The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “I don’t know how they got their hands on it. They had some of her other gear, too. Her breastplate, her trousers . . . we left the rest of it behind, but the pendant seems to have some small magic, and I took it with me.”

  “You season your lies with truth. I see what you are, servant of the enemy. Now tell me, where is she? Where did she go?”

  “I told you, she turned into a bird and—”

  “Not the girl, you idiot, the paladin. Where is Bronwyn of Arvada?”

  “I told you, she was cut down by Veyrian soldiers. Why don’t you know this already?”

  The man leaped to his feet. “You lie! Where is she?”

  His voice was a shout, and others looked at them from around the stone circle. The man stepped closer, face raging in reflected light from the growing campfires, and Markal noticed something strange. He might have noticed it earlier, had he not been exhausted and hungry, hands bound, and facing his own death while thinking desperately on Nathaliey’s escape.

  The young man facing him wasn’t a marauder.

  He didn’t have gray skin, and his eyes weren’t dead. Markal glanced at the woman, and she didn’t look like a marauder, either. Neither did any of the others. What’s more, their gear was different—their cloaks, their tunics, even their swords—than that of marauders he’d faced before.

  It was all so obvious now, but he’d put the pieces together and crafted a narrative. Marauders below, marauders above. Griffins in the sky. All allied to hunt down the pair of fugitives from Aristonia, kill them, and recover the red sword.

  “Who are you?” Markal asked. “You’re not marauders.”

  “Tell me what happened to the paladin. Where is she?”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I wasn’t her enemy—I thought you knew that—I was her companion.”

  “More lies.”

  Even the man’s accent was different from that of the east side of the Dragon’s Spine, with the ends of the words swallowed and the vowels elongated. If Markal hadn’t been deaf, as well as blind, he’d have noticed it at once.

  “Are you Bronwyn’s companions?” he asked. “Is that who you are? Paladins from the barbarian kingdoms? I’ll tell you what happened. Bronwyn attacked our gardens, thinking she’d found the necromancer, but she hadn’t. We are an order of wizards who have always sought peace and harmony while protecting our native land. We’re enemies of the necromancer, not his allies.

  “I accompanied Bronwyn to hunt the sorcerer, and I helped her along the way. Using my magic and her strength, we fought our way to the necromancer’s side. I was with her at the end. When she fell, I carried the sword back to the gardens, and stood by my master’s side while Veyrians, marauders, and wights tried to take it. Soultrup had cut down Pasha Malik, and his malignant soul is bound to it. The enemy wants the sword, he thinks it will fight for him.”

  The young man was silent, and Markal continued, giving details of the battle, then backtracked to the destruction of the Sacred Forest and the fight against the marauder on the burned road through the forest. If Markal had guessed wrong, and these men and women were King Toth’s servants, he was giving away all manner of information. But they had him already, had the sword in their possession, and he could only fight to prove he wasn’t an enemy before they killed him.

  The captain stared at the pendant in his hand as he spoke. When Markal told how Bronwyn died, tricked by the necromancer, he closed his eyes, then opened them again when Markal trailed off. His face was as hard as ever.

  “I gave this to Bronwyn before she departed Eriscoba,” he said. “It created a bond between us. When I close my eyes, I sense her spark of life. It’s like standing in a dark room and seeing a candle in one corner—it glows on the edge of my vision at all times.”

  “You were seeing the pendant, not the paladin,” Markal said. “Thieves plundered her body and carried her gear into the hill country, which is where we found it. I’m sorry, but your captain is dead, and you’ve been chasing a ghost.”

  “You are either lying or deceived.”

  “I saw her go down, I swear it. I heard her cries. I wouldn’t have left her if she were still alive, you must believe me. They killed her.”

  “No, sorcerer. You are wrong.”

  “My name is Markal. I’m no sorcerer, I’m no liar, and I haven’t been deceived. I am a wizard of the Crimson Path, and I witnessed Bronwyn’s death. I swear it by the Brothers.”

