The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “Where is Soultrup?” he asked.

  “I’d hoped you could tell me. I don’t think the marauders got it. She was still trying to get it from me at the end.”

  “It’s still nearby. I can feel it.” Markal’s face turned grim. “We were both wrong, weren’t we?”

  “Yes. Terribly wrong. My sister is both alive and dead at the same time.”

  Wolfram had removed his torn, bloodstained cloak after the battle, and his hand went to the wool vest he’d put on to fight the evening chill. He pulled out his sister’s moon pendant and rubbed his thumb over the cool silver as a wave of grief threatened to drive him to his knees. When he closed his eyes, the spark of light was still there, showing that Bronwyn was alive, but what a horrible existence it was. The sneer, the hatred in her expression.

  Markal touched his arm, and he opened his eyes to find Markal and Nathaliey studying him with expressions of concern.

  “I misjudged you, friends,” Wolfram said, returning the pendant to his pocket. “And I’m especially sorry, Markal, for mistreating you.”

  “That isn’t really your sister,” Markal said. “It’s something else. Don’t forget that.”

  Wolfram’s anguish was too raw, and he couldn’t speak of it any more, so they set about attending to the rest of the wounded. The two wizards—he continued to think of the woman in those terms, in spite of her statement to the contrary—had a delicate touch, and the ointment from their gardens had special properties. Wounds didn’t magically heal themselves when it was applied, but the ointment eased suffering, slowed bleeding, and closed up even the nastiest gashes.

  Nathaliey and Markal also knew something of broken bones, when they should be handled, and when they should be splinted and left alone. What these people most needed was rest, Markal said when they’d finished their work.

  “Impossible,” Wolfram said. “Every paladin needs to be on his feet by morning. We can’t stay here—you know that.”

  “Understood,” Markal said. “Now, about the sword . . . where did it go?”

  “The marauders didn’t have it,” Wolfram repeated. “My sister was still trying to get it when you chased them off.”

  “Oh,” Nathaliey said, and pointed. “It’s right there!”

  Wolfram looked, incredulous, but she was right. There was Soultrup, only a few feet away and still wrapped in its linens, as if it had never moved. Impossible. Scores of combatants had trampled the meadow, and the grass was bloody and churned up with mud. Not only were the linens relatively clean, but Wolfram must have crossed the stone circle a dozen times since the battle ended. The sword had not been there, he’d swear to it.

  Markal picked it up gingerly. He looked thoughtful.

  “Someone had it,” Wolfram declared. “They took it during the battle and brought it back.”

  The wizards exchanged glances. “What do you think, the hermit?” Nathaliey asked.

  Markal nodded. “He must have taken it for safekeeping during the fight, then returned the weapon now that it’s safe.”

  Wolfram looked between them, confused. “What do you mean, hermit?”

  “He could have helped us, don’t you think?” Nathaliey said. “I don’t know, changed into a bear and torn apart a few of those marauders.”

  “Or called up the magic from the stones,” Markal said. “He’s been here so many years—if anyone knows how, it’s him.”

  “Will someone explain?” Wolfram said, more confused than ever.

  “There’s an old wizard living nearby,” Markal said. “Half crazy. He’s a bear more often than not. That’s how Nathaliey got away from you at first.”

  “Ah, I was wondering. We were right on her tail.”

  “He has a stone keep,” Nathaliey said. “It’s disguised to look like that cliff you were searching. You walked right by without spotting it.”

  That answered one mystery, but opened the door to another. “So why didn’t he help?”

  “He’s not entirely in his right mind,” she said. “One too many transformations to animal form and back again. I don’t know why he didn’t help more, but he kept your sister from recovering the red sword, and that’s something.”

  Markal held out Soultrup, and Wolfram took it reluctantly. It was heavy, and a whisper passed through his mind, then disappeared.

  “No, take it back. I don’t want it.”

  “It’s yours, though,” Markal said. “It came from Eriscoba, and it needs to go back.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it? I can’t use it.”

