The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  He sank into the grass, relieved to be off his aching feet, and looked up at the sky. It was clear, with no sign of griffins. In spite of his hunger, it was hard to be in a sour mood with the warm sun and cool breeze and the beauty of the soaring snow-covered peaks surrounding them.

  He lay there for about ten minutes before he heard the sound of someone calling his name and sat up. It was Marissa, still on horseback. She spotted him and rode over.

  “The captain needs you to come at once.” She gestured back toward the road. “Look for him in the old caravanserai. Hurry.” She tugged on her reins and rode off.

  Markal left the horses and made his way back toward the road. Nathaliey, apparently finished with her seeking, fell in beside him.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “The captain wants to speak with me . . . urgently, it would seem. Did you find Bronwyn?”

  “She’s still on the move. I’d guess about three miles from the valley, more or less.”

  “That close? Wolfram will be happy to hear it.”

  “It’s far enough, and the longer we sit here, the farther behind we’ll be. But there’s good news, too. One of the marauders is flagging, and Bronwyn is shouting at him, threatening him with Soultrup if he doesn’t get moving.”

  “The tall one with the missing hand?”

  “No, he’s plenty strong enough. It’s the other one. I don’t think he can keep up—his body seems to be breaking down from the pace.”

  “It’s good to see evidence that the marauders aren’t invincible,” Markal said. “We’re close. We’re going to catch them.”

  They came upon the ruins of the caravanserai, a stout building by the side of the road. It was built of whitewashed walls constructed in a square about eighty feet on a side, with a thick, bulging base on the lower level and thin windows above that doubled as arrow slits. The building had a fortress-like appearance, not strong enough to repel an army, but sturdy enough to dissuade bandits or resist the demands of unwelcome companies of travelers.

  Nevertheless, a determined assault had overthrown the caravanserai in the end. The roof had burned and collapsed, and gaps in the walls showed where enemies had undermined it during their final attack. Marauders, Wolfram had told him. They’d sacked the building and murdered the last self-styled baron of Montlac and his family.

  A few paladins stood guard where the missing gates had once opened, and Markal and Nathaliey made their way into the central courtyard. Here there had once been stables, baths, a well, and communal dining, but it was all rubble and weeds now. Wolfram stood with Marissa, who turned over a jute sack. Moldy wheat poured out of it onto the ground.

  Wolfram spotted the newcomers and gave a grim shake of the head. “This is what all of our supplies look like. There’s a whole cellar full of it—all rotten.”

  “Is it wet down there?” Markal asked.

  “It’s perfectly dry. And even if water had entered the cellar, it’s only been a couple of weeks, not long enough for it all to rot.” He tossed aside the sack with a look of disgust. “I could tell something was wrong even before I went down. We’d heaped doors and broken furniture over the spot to conceal the entrance, and it was all disturbed. I thought my sister had found it, raided some supplies for her own party. Turns out she did a lot more than steal.”

  Nathaliey touched Markal’s arm. “I feel something, do you?”

  He sniffed at the air. Yes, there it was. A hint of something foul. It was radiating from . . .

  “Is the cellar through there?”

  Wolfram frowned. “How did you know?”

  “There’s sorcery hanging in the air, mostly in that direction. Show me.”

  Wolfram led them through what seemed to have been the kitchen, with a big clay oven collapsed beneath a beam that had fallen from the ceiling. Behind the kitchen lay a small room with broken shelves, smashed crockery, and an open trapdoor in the floor with a ladder that descended into a basement larder. To the side of the opening lay a shattered door, another ceiling beam, and an overturned bench, presumably the debris that the Blackshields had heaped over the top to conceal their supplies.

  A paladin climbed up the ladder from below. “Even the wine is bad, Captain.”

  “Turned to vinegar?” Wolfram asked.

  “Worse than that. Smells like horse piss.”

  Daylight streamed into the dusty cellar from above, and Markal and Nathaliey descended to have a look for themselves. The smell of rot and sorcery was almost overwhelming when they reached the bottom. Jute sacks lay open, with moldy wheat and oats spilling out. More sacks containing suet-and-berry biscuits had suffered a similar fate, as had provisions of dried, salty beef.

  There were other destroyed supplies, too: crossbow bolts, snapped in two, spare bedding that had been torn, linen bandages as rotten as the grain, and frayed ropes. Hunting knives and snares for foraging—bent or rusted. Hundreds of pounds of food and gear hauled laboriously into the mountains, then stashed here to resupply the paladins over a campaign that might last months, all destroyed.

  Markal glanced at Wolfram, who was climbing down. “It’s sorcery,” he told the captain. “A despoiling incantation.”

