Sevenfold Sword: Sorceress

by Jonathan Moeller

  And Kalussa felt better than she had in a long time.

  Chapter 8: Nine Heads Are Even Better Than One

  The night at the ringfort passed without incident, and the next morning, Calliande and Ridmark and the others joined Angashalis and his escorts and continued their journey along the causeway to the southeast.

  Calliande found herself in a fine mood. Granted, the weather in the marshes remained hot and humid and miserable. Though at least it was cloudy today, which cut down on the heat of the sun. The clouds of mosquitoes were thick as ever, and while Calliande felt cleaner than she had in weeks, she nonetheless rubbed the foul-smelling fruit juice over her face and neck and hands once again. Better to endure the unpleasant odor than to have dozens of itching mosquito bites. For that matter, while the night had passed without fighting, there was no guarantee that the day would do the same. They were on a perilous quest, and the dangers ahead of them might be even worse than the ones they had overcome.

  But despite all that, she remained in a good mood.

  The reason was not hard to guess. In hindsight, it had been a little embarrassing how long it had taken Calliande to realize that her temper was always improved in the morning after she and Ridmark lay together as husband and wife. It seemed to clear the shadows out of her head for at least a little while. In hindsight, that had been one of the reasons she had fallen into a frozen depression after Joanna’s death – she had been too ill to lie with Ridmark for months.

  That had been hard for him, too, so she leaned up and kissed him as he walked through the courtyard.

  He blinked and smiled at her. “What was that for?”

  She grinned. “Nothing. Because I felt like it.”

  “I won’t argue,” said Ridmark. He hesitated. “The boys. Did you…”

  “I checked already. They’re safe.”

  And that, too, contributed to her good mood. Calliande knew that emotions were like weather, and they came and went as quickly as rain or sunshine. But today, she felt as if they could overcome anything, even if her mind and experience knew better. She ought to enjoy the good mood while it lasted.

  Or she would put it to use.

  “Lord Intercessor,” said Calliande as the column of scutian-drawn wagons lumbered southeast along the causeway, “I wondered if I could ask you some questions.”

  Angashalis regarded her, the yellow eyes digging into her. She felt a little flicker of revulsion. Calliande had never liked creatures with scales, a feeling that had only intensified after she had been captured by kobolds some years ago.

  “As you will,” said Angashalis. “What manner of questions do you wish to ask, Keeper of Andomhaim?”

  “Questions about the xiatami,” said Calliande. “I have never encountered your kindred before, and before my husband and I came to Owyllain, we had no idea that you existed. So naturally, I am curious.” She decided that a little flattery might not go amiss. “And the xiatami have lived longer in Owyllain than any other kindred. Your perspective must be unique.”

  Cold-blooded the xiatami might have been, but even they were not immune to flattery.

  “You are wise, Keeper, to behold that truth,” said Angashalis. “Though I wish for us to converse in Latin.” He switched from orcish to that language. “I have little opportunity to practice it.”

  “As you wish,” said Calliande. “It is my native tongue, so that is no difficulty.”

  “What do you wish to know?” said Angashalis.

  “I was wondering,” said Calliande, “if you had ever encountered a dwarven man named Irizidur.”

  “Ah,” said Angashalis. “The mad khaldari smith. Yes, I remember him.”

  Calliande blinked. “You met him in person? This would have been centuries ago.”

  “Two centuries ago, in fact,” said Angashalis. “But the xiatami are a long-lived kindred, though I was young and but newly-raised to the rank of Intercessor when Irizidur came to Najaris. We knew of the khaldari, of course. In ancient days, on rare occasions a khaldari would make the perilous journey to Owyllain and come to Najaris. But in time their visits stopped. Then two hundred years ago, Irizidur came to our gates. The Circle of Lords and the Circle of Intercessors was keen to speak with him, and he talked freely of his purpose.” Angashalis’s breath came in a snakelike hiss that made Calliande’s skin crawl. “Too freely, to his detriment. He knew that we were vassals of the Sovereign, and he wished to speak to the Sovereign in person. Irizidur believed that the Sovereign knew lost secrets of lore that the khaldari had once possessed, and he hoped to regain those secrets for his kindred.”

  “What did you do to him?” said Calliande.