  “Very well, Markal of the Crimson Path. I believe that you’re trying to tell the truth. But let me explain something to you. My name is Wolfram of Arvada, and Bronwyn is my sister. This pendant has been in my family for generations.” He held up the chain, and the silver crescent moon dangled from his palm. “It’s more than a charm. It shows me two things—first, where the pendant is, and second, if the bearer is alive. The rightful bearer, not you.

  “I led my company through the mountains following the light. I faced unbelievable hardships, the death of beloved companions, and the only thing that kept me going was knowing my sister was still alive. She was coming east again, but slowly. Was she hurt? Had she completed her quest, or did she need help?”

  Markal fell silent. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Now what do I do? There are marauders on the move, and they know we’ve crossed over to the east. We can’t stay in the mountains because of the giants, and griffin riders have threatened us, as well.”

  “We saw you. We thought you were marauders and sharing the hunt.”

  “We were sharing the hunt. They’d spotted interlopers. The griffin riders agreed to aid us in the search if we would leave the mountains when we were done. There’s been some trouble between us already, with two of our number dead, and one of theirs badly injured.”

  Markal nodded. Wolfram studied his face. “You claim my sister is dead, but I believe otherwise.”

  “I only know what I saw.”

  “And where were you going, you and the girl?”

  “The girl is a fellow apprentice. Not a fellow . . . what I mean is that she’s a companion from my order. We were carrying the sword across the mountains to give it to . . . well, to you, apparently.”

  Wolfram blinked. “To me?”

  “Bronwyn told me how she got Soultrup. It killed her brother—that would be your brother, too, wouldn’t it?—and the sword threw itself into her hands. She told me you were a loosely bound group of warriors fighting to rid Eriscoba of invaders.”

  “Not so loosely bound anymore. Not since the Blackshields formed. So you thought you’d bring me the sword, and I would carry it into battle? How would we do that, if it’s turned against us?”

  “My master thought you might have a wizard to advise you, someone who knew the sword and could pull it back to our side of the war. But mainly, your wizard would keep it safe on the other side of the Dragon’s Spine so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of the marauders. If not him, a king to unite your people.”

  “We have no wizard. No king or enlightened ruler. And there’s no safety in Eriscoba, believe me. The sorcerer’s road is already crossing the mountains, growing faster than I’d thought possible.”

  “The sweat and blood and pain of twenty thousand slaves hurries it along,” Markal said.

  “The sorcerer has castles in the high passes, sharp as dragon’s teeth, and an army advancing at the vanguard. They’ve reached Estmor already. The fool baron of that land allowed them in, and then rebelled when he realized that the sorcerer king meant to take the whole of it. The enemy broke Estmor’s dam, smashed the levee, and now it’s a swamp.”

  “Not so different from what happened to my own homeland,” Markal said. “The khalif let him in, and now Veyrians occupy the country.”

  “Only a fool would ally himself with a necromancer,” Wolfram said.

  “Some khalifates resisted. The high king burned them to the ground and enslaved their people.”

  “Then they didn’t resist hard enough,” Wolfram said.

&
nbsp; “That makes no sense.”

  “I need to find Bronwyn. I’ve reorganized the paladins, built their strength, and given my warriors a holy oath. We are strong, and we will fight, but I need her to take command if we are to defeat the enemy.”

  “It sounds like you’ve done well since she left.”

  “As well as could be expected. But it’s not enough. If you’ve met my sister, then you understand. She is something rare in this land, a hero.”

  “I understand.”

  “She’s the only one who can lead us to victory. Now, I will ask you a final time. Will you help me find her?”

  “I told you—”

  Wolfram threw up his hands and turned away with a disgusted expression. “Marissa, cut the wizard’s cords. He may be a deluded fool, but he’s not our enemy. In fact, Markal, you can keep the sword. Carry it with you over the mountains, if you wish, and dispose of it in Eriscoba. Or throw it from a cliff top into some deep ravine.”