  “Those blasted cloaks the marauders wear,” Wolfram said. “They have all sorts of powers, don’t they? First controlling the giant, now this.”

  “This is different,” Nathaliey said.

  “How do you mean?” Wolfram asked.

  “That was endowed power,” she said. “This is summoned magic.”

  Markal sniffed the foul odor lingering about the place, and wished he could disagree. But the evidence was all about them.

  “The sorcerer has endowed the marauder cloaks with certain powers,” he explained. “Concealment, deflection, the ability to control wights and giants and perhaps other creatures. Magical strength and stamina—the wearers become something other than human.

  “But this smells different,” he continued. “It leaves a sharp odor, flowing outward. It’s not like the smell of a rune or the moon pendant, or even Soultrup, which are more . . . closed, I think you’d call it?”

  Nathaliey nodded. “That’s a good way to put it.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Wolfram said. “Maybe you’d have to be able to sense it to understand.”

  “Think of a freshly cut pine bough,” Nathaliey said. “It has that sharp, distinctive odor, right? And if you throw a pine log on the fire, it also smells like pine, but it’s not the same smell.”

  “That’s the difference between endowed magic and summoned magic,” Markal said. He gestured around him. “This is summoned magic. Someone came down here and cast a spoiling spell to destroy all of your provisions. Something burning, something consumed—let’s say it’s more like burning camel dung than pine logs, but the same idea.”

  “So you’re saying that my sister can command sorcery, too?” Wolfram asked.

  “No,” Markal said. “It wasn’t Bronwyn, and it wasn’t her marauders. It was someone else. There is apparently a sorcerer with her now, and that’s even worse.”

  #

  Back up top, with the scent of the enemy’s magic still in their nostrils, Markal and Nathaliey were able to follow the trail to the road, where it continued west. Wolfram followed them. While they studied the road, Markal told him how Nathaliey’s seeker had found Bronwyn three miles west of the valley, almost within their grasp.

  They followed the magical trail a quarter mile or so away from the paladins at the caravanserai. The western rim of the bowl-like valley loomed craggy and snow-covered ahead of them, and the road began what would soon be another punishing climb before it began its initial descent toward Eriscoba on the far side of the Dragon’s Spine.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Markal said. “Seems the sorcerer continued toward Eriscoba. At least he’s not lurking around here anymore.”

  “Is it the necromancer?” Wolfram asked.

  “No,” Markal said. “This isn’t King Toth.”


  “Then there is more than one sorcerer? You’re sure?”

  “It’s the same type of magic as Toth’s, but it isn’t his,” Markal said. “Not as powerful, not as much command or mastery.”

  “So an apprentice or acolyte,” Nathaliey said. “Which is disturbing enough, when you think about it. It means Toth is training his own order.”

  Markal bent and touched the road where their new enemy had stepped. “Whoever it was has some power with him, but he’s sloppy. This stink is two days old.”

  Nathaliey gave him a sharp look. “Are you sure?”

  “Feel this, and you’ll see.”

  “How can the trail be two days old?” Wolfram asked. “Bronwyn just passed this way a few hours ago. . .”

  Markal glanced skyward, briefly searching for griffins, before turning back to Nathaliey and Wolfram. “The sorcerer must have come alone, and departed before Bronwyn arrived.”

  “If you’re right, that means the sorcerer knew we were coming,” Wolfram said. “And somehow figured out we had supplies—the Veyrian army didn’t know, or they’d have stolen them already.”

  “I think he’s right,” Nathaliey said. “Could it be that Bronwyn told the sorcerer somehow?”

  “My sister might have guessed where to look,” Wolfram said. “If she had a way to pass that information along.”

  Markal gave it some thought. “Some sort of seeker might do it. A sorcerous version we don’t know. They’d have needed to communicate at a great distance, sent it all the way over the mountains to get the sorcerer here in time.”

  “Don’t the magic eyes have a limited range?” Wolfram asked.

  Markal shrugged. “Ours have a limited range. The enemy’s sorcery has different capabilities and limitations.”

  Another glance skyward. There was still no sign of griffin riders, but that might not last. There might be more giants ahead of them, too. Marauders, Veyrian armies . . . and now a new enemy, a servant of the dark wizard.

  “I trust you can handle this sorcerer?” Wolfram said.

  “He is only an acolyte, and we have a wizard,” Nathaliey said.

  Markal’s supposed wizardry had become a joke between them, but there didn’t seem to be irony in her voice this time.

  “Acolyte, sorcerer—whatever he is—can you handle him?” Wolfram asked.

  “We can handle him,” she said. “Can you handle your sister?”

  “You say she was only three miles ahead of us?”

  “Four miles by now.”