  “Not recommended, no.” Markal shook his head. “Leave it wrapped. Take it deep into your country, to whatever wizards you know and trust. And be aware that your sister will follow and try to get it back. You say you have another company of paladins waiting for you with horses? How long until you reach them?”

  “Markal, listen to me,” Wolfram said. “I told you already, we don’t have wizards. So far as I know, there are none of your kind in the free kingdoms.”

  “Someone must know how to deal with the sword.”

  “Someone does,” Wolfram said. “You do.” He tried to hand back the sword.

  Markal spread his hands. “Oh, no. The master told us to carry it over the mountains and give it to you. We were fortunate enough to find you on this side of the mountains, so here you go. Now we’re going back to the gardens to rejoin the order.”

  Nathaliey cleared her throat. “Um, Markal? That isn’t precisely what Memnet said. He told us to find Bronwyn’s order of paladins, give them the sword, and make sure they knew its lore.”

  “And that’s just what we’ve done.”

  “But he didn’t say we were supposed to come back when we finished.”

  “What else were we supposed to do?” Markal asked.

  “Near as I can tell, Memnet wanted us to join forces with the paladins.”

  “He never said that.”

  “It was implied. Memnet would know that Bronwyn’s people don’t have wizards of their own. That’s why he sent us.”

  “The Harvester take me,” Markal said with a scowl. “But I don’t want to cross the mountains, I want to go back to the gardens and help the master.”

  “We can’t leave Wolfram while he’s still facing his sister, Markal. I’m sorry, we can’t go back yet, not while Bronwyn is still trying to regain the sword.”

  Wolfram looked between the pair. “I thought Markal was the wizard and Nathaliey the apprentice.”

  Markal sighed. “Yes, supposedly.”

  “My friend suffers a lack of confidence,” she said, “and sometimes I have to take over.”

  Wolfram tucked Soultrup under one arm and pulled out the moon pendant. “Here, Markal. I think you need this more than I do. It’s just the sort of thing for a lack of confidence.”

  Markal eyed it skeptically. “I suppose.” He slipped the chain around his neck and tucked the silver crescent moon into his shirt. “Unless you want it,” he told Nathaliey.

  “Not unless that confidence thing works in reverse. I’ll do a little spell in front of the master, and he’ll think I know what I’m doing.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tip the stone on the marauders instead of calling it up to fight paladins,” Markal said. “That would have earned his respect for sure. Such a waste.”

  “I was trying to save your life!”

  Markal gave a mischievous smile. “I’ve got an idea. The hermit can vouch for you. You can bribe him with honey from the gardens.”

  Nathaliey scowled, but there was no anger in it. It seemed these two had a long history, and he found himself instinctively liking them both. And they were allies, something in short supply these days. He’d be glad to have them by his side, even if only for a few days or weeks.

  Wolfram’s thoughts turned dark again. Nine paladins dead, two more unlikely to survive the night. And his sister, Sir Bronwyn of Arvada, neither alive nor dead, but something in between.

  “What is your plan from here?”
Markal asked him. “Ride to the king’s highway? Return to the encampment where you stashed your horses? Cross the mountains on the old road to raise the defenses of Eriscoba?”

  “Eventually, Eriscoba, but first I’m going to find my sister. She was the fiercest warrior in all of the free kingdoms, and if she is in command of the gray marauders, the only possible result is disaster.” A cold feeling settled into Wolfram’s belly. “We have to find Bronwyn, force her into a fight, and kill her. This time for good.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days after his confrontation with the dark acolytes, Chantmer was in the library vault with a book of arcane knowledge, laboriously copying an incantation while trying to fix it in his memory, when he sensed a strange presence. A change, a scent on the air.

  The library was drenched in magic already—runes and wards and the minor charms of archivists, all mixed with the deep, knot-like magic protecting the books and scrolls themselves—and if he hadn’t placed a special ward at the doorway against intruders, he might have missed it. The smell was like lemon. Tangy, distinctive. The ward had released it to his senses when it detected an unknown presence entering. Whoever it was carried magic with him, rich with power, and Chantmer sensed danger.

