Up and down their ranks, their fighters burned gray or brilliant white. The Captain shone the brightest of them all, a dazzling presence that seemed to pulse with intensity. He stood atop a hastily constructed barricade, his scimitars tracing lazy figure eights. She shifted her sight back to the realm of the living. Their part of the battle would start soon. The first ranks of the Xarundi were almost upon them.
There was a roar from the flanks as the Quints unleashed their spells. Magic missiles, white and glowing, streaked across the battlefield, exploding into showers of light when they hit their targets. Balls of flame, shards of ice, and all other manner of magical projectiles slammed into the Xarundi ranks. The beasts were beginning to reply in kind. Small darts fired from their blowguns zipped through the air like angry wasps.
The soldier immediately to Tiadaria’s right was hit in the throat. He spun off the barrier, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers. The Xarundi shamans were reanimating their dead, sending the corpses of their fallen brethren shambling into battle for them.
The archers riddled them with arrows, but they continued on their inexorable course toward the human lines. Calls for resupply met with answering shouts that ammo supplies were critically low. The Captain bellowed for the archers to withdraw and they climbed down off the platforms. The front lines were nearly on each other now. At the Captain’s command, the assembled soldiers drew their weapons. The sound of ringing metal echoed up and down the line. Tiadaria spun her scimitars back and forth, testing their balance and her range.
Faxon called retreat for the Quints. The mages would fall back and reassemble to offer what support they could, but their offensive powers were limited by the close quarters the battle would take. There was too much of a risk of hitting their own people accidentally. The armies met, steel clashing against claw.
Tiadaria slipped into sphere-sight and ran for the edge of the platform. At the end, she leapt into the air, tumbling head over heels, out over the front lines and down into the mass of Xarundi warriors. Her arms flashed out as she fell, one blade slicing easily through a skull, the other severing a spine below the ribs. Her dance was as graceful as it was deadly. To her eyes, masses of black vanished in pulses of brilliant white light. Darkness had fallen in the physical realm, the soldiers struggling to hold the line in the black.
Brilliant luminescent globes appeared above the battlefield, and Tiadaria shifted her focus long enough to see that they were just as bright in the real world as they were in the sphere. The Quints had summoned miniature suns and set them blazing above the chaos. The humans quickly recovered from the flash blindness and pressed their enemies back.
The Captain was far off to her left, flowing through the tide of Xarundi bodies as effortlessly as she had just moments before. He was covered in blood. It was sprayed across his face like war paint. Tiadaria touched her cheek and found that she was covered in it as well. There was no time to think about how many enemies she had killed to be coated with that much blood. The Xarundi were pressing their attack and she had to defend.
Shifting, she waded back into the fray. Later, when she thought about that night, Tiadaria wouldn’t be able to say how long she had fought or how many Xarundi she had slain. She only knew that as the battle ground toward its end, that the battlefield was thick with the dead and dying from both sides and that it was difficult to walk on the blood-slicked grass.
The tide of the battle had turned. The Xarundi were in retreat, the human soldiers giving chase across the field. As Tiadaria prepared to follow, a searing pain shot through her head and she dropped to her knees, her weapons slipping from her hands. A soldier behind her decapitated a straggling beast-man as it fell toward her, its claws extended.
The beast crumpled and Tia struggled to stand, fighting against a wave of nausea so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm her. At first, she thought the collar had been the cause of the sudden pain, but looking across the field, she saw a massive Xarundi warrior, half again as tall as the others. The beast held the Captain aloft, his long talons protruding from the Captains back, glistening with blood.
The creature raised its other arm to strike at the Captain, but it never got the chance. Spells from Faxon and Adamon slammed into the beast, spinning it into the air and away from the Captain, who fell in a crumpled heap to the ground.
Leaving her swords where they lay, Tiadaria raced toward him, vaulting over bodies and dodging still living warriors as they came between her and her only goal. She ran for what seemed like hours, but finally she reached him.
The Captain’s armor was marred by huge gashes, the metal rings broken around the ragged edges of wounds that went all the way through his body. His lower half was slick with blood, the same blood that trickled from his nose and bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Tiadaria called for a cleric, but she knew in her heart that there was no magic powerful enough to save him. His eyes rolled, showing far too much white and she grabbed his head, crushing him to her chest as if she could take his entire essence into her.
“You...” He coughed, blood and spittle flying from his lips. His breaths came in long, wet rattling gasps. “Made me proud. Little one.”
“Oh Sir,” Tiadaria sobbed, tears etching tiny pale paths through the blood spattered on her face. “Please don’t leave me, I need you.”
He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. For a moment, Tiadaria was sure that he had gone. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her, saw her, with total clarity.
“You’ll always have me in your heart, little one.” His voice was strong, and clear, an echo of the brass thunder that had called the warriors to arms just a few hours before. He raised his hand to caress her cheek, and then he was gone. The tension went out of his body and he was still.