  “We? The xiatami did nothing to him,” said Angashalis. “We found him a fascinating curiosity. But he insisted upon speaking with the Sovereign. While we would not help him destroy himself, neither would we hinder him. We told him where Urd Maelwyn lay, and he traveled with one of our caravans to the Sovereign’s city. And once he crossed the gates of the citadel, he never returned.”

  “What was he like?” said Calliande. “Did you have the opportunity to meet him?”

  “I did,” said Angashalis. The Intercessor contemplated the question for a moment. “He was brilliant. His knowledge of metallurgy far exceeded our own, as did his skill with inscribing spells upon weapons and armor. A gift of the dwarven stonescribes, I understand, but he surpassed them. Yet his scent was tainted with madness. His great intellect, I suspect, had overthrown his reason. What he possessed in intelligence, he lacked in wisdom. We counseled him that the Sovereign was not to be approached lightly, but he disregarded us, and was never seen again.”

  “I see,” said Calliande.

  “A question of my own, Keeper,” said Angashalis. “Why this interest in a centuries-dead khaldari?”

  Calliande considered her answer and decided to be honest. The xiatami, it seemed, were entirely self-interested, but that could work to her advantage. They were wise enough to see the danger of the Seven Swords, and while they might have been self-absorbed, neither did they have any interest in conquest.

  “Because I believe that Irizidur either created the Seven Swords,” said Calliande, “or had a hand in their design.”

  Angashalis thought this over as they walked in silence. Ahead of them the scutian-drawn wagons creaked and rattled. A driver shouted a hoarse curse at one of his scutians, which answered with a disdainful bellow.

  “Intriguing,” said Angashalis. “What has led you to this belief?”

  “I have learned that the design of the Seven Swords is identical to the royal blades once carried by the kings of the dwarven city of Khald Meraxur,” said Calliande. Angashalis inclined his head in a nod. “The Sovereign destroyed Khald Meraxur before he came to Owyllain. Irizidur believed that the Sovereign took the secrets of Khald Meraxur’s smiths with him to Owyllain, and came here to retrieve those secrets.”

  “Indeed?” Angashalis glanced back to where Calem walked alongside Krastikon. To Calliande’s surprise, Kalussa was walking next to Calem. “A far-fetched theory, true, but it has the ring of truth to it. Dark elven swords and armor have a distinctive aesthetic. The Seven Swords do not look as if they were made by dark elven hands.” His tongue flicked in and out again. “And Irizidur’s scent tasted of madness. If he gained the secrets he sought by service to the Sovereign, he would have considered it an acceptable bargain.”

  “Do you know anything about the New God, the dark power that the gray elves call the Kratomachar?” said Calliande. “The Seven Swords are tied to it somehow.”

  “The xiatami know of it,” said Angashalis. “Its potential advent has disturbed our meditations for some time with omens and portents. The New God is a dark power of surpassing might and invincible strength. The Seven Swords were instruments forged to bring it to this world. Seven keys to open the lock, as it were.”

  “Why would the Sovereign create weapons that could summon a dark power greater than himself?” said Calliande.

&
nbsp; “We believe that the Sovereign knew Kothlaric would defeat him, and so forged the Seven Swords to take vengeance upon his enemies after he was slain,” said Angashalis. “But, ah! Already you see the weaknesses in that theory. Why did the Sovereign not use the Swords to destroy his foes instead? If he possessed a smith with the skill of Irizidur, why did he not command the dwarf to produce weapons and armor of surpassing power? Why bother to take vengeance on his foes after his death when the Sovereign could have destroyed them and lived?”

  “Why bother indeed?” said Calliande.

  “You see the mystery, then,” said Angashalis. “That is why I will not hinder your quest. If you find a way to destroy the Seven Swords, then the New God will never rise, and the mystery can rest in the ashes of the past alongside the bones of the Sovereign.”

  “Agreed,” said Calliande. “A question on a different topic, then.” Angashalis inclined his head. “The xiatami smell through their tongues, do they not?”

  The Intercessor gazed at her. “Not many humans realize that.”

  “You spoke before of tasting a scent,” said Calliande. “And your tongue keeps moving in and out of your mouth, even while you are speaking. I assume you are checking for threats.”