  He didn’t rise from the desk over which he’d hunched. Instead, he slowly set down the quill on its cloth, turned his hands palms down, and brought up a spell. Spectral hammers. They might not destroy the intruder, but they would weaken him long enough for the library’s own defenses to activate. He began to speak the words.

  “Volans maleis again?” came a familiar voice. “Aren’t you tired of that old spell?”

  The half-spoken incantation died on Chantmer’s lips, and he turned. “Oh, it’s only you.”

  Narud opened a satchel and set down a jar of honey, two bottles of wine, and a wheel of cloth-wrapped cheese on the table next to Chantmer’s open book. The former apprentice and freshly ordained wizard raised one bushy black eyebrow, seeming to enjoy looking down on Chantmer for once.

  “And why should I change it?” Chantmer said. “Had you been an enemy, volans maleis would have been effective in this closed space.”

  “Would it? I’m not so sure. The hammers rotate as they fly, and might have smashed apart on the vaults. Anyway, how about radicatus?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Which proves my point. If you didn’t lean so much on volans maleis, you’d have a wider repertoire.”

  Chantmer gritted his teeth at Narud’s tone. It didn’t help that Jethro and Karla were in the library, studying the clay tablets from Marrabat and openly listening in on the conversation.

  “I suppose you’re a wizard now,” Chantmer said, “and that means you can lecture me as you see fit.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a lecture.” Narud shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “The master told me to check on your progress, to see what new spells you’d learned.”

  “Never you mind, I’ve been studying hard.”

  “And who were you expecting just now when you tried to smash my face?”

  “His name is Zartosht of Starnar. There was another, too. They call themselves dark acolytes, and they serve King Toth.”

  Chantmer explained to Narud how he’d been approached in the palace gardens, how Zartosht had bragged about entering the library and defacing the Book of Gods, and how he’d tried to recruit Chantmer to serve the necromancer.

  “What a fool,” Narud said. “As if that could tempt one who follows the Crimson Path, no matter his position in the order.”

  “Indeed,” Chantmer said dryly. “Who wouldn’t prefer to be an apprentice forever if it came right down to it?”

  “Quite right,” Narud said, missing the sarcasm. He pulled up a stool to the table, where he glanced at the open book and then at Chantmer’s copy. “You have an excellent hand. I wish I could form letters so neatly—it would help my memory, I think.”

  The compliment was cheering, and Chantmer’s irritation at being reminded that Narud had been elevated to wizard faded.

  “It doesn’t help enough,” he said. “I copy and copy, and the words don’t stick. But I suppose if they did stick easily, there would be nothing special about being an archivist. Any old fool with no magic and an excess of patience could manage it.”

  Jethro and Karla grumbled from the nearby table where they worked with clay tablets, and Chantmer waved a hand to dismiss their concerns. He obviously meant no offense by it.

  “What brings you to Syrmarria?” he asked Narud. “Surely the master didn’t send you all the way just to check up on me.”

  “Not just to check up on you. I’m here to help you strengthen the library defenses against fire.”

  “Against fire? How much stronger could they possibly be?”

  To illustrate his point, Chantmer took the sheet of parchment he’d been writing on and stuck the end in the candle flame. Not only did the parchment not catch fire, but the flame died in a wisp of smoke.

  “And that’s a loose sheet,” he said. “A book is that much stronger still.”

  “We went to the Sacred Forest a few days ago,” Narud said. “Memnet is improving day by day, and felt strong enough to leave the gardens to see the burned stretch for himself. He thought we might do something with the trees to strengthen them against the enemy’s desecration. It was too late. The Sacred Forest is cut in two, and the road is already built. It’s a long, blackened gash, uglier than you can imagine. And it was all done with fire.”