Tiadaria held him that way for a long time. Finally, she reached up and brushed his eyes closed with the tips of her fingers, closing the eyes that had seen so much and told her even more. It wasn’t for another few moments that she realized that her sobbing was the only sound she could hear. Looking up, she saw faces around her she recognized. Torus and Faxon, Adamon, the soldiers she had fought beside. Valyn stood there, a bloody graze across his forehead, his armor much dented, pierced by claw, and burnt by spell. They were ranged around her in a wide circle; sword and staff plunged into the earth.
In that simple accord, all of them standing as one, in unison, they honored their fallen hero. For the Captain had been a hero to all of them, on the battlefield and off, for as long as any of them could remember. Their vigil touched her in a way that no words ever would. Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak. The men bowed their heads even as a pathway opened up through the ranks.
Heron Greymalkin, stooped over his cane, made his way slowly into the middle of the circle where the Captain’s body lay. He dropped to his knees beside Tiadaria and took her hand in his. Then he wept.
Chapter 16 - Last Call
The morning outside her room was cold and gray. It matched the numbness that she felt. Tiadaria had stayed in the palace after the battle, given a fine room with a deep, plush bed. The curtains were velvet and royal purple. The rugs were expertly woven and soft on her bare feet. It was a spectacularly beautiful room and it would have made her very happy if she had been able to experience it.
Instead, she stood at the window and peered out from the open maw of the cavern, across the city. The battlefield was hidden from view by a hundred different intervening buildings, but she could feel it. That was where the Captain had died, where she had held him for the last time. Where her heart had broken. It had only been two days ago, but it felt like two years. They would put his body in the ground today, the last remnant of the legacy of the great man he had been.
There was a light rapping at the door, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to see anyone and she certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. It seemed like all she had left to offer anyone who came calling were tears and bitterness. There was another rap at the door. Still she didn�
�t move. She stood there, standing, staring, her eyes straining as if she could see through the buildings to the spot where he had died.
Tiadaria heard the door open and whirled; ready to demand that she be left alone. It was Faxon who entered, his chestnut brown beard a stark contrast to his pale skin and cream-colored robes. He looked as tired and drawn as she felt. She couldn’t even muster the strength to cast him out, so instead she turned back to the window. He closed the door softly and came to stand beside her.
They stood together in silence for a long time. Tiadaria had almost forgotten he was there when he spoke.
“I have something for you. Something that Royce asked me to keep for him, just in case something happened to him. He wanted you to have it.”
Faxon reached into his robes and produced a folded parcel, the deep blue wax embossed with the Captain’s personal seal. Tia took it from him and went to the bed. The mage settled himself in the chair by the window, looking out at the dismal sky spread low over the city. Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal, unfolding the sheaf of papers. As she did so, something fell out of the stack and landed between her feet on the bed. It was the curious little cottage key on its length of black ribbon. She read the letter.
Tiadaria--
Little one, if you’re reading this letter, it means that I’ve fallen. Either to sickness or in battle. I’m sorry that I won’t be around to witness you becoming the powerful warrior I know you will be, but it pleases me to have been the instrument that guided you on your path to destiny.
You are now the last swordmage. Faxon is the only person who I trusted to know my secret. Now he knows yours. If you have questions about your powers or abilities, he can be trusted. Trust no one else. He alone will bear the burden that comes with knowledge of our unique gift.
I hope by now you’ve found the key. The cottage and all my possessions are yours now. The deed to my land is enclosed. Use them as you see fit. Start a new life for yourself. A good life. A happy life.
Try not to mourn overlong, little one. I knew my time was short when I met you, but oh the joy you brought to my last days. I was a better man for having known you.
--Sir
Tiadaria traced the looping scrawl with her finger. Reading the short letter a second time and then a third. Finally, she carefully refolded the parcel and laid it on the bedside table, placing the cottage key reverently on top of it.
“He never spoke of anyone the same way he spoke of you, Tiadaria.” Faxon said from his seat by the window. “He’d known he was dying for a long time. You gave him a sense of purpose and a reason to see this last battle through. You saved him.”
He chuckled, glancing at her.
“Hell, girl, you probably saved all of us. Without the two of you on the battlefield, things would have ended much differently. We might have won, but at what cost?”
“The Captain said I could trust you...with my...secret.”
“Did he?” Faxon raised his eyebrows waggishly. “He probably also warned you about telling anyone else. Heed that advice. The Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences exists in black and white. There is good, there is bad, there is no middle ground. The untrained are not to wield magic of any kind, those that do face censure or death. Usually they’re the same thing.”
“Then why do you keep our secret?”
“Because the world doesn’t operate in black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray between good and bad, righteous and evil. As a man, I recognize this. I’m nothing if not a pragmatist.”
“So you’re hedging your bets,” Tiadaria said bitterly.
