry,” said Calliande. “I think he must have found something.”

  Kyralion stepped a few paces from her, lifting his bow. Tamlin, Krastikon, and Calem spread out in front of them, hands near their sword hilts. Calliande cleared her mind and prepared to call magic, the simmering power of the Well of Tarlion waiting just below her thoughts.

  A moment later Ridmark and Third came into sight. Neither one of them were hurt, but Ridmark’s expression was grim.

  “Trouble?” said Calliande.

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark. “We found some muridach fur about a mile ahead. Looks like it was left there recently. I think there is yet another entrance to the Deeps nearby, one the muridachs have been using.”

  Calliande had encountered muridachs only three times before. The first time, a lone muridach scout had attempted to take her and her children captive, which had resulted in the scout’s swift death. The second time, a muridach patrol had tried to capture her, and Calliande had overwhelmed the creatures and forced them to share information. The third time had been in the ruins of Cathair Valwyn, and she and Ridmark had overawed the muridachs into sharing information. All three encounters had left her with the impression that the muridachs were perfectly willing to attack anyone weaker than themselves but would back down at once in the face of superior force.

  “If we run into a muridach patrol or warband,” said Calliande, “we’ll almost certainly have to fight. There are only eight of us, and they’ll see us as a target.”

  Ridmark nodded. “We’ll try to reason with them. If not, once we kill a few, that will change the minds of the others. Let’s keep moving. Best not to talk if necessary. The muridachs have keen ears.”

  They walked south in silence. Calliande kept her grip upon the Sight, sweeping it around them.

  That meant she saw the flicker of dark magic within one of the ruins to the west.

  She looked in that direction and saw the shapes emerging from a half-shattered white tower.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  “I see them,” said Ridmark.

  The black-furred bodies of muridach warriors poured from the ruined tower, looking like rats racing from a hole in the wall.

  ###

  Ridmark came to a stop, the others around him, his hand resting on Oathshield’s hilt.

  He thought there were about forty muridachs in total, maybe fifty. Most of them looked like the muridach warriors he had seen near Castra Chaeldon, rat-headed figures in bronze-studded leather armor, bronze swords and daggers in their hands. Several of the ratmen were larger, standing nearly seven feet tall, their bodies heavy with muscle, their features and limbs somehow distorted. Those muridachs carried massive double-bladed battle axes of bronze, and a red glaze shone in their black eyes.

  “Those bigger ones, Kyralion,” murmured Ridmark. “They don’t look like normal muridachs.”

  “They are not,” said Kyralion. “The priests of the Lord of Carrion feed them elixirs to make them faster and stronger, but at the cost of insane rage. The lords of the muridachs use them to spearhead their attacks, sending their regular forces in the wake of the chaos the berserkers make.”

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “That muridach. The one in the red mantle and cowl. He’s a dark wizard of some kind.”

  Ridmark spotted the muridach in question as the warriors made their way down the slope. He looked older than the other ratmen, his black fur turning to gray, his build so thin it was almost spindly. Ridmark spotted the telltale signs of dark magic mutation in the cowled muridach, the strange twisting of the limbs, an eerie blue glow in the black eyes.

  The wooden staff topped with a mummified muridach head was another giveaway.

  “That is a priest of the Lord of Carrion,” said Kyralion. “The priests use dark magic and necromancy. The Sovereign and the Confessor and the Maledicti taught it to them in ancient days, but the priests like to claim that it is a gift of the Lord of Carrion.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark. “All right. Perhaps they’ll let us pass.”

  “I doubt that greatly,” said Kyralion.

  “As do I,” said Ridmark. “Calem, Krastikon, Tamlin, when the fighting starts, shield Calliande and Kalussa. Kyralion, if you can shoot that priest before he can bring a spell to bear, that would be helpful. Third, with me.”

  He drew Oathshield, and the blue sword started to flicker with pale blue flame in answer to the dark magic around the muridach priest.

  They waited, and the muridac
h warriors drew near, fanning out in a wide line to block their path. The priest walked closer, the staff with its grisly totem in his right hand, two of the massive berserkers flanking him.

  “Greetings, humans,” said the priest in the orcish language, his voice a gurgling rasp. “You appear to be lost.”

  “We know exactly where we are,” said Ridmark in the same tongue. “You’re the one who’s far from home, I think.”

  The priest let out a chittering laugh. “Indeed? Perhaps for now. But the world shall change, and the Lord of Carrion will reward his faithful children.”

  “That’s no concern of mine,” said Ridmark. “I suggest you go on your way, master priest, and my friends and I shall go on ours.”

  “I think not,” said the priest. “You bear powerful weapons and rare armor. Two humans with dark elven armor! A rare prize indeed. The three women with you are young enough to bear children yet, and we shall breed them with our other slaves. And you have one of the accursed gray elves with you, our mortal enemies.”

  “You shall never overcome the Liberated,” said Kyralion.

  Again, the priest loosed a chittering muridach laugh, and the berserkers laughed with him. “Yes, we shall! The Lord of Carrion and his emissary have given you into our hand. The flesh of the gray elves is delicious, and we shall feast upon you all. Indeed, we shall start with you and your human…”

  “One chance,” said Ridmark, pointing Oathshield at the priest.

  The priest glared at him. No doubt he was annoyed to have his tirade interrupted. “One chance to do what?”

  “To walk away,” said Ridmark. “Because this fight will not go as you hope.”

  The priest hissed and spat. “Is one of those human females your mate? I hope so. For your impertinence, she will get to watch as my warriors eat you while you are still alive.” He gestured with his staff, blue fire starting to burn around the mummified muridach head. “Take…”

  “Now!” shouted Ridmark.

  He surged forward, Oathshield’s magic driving him forward with superhuman speed, Third right behind him.