  “How? How is such a thing possible? Those trees can’t burn any more than . . .” Chantmer’s voice trailed off, and he looked around him. “The enemy would never burn this library, even if he could. He might take the books, yes, but never destroy them.”

  “Strengthen the library against fire. That is the extent of Memnet’s instructions.”

  “Is the highway moving toward the gardens?”

  “No,” Narud said. “It passes three miles from the garden gates, but no closer. Enemy riders have approached the bridge over Blossom Creek, but they haven’t crossed.”

  “They did it once before. It’s only a question of time before they make another attempt.”

  “This time they’ll find Memnet the Great awake and with his full array of power.”

  “Good,” Chantmer said.

  Narud bent over the open tome. “I remember this book. We studied it before, though I can’t remember the half of what I read. Something about bending pain.”

  “Bending pain for the sake of power. Blood from the pores is arbitrary. We could have easily chosen another method. A cut across the hand, or burning our skin. Painful tattoos, or thorns in the flesh.”

  “If we did that, we wouldn’t be the Crimson Path.” Narud traced the words with an index finger, and his lips moved silently.

  Chantmer studied his companion as he read. He was still baffled by why Narud had been elevated to wizard so quickly, but the man had strength, there was no question. A bit on the odd side, with his obsessions about plants and animals, but they all had quirks.

  “Nathaliey’s father is locked in the dungeon,” Chantmer said. “They’re torturing him.”

  Narud looked up, and his heavy eyebrows knit together in dismay. “They’re not flaying him, are they? I saw the khalif’s skin flying above the city gate.”

  “Gruesome and unseemly,” Chantmer said. “I shudder every time I see it. But no, not yet. I crept down to observe, and they have Kandibar chained to the wall, his arms stretched from their sockets, but they have not yet physically broken him. It’s the work of the dark acolytes, not Pasha Isak’s torturers. I believe they intend to break Kandibar’s mind and see if he’ll lead them to the gardens.”

  “The poor man.”

  “And poor us, if they succeed.”

  “How did they get their hands on him?” Narud asked. “Nathaliey personally saw him to the edge of the desert.”

  “They must have ambushed him on the road and dragged h
im back.”

  “Did you try to free him?”

  “No, this Zartosht villain is watching for me. I didn’t dare try it on my own, but I thought about slipping Kandibar poison to ease his suffering—surely I could manage that much. But now that you’re here . . . it might be worth an attempt.”

  “Much better than poisoning the poor fellow.”

  “He was going to die anyway,” Chantmer said. “I was only going to save him from torture.”

  “If we get him free, I’ll take him to the gardens. He’ll be safe there.”

  “The master sent him to Marrabat to raise the sultan against King Toth. We should put him back on the Spice Road.”

  “The enemy already caught him once—what makes you think he’d manage now, when he’s beaten down and without the palace guard to protect him?”

  It was a good point, but Chantmer still didn’t want Kandibar in the gardens. With as much damage as they’d suffered in the attack, Memnet needed to concentrate on repairing the defenses, not healing invalids. If Markal and Nathaliey hadn’t run off to get rid of the red sword—pointlessly, Chantmer thought—they’d be around to fill in the more trivial duties.

  Narud flipped the page and began tracing letters again, lips moving like a child learning to read. Nevertheless, he was progressing more rapidly than Chantmer could manage, and that was grating.

  “I have another idea,” Chantmer said. “We free the vizier from the dungeons, but keep him in the palace.”

  Narud looked up. “He can’t show his face around here. They’ll kill him.”

  “You’re not understanding the wider situation. Kandibar, for all his limitations, inspires loyalty in these parts. He turned practically the entire palace guard against the Veyrians.”

  “That was Omar, actually, and his skin is flapping in the breeze as a reward. Besides, there are no more palace guards. They’ve either fled Aristonia or been enslaved on the king’s highway. There’s nobody left for Kandibar to inspire.”

  “Nobody left at the moment, true. But that could change. And down the road, he might very well prove a loyal vizier to whomever we install in the place of Pasha Izak.”