“Not exactly.” Faxon shrugged. “I believe in the right tool for the right job, regardless of how that tool came to be, or how it’s used. There are many who believe that magic in the hands of the uninitiated is the gravest danger we face.”
“Do you?”
“Obviously not. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I did.” Faxon steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at her a moment before continuing. “I believe the gravest danger we face is ignorance. You saw what happened out there. How many people would have honestly believed that the Xarundi had returned before they had seen it with their own eyes? Had their own blood spilled?”
“Not many.”
“Precious few,” Faxon snorted. “You and I...Torus, the Captain...even the king to some extent...we are breeds apart. We don’t see the world how we want it to be. We see it how it is.”
“For all the good that does us.”
The mage spread his hands in an expansive gesture, encompassing the palace and everything beyond.
“We’re here. Good triumphed over evil. The realm was spared. We live to fight another day. It is because of us that the rest of the world can live in blissful ignorance. That they can sleep at night without fear of the demon lurking in the dark. We live on to serve.”
“Most of us.”
Faxon waved a finger at her.
“Your bitterness does you no credit, girl. Royce knew he was dying before he set foot on the battlefield. If you honor him half as much as you claim, you know in your heart that dying in bed wasn’t his way. He died with a blade in his hand. There is no finer way for a warrior to die. Don’t sully his sacrifice because you’re wallowing in pity.”
As much as it hurt her to hear it, she knew in her heart that there was no place the Captain would have rather been than on the battlefield, defending the realm and the people who he had dedicated his life to protecting. If she disparaged the manner of his death, she also dismissed the man, and the Captain was more deserving of respect and honor than anyone she had ever known.
“You’re right,” she chuckled ruefully. “He’d slap me with the broad side of his sword if he knew I was acting this way.”
Faxon rose, his heavy robes swirling around his feet like an ebbing tide. He walked to her and took her shoulder in his hand, a gesture not unlike that of the Captain.
“Don’t be afraid to mourn,” he said softly. “We all miss him and likely will for the rest of our days. Just don’t allow your mourning to consume you.”
“You’ll be there tonight?” she asked, almost plaintively. “For the interment?”
“Of course. We’ll all be there.”
With that, he left her, sweeping out of the door as quickly as he had entered, leaving her to her thoughts and to the memory of a man who had been more her father than the man she had known from childhood.
* * *
The infection spreading through his left leg smelled like death and decay. The most powerful magic at his disposal had done little to stem the spread of the disease. Zarfensis was cold with more than the chill of night. His body was afire with its attempts to burn off the sickness.
He had cut through the elven lands on his way back to the Warrens, but he was in no condition to fight. Every patrol meant hiding, biding his time, waiting until the cousins of vermin had traveled far enough beyond that he could evade them, even in his current condition. That meant many days spent hiding in caves and outcroppings, one eye and ear wary for any danger while he tried to catch sleep where and when he could.
The night was reserved for travel, when his augmented vision would give him the advantage over nearly every other creature on Solendrea. Now he was nearing the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels that would lead him into the Warrens and to his salvation. The descent into the earth took an agonizingly long time, but eventually, he slipped past the last fissure into the cathedral hall.
The Warrens were in chaos. All around the cathedral chamber lay dead and dying chosen. Clerics and shaman dashed to and fro, trying to ease the suffering of the injured, or offer a quick death to those too far gone to recover. The sheer number of wounded underlined how badly they had been routed. Their losses were staggering.
Zarfensis sighed with relief as he saw a familiar hulk lope out of the cathedral. Xenir, then, had survived. Perhaps his second sight had spared him from the worse ravages of battle. The High Priest limp
ed toward the massive Warleader, who had stopped to offer comfort to some of the injured. He felt the weight of many eyes on him as he passed. He knew that many of the Chosen would blame him for this failure. He wondered how many of the Chosen had known that Xenir had predicted their defeat.
“Your Holiness!” Xenir bounded to Zarfensis, offering him a shoulder as the High Priest stumbled. “You are injured!”
The Warleader howled and a Xarundi in cleric’s robes bounded over to them. The Warleader and the cleric escorted him inside the cathedral and onto a stone bench. As the cleric inspected his wounds, Zarfensis spoke to Xenir.
“It would seem that your feeling was well founded, Xenir.”
The Warleader bowed his head and Zarfensis reached out and laid a hand on his arm.
“The fault does not lie with you, Xenir. I was the one who made the decision. I was the one who pressed the attack. Any blame for this, if there is blame, is mine to hold.”
“There will be blame,” the Warleader said sadly. “I was on my way to find you when we met. I was sent to bring you to the Assembly.”
Zarfensis experienced a sudden chill that had nothing to do with fever. The Warleader hadn’t said the pack council, which was the ruling body of the Chosen. He had said the Assembly. He licked his muzzle, a nervous habit he had acquired as a pup. It wasn’t lost on the Warleader, who nodded.
The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 01 - The Last Swordmage Page 15