  “Wolfram, listen to me—”

  But the young captain was already giving orders, even as Marissa came to cut Markal’s cords. Wolfram sent a man down the path to where a second company of men was apparently keeping vigil. A scout approached and reported griffin aeries in the hills above them, and Wolfram discussed where to put men with crossbows in case they were attacked from the sky at dawn.

  Markal listened to all of this as he sat rubbing the circulation back into his hands and wrists, and it was then that he noticed something curious. The Blackshields were drawing toward this side of the stone circle. It was slow and subtle, and didn’t happen all at once. Instead, someone stood to check the big pot of soup or the biscuits cooking on hot stones, and when he sat down again, did so closer to Markal. Another paladin joined Marissa in leaning against the stone at Markal’s back, and a third paladin joined them moments later. A fourth set his black shield atop his bedroll and strolled around the circle before sitting down a few feet away.

  It took a few minutes, but one by one the paladins gravitated to this side of the ring without any one of them seeming to make a conscious decision, until roughly fifteen men and women, the captain included, sat, leaned, or stood in the shadow of a single nearby stone. It was as if someone had been swirling pebbles around a bowl while gradually tilting it to one side. A handful had departed on other tasks, but the rest were right here, vulnerable. If Markal had still been trying to escape instead of plotting how he could retrieve Nathaliey and help these men fight the dark wizard, he could have . . .

  Suddenly he understood. Nathaliey! Markal sprang to his feet.

  Something forced him back, like a blast of air, and he staggered away, even as the paladins tripped, stumbled, and rolled, seemingly pulled toward the standing stone as if they were being drawn in by the inhalation of some great beast. The stone wobbled, and Markal managed to cry a warning as it began to topple.

  “No, Nathaliey! Stop!”

  Chapter Twelve

  It took longer than Nathaliey expected to raise the magic from the standing stone, but she could feel it down there, pulsing, awakening, strong and eager to come forth and destroy. Both defensive and offensive at the same time, it would draw in marauders, then crush them. She only had to bring the magic to the surface and keep it from turning on her and Markal.

  Voices murmured on the other side of the membrane that shielded her from both Markal and her enemies. She heard Markal’s voice, raised, protesting. The marauder captain responded, angry and demanding. As she brought the magic to the surface, the voices faded in the background, and she sensed the marauders coming to stand beneath the stone.

  The stone began to move. It was a slow wobble at first, resisting, waiting for her final permission. She gave it, pushing magical power through her hands.

  Go! Fall, crush. Save the wizard. Destroy the rest.

  Twin pulses of magic pushed from the long-dormant rune. One, to expel, to knock Markal clear, and the other a powerful calling spell to suck in the marauders and place them beneath the massive, fifteen-foot-tall stone as it dropped on their heads.

  Triumph rose in her. She would get them all. Destroy every last enemy.

  Now you come into your power. Now you will be a wizard.

  “No, Nathaliey! Stop!”

  It was Markal’s voice, crying a warning, and it almost broke her concentration. Was it him? Was it a trap? She had a split second to decide. Keep the magic pushing forward, or break her hold on the spell and let it dissolve. If she did that, if she’d been deceived, all of her work would vanish, and the marauders would take them both.

  But it was Markal’s voice calling to her, not a trick. She was sure of it. The connection between them was too intimate to be simulated by an enemy. Not only his voice, but his tone, the mixed fear and worry and warning all at once.

  The magic was like a rope between her and the stone, with the power of the rune glowing fire along its length. It was powerful and fragile at the same time, like the surface tension of a drop of dew, and it only took the slightest relaxing of her concentration to let it burst.

  A wave of spent magic rolled over her and knocked her from her feet as it dissolved noisily into the air. The stone rocked on its foundations and seemed ready to topple anyway from sheer momentum, and then it settled. The magic continued to roll away from them in a shock wave, until all that was left was its shimmering afterimage in the air.