  “That is correct,” said Angashalis. “We taste the air for scents, but our ability to do so is as keen as the nose of a bloodhound.” His tongue flicked in her direction. “I can taste that you ate a slice of bread and half a sausage for breakfast, that you used the steam room in the ringfort, and that you mated with the Shield Knight within the last twelve hours.”

  “A keen sense of smell,” said Calliande. She supposed she ought to have been embarrassed that Angashalis could tell she had slept with Ridmark, but the xiatami priest was so alien that it didn’t bother her. “Another question. When you say that you are an Intercessor, what does that mean?”

  “I am a priest of Xophiramus, the god of the xiatami,” said Angashalis. “The task of the Intercessor is to keep Xophiramus sated with blood sacrifice, so he will not return to life.”

  Calliande blinked. “Your god is dead?”

  “Yes. We prefer him that way,” said Angashalis. “I see this concept baffles you.”

  “It does,” said Calliande.

  “Xophiramus was a cruel and brutal lord,” said Angashalis. “When we came to this world, he was slain. But a god cannot truly die. Hence, we offer sacrifices of blood to keep him wrapped in the sleep of death. This also has the salutary effect of keeping unrest from spreading through our slave population.”

  Calliande kept the disgust from her face. Not that it mattered, since Angashalis likely knew exactly what she thought of such practices and didn’t care.

  “That seems cruel,” she settled for saying.

  Angashalis shrugged. “The cruelty is immaterial. We do not seek to be cruel, only the most effective means to our ends. And it would be crueler for both us and the rest of the world if Xophiramus rose in power once more…”

  Calliande didn’t hear the rest of that sentence.

  Dark magic flared before her Sight, corrupt and cold and potent.

  Calliande came to a sudden stop, raising her staff before her, the white fire of the Well of Tarlion blazing to life along its length.

  “Keeper?” said Angashalis. She saw the aura of power glow around him as he called his own magic. Perhaps he thought she intended to attack him. “Is something amiss?”

  “There’s a creature of dark magic nearby,” said Calliande. “It…there!”

  She pointed, and the dark shape flew overhead.

  It was an urdhracos, her leathery black wings spread against the cloudy gray sky. Black armor plates encased her slim body, and talons rose from the armored fingers of her gauntlets. Calliande glimpse a longsword of blue dark elven steel in the urdhracos’s right hand, the silver hair that crowned the urdhracos’s gaunt face.

  “The Scythe,” she breathed and then turned to the others. “Ridmark!”

  “Captain Khulmak!” called Angashalis. “Bring the column to a halt. We may come under attack!”

  Khulmak turned and bellowed orders to his mercenaries, and the soldiers formed up around the supply wagons, the drivers bringing their scutians to a halt. Calliande kept her eyes on the Scythe as the urdhracos circled overhead, and Ridmark and the others jogged to her side.

  “An urdhracos,” rumbled Khulmak, glaring upward. “Damned things are nearly impossible to kill. I’m glad you and your friends are here, Lord Ridmark.”

  “The Scythe,” said Third, voice flat. “It is her.”

  “You have encountered the Scythe of the Maledicti before, Keeper?” said Angashalis, the air around his right hand rippling and twisting as he held his magic ready.

  “Aye,” said Calliande. She kept her eyes of flesh on the circling urdhracos, but sent the Sight spinning around them, seeking for any additional creatures of dark magic. “Several times. I take it the xiatami know of her?”

  “The Scythe of the Maledicti,” said Angashalis. “When the Maledicti wished their enemies removed, they send the Scythe to do the killing. Or they employ her as a spy and a scout. Perhaps she is scouting for them now.”

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark, voice hard. “She has spied upon us before, and usually major attacks followed after.”

  “She will attack soon,” said Third.

  “Are you certain?” said Angashalis.

  “Yes,” said Third. “She hates me.”

  It was hard to read expressions on the alien faces of the xiatami, but Calliande thought that Angashalis looked startled. “You, personally, Lady Third? Have you wronged her in some way?”

  “With my freedom,” said Third. “I was an urdhracos, and I am now free of the curse of my blood. She is not, and she hates me for it. A fully human mind cannot comprehend that level of hatred, and I doubt the mind of a xiatami could encompass it. Very soon she will not be able to control herself any longer, and she will try to kill me regardless of what the Maledicti have instructed her to do. The only thing that would stop her is a direct command from her masters, and even then, she would try to find a way around it.”

  “I imagine the threat will end when you kill her,” said Angashalis, unperturbed.

  “Yes,” said Third, gazing at the circling urdhracos.

  “You won’t have to fight her alone,” said Ridmark.

  “I know,” said Third, and she smiled at him. The smile faded as she looked back up at the Scythe. “But she will come for me.”

  The Scythe banked, and Calliande tensed, gathering magical power either to strike or to defend. But the urdhracos turned and flew away to the east, soon vanishing behind the mossy trees.

  “Scouting, definitely,” said Ridmark. “Intercessor, Captain Khulmak, we should expect an attack of some sort today.”

  “She went away to the east,” said Tamlin. “The ruins of the monastery are in that direction. Do you think the Maledicti know we are going there?”

  “I would be surprised if they did not,” said Ridmark. “They were waiting for us at Kalimnos. Qazaldhar likely had a chance to communicate with the other Maledicti before he fell. Almost certainly the Maledicti will have a trap or an ambush waiting before we get to the Monastery of St. James.”

  “Is this the trap?” said Krastikon.

  Magatai snorted. “Knowing the Maledicti, this is likely but the first of many traps of devilish cunning.”

  Kalussa sighed. “Your optimism cheers me.”

  As usual, sarcasm failed to leave its mark on Magatai. “As it should! Think of the glory and renown we shall win when we smash the traps of the Maledicti and send them scurrying back to their master!”

  Ridmark looked at Khulmak and Angashalis. “I suggest we keep moving for now. We already have the high ground, and the causeway is a better spot to fight a battle than anyplace else we are likely to find in the marsh.”

  Khulmak rumbled. “Agreed. Well, if that winged she-devil wants to give us a fight, then by God we’ll give her a f
ight. We…”

  “Wait,” said Ridmark, and he took a quick step to the north, his eyes narrowing.

  Calliande followed his gaze. At first, she saw nothing, just the endless morass of brackish water and small islands and towering, moss-cloaked trees that they had seen for days.

  Then she saw the rippling distortions flowing over the islands.

  A lot of distortions, come to think of it.

  “The jastaani are coming from the north,” said Ridmark.

  Khulmak turned his head. “To arms, rogues! To arms!”

  ###

  Khulmak’s company seemed like a motley collection of bandits, brigands, and cutthroats, but Ridmark had to admit that the orcish captain had pounded at least a modicum of discipline into his men. The human and orcish spearmen rushed forward to form a shield wall at the edge of the road. The dvargir climbed atop the supply wagons, loading wicked-looking crossbows. Ridmark had kept a close eye on the dvargir as they traveled, but they seemed disinclined to make trouble. Each dvargir also had a glyph branded upon his face, the burn scars sunk into their gray flesh. Probably they were criminals or renegades who had fled Khaldurmar and taken refuge with Khulmak’s mercenaries.

  Ridmark still didn’t trust them.

  But at the moment, trust was not necessary. The jastaani would kill them all if given a chance.

  “Remember, rogues!” roared Khulmak, striding in front of his men with his huge axe in hand. “Hold your line! If a man abandons his place in the shield wall, I’ll cut out his guts myself. Our jotunmiri have our flanks, and they won’t let anyone get behind the shield wall. And we’ve powerful friends this time around! The Shield Knight and his mad sorceresses!” Ridmark heard Tamara laugh at that. “You saw what they did to the jastaani the last time around! And what’s more, they’ll let us keep all the plunder!”

  That got a cheer out the mercenaries.

  Ridmark stood in front of the line of spearmen with Third, Tamlin, Calem, and Krastikon. Magatai had dismounted Northwind and stood atop the wagons with the dvargir crossbowmen, his bow ready. Calliande, Tamara, and Kalussa waited behind the line of spearmen, staffs in hand. A short distance nearby stood Angashalis, his soldiers drawn up around him in guard. The xiatami spearmen made a steady rasping noise with the bone rattles on their tails, the sound low and threatening. He wondered if the xiatami did that instead of a war cry.