  For a moment, Nathaliey sat on her backside, stunned with the force of it. Right there at hand, only to vanish in an instant. And only a slight relaxing of her hold had done it. That must be how Markal felt when he called up his magic. There was always power there—he had as much as any of them—but he couldn’t control it, and the majority of it burned off without being directed into his spells.

  Too late, she remembered the marauders on the other side. Someone grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet, and another shoved her, stumbling, into the stone circle.

  Markal stood there, staring up at the standing stone with alarm, as if still waiting for it to fall. He wasn’t bound, though he looked pale, and there was dried blood at his nose where the marauder had smashed him with his shield. But free; what was going on here? And why hadn’t she crushed the marauders when she had her chance?

  “Let her go,” a man said. “This one isn’t an enemy, either.”

  “She’s no friend, either,” a man growled. “She nearly killed us.”

  “What is this?” Nathaliey asked. “What is going on here? Why are you giving orders to the marauders?”

  “They’re not marauders, they’re paladins. Bronwyn’s companions.” Markal moved to the standing stone and put his hands on the surface. “It seems to be stable enough. That was close. Captain, gather your paladins and prepare them for battle.”

  Nathaliey looked around and wondered how she hadn’t noticed before. It was dark, certainly, but not so dark that she couldn’t see these men and women had wheat-colored hair. Barbarians, not gray-skinned marauders with dead eyes.

  “What do you mean, prepare for battle?” the young man asked. He’d been studying her with a sharp expression, but now looked to Markal.

  “There was power in that stone,” she explained, “and when I stopped it from killing your men, it needed to go somewhere. Think of a boulder that falls off a cliff and lands in the middle of a lake. There’s a giant splash, followed by a wave.”

  “I felt nothing,” the man said.

  “You might not have,” she said, “but others will. Marauders. The wave will roll for miles before it dissipates. If the marauders feel the wave, they’ll have no trouble following the ripples back to their source.”

  This got the captain and his paladins in motion. While they bustled about, she made her way to Markal, who lifted his hands from the stone.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “You spent it all. And a powerful rune, too.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought . . . how was I supposed to know?”

  “Thank the Brothers you didn’t kill the
m. It was stupid, really.”

  Her face flushed. “I was trying to save your life!”

  Markal looked up, blinking. “No, Nathaliey, that’s not what I mean. This is my fault. As soon as they cut my bonds, maybe before, I should have called out to you. But I thought you’d be miles away.”

  “I wasn’t going to run,” she said, bewildered. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? They’d caught me and taken the sword. If they really had been marauders, there would have been nothing to do except save yourself.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that? I was about to save your life and kill them at the same time. It would have worked, too.”

  “But you couldn’t have known that ahead of time. Most likely, you would have come back here and failed, or taken out a few of them, but been killed anyway. The wise thing would have been to get as far from here as possible.”

  She threw up her hands. “Unbelievable.”

  “Don’t be angry. I’m grateful, I really am, but I’d never want you to die on the small chance of saving my life. You’re too important to me for that. Don’t be angry, please.”

  Nathaliey’s anger deflated, but not her frustration. “It’s not that, not really. This was going to be my moment—saving your life and killing the enemy at the same time. Instead, I burned through the magic of this stone and shouted an invitation to our enemies at the same time.”

  Markal smiled. “A couple of hours ago we were running for our lives, pursued by griffins and marauders. Then I was taken captive, and marauders had the sword—or so we thought. Now I’m free, they’re not marauders, but paladins on our side of the fight, and the sword is still in our possession. We might even survive the night if the Brother Gods favor us.”

  “If only I hadn’t wasted it. There is so much power in these stones, but we can’t use most of it.”

  The paladins gathered gear, strapped on swords and hefted shields, and the younger one who’d been interrogating Markal approached. There was something familiar in his posture and the hard set to his eyes as he studied the two companions. His shield had no crest, only a black patina.