  “She’ll get farther ahead still,” Wolfram said. “Those bastards destroyed our food supplies, and we can’t ride into battle half-starved. I’ll send out foragers—there must be deer in this valley if the griffins haven’t eaten them all. And if not, there are waterfowl by the oxbows, and probably tubers and such we can collect in the marshes. We’ll let the horses rest and ride out in the morning. We’ll lose the better part of a day, but we made excellent time getting here, and that should still give us plenty of leeway to catch her before she reaches Eriscoba. And then, well . . . they are only three marauders. Red sword or not, we’ll have them in our grasp.”

  “Captain,” Markal said slowly, “you’re missing one critical part of this whole debacle. The sorcerer was able to communicate with Bronwyn across a great distance. A small army of Veyrians passed through here a week ago, and there was another company of marauders with them. I would assume that the sorcerer was accompanying them, and that’s how he happened to be near Montlac in the first place.”

  Wolfram stared. “Are you saying . . .?”

  “If the sorcerer can call east to Bronwyn, he can call west, to the Veyrians and the marauder companies accompanying them. I’ll expect the sorcerer has spotted us already and called for help.” Markal let out his breath. “Prepare your men to ride on empty stomachs, Captain, if you have any hope of stopping Bronwyn before she reaches Eriscoba. And make sure they’re prepared for a serious fight. Not three marauders, but a whole company of them.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Early the next morning, when Markal slumped in his saddle during the gloom of predawn, half dozing after a few fitful hours of shivering sleep on the road, Nathaliey rode up beside him, glanced around as if to make sure there weren’t any paladins within earshot, and said in a low voice, “We’re only two miles behind them now.”

  “How many?”

  “Four. Bronwyn, her two companions, and Toth’s acolyte. They’re all on foot, but moving quickly. It will take the better part of the day to run them down, and that’s only if we can keep up the pace.”

  “And the enemy reinforcements?” Markal asked.

  “Riding hard in this direction. They should meet up with Bronwyn by noon. Twenty-five marauders.”

  “So presumably Bronwyn could turn around and meet us in battle any time after that.”

  “You think they’ll do that?” she asked.

  “Hard to say. If they’re wise, they’ll continue toward Eriscoba, now that Bronwyn has what she set out for.” Markal tightened his hands on the reins. “But Toth’s forces don’t always pick the wise course.”

  “Not when there’s a bloodier path, no,” Nathaliey said.

  “Well done. It can’t have been easy finding them all.”

  She gave a modest shrug. “It wasn’t hard. The acolyte is spending his magic speeding them along, not trying to hide.”

  They slowed their horses to allow one of the paladins to pass them. Ghostly fog crept across the forest road, and the paladin was a shadowy figure in the gloom as he disappeared ahead of them.

  “Markal, are we going to die?”

  “We all die, sooner or later. We die, and the Harvester gathers our souls, grinds them to dust, and scatters them to the wind to refresh the land.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sooner or later it happens to everyone. Only the Brothers know the day or hour.”

  “Markal, I’m serious.”

  “We’re not facing a giant. That’s a point in our favor. As for this sorcerer”—he drew a breath—“he’ll challenge us.”

  “And the new marauder company?”

  “I like Wolfram’s chances. The Blackshields outnumber them two to one.”

  “Wolfram arrives exhausted.”

  “The enemy is riding hard, too. Neither side is likely to be fresh.”

  “What about Bronwyn?” Nathaliey asked. “And Soultrup?”

  An image of Bronwyn standing on the bridge and fighting an entire army of wights came to his mind. “Yes, that is a problem.”

  “Markal, I’m afraid.”

  “So am I. But if I die, let it be to Soultrup. And don’t make me go in there alone. If I’m stuck inside a sword, I want a friend by my side.”

  “How . . . kind of you to say so. ‘If I die, please let my friend die, too.’”

  “Think on the positive side,” he told her. “We can carry on the fight from the inside, turn Soultrup back to good.”

  “Thanks, but all the same, I prefer it out here.” After a moment of silence, she added, “We need the master. He’d blast these enemies off the face of the earth.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “The knowledge Memnet has, the power . . . this piddling sorcerer’s acolyte would have no chance against a real wizard.”

  “As opposed to a fake one like me?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I have my limitations—I’m not pretending otherwise.”

  “Better a limited wizard than an advanced apprentice. That’s where I am.”

  “A good point,” he said. “Nathaliey Liltige, you are henceforth a full-fledged wizard. There, that should help.”

  Nathaliey snorted. “As if you could.”

  “Why not? That’s all the master did. He said I was a wizard, and I became one. Apparently.”

  “Yes, well, you’re not the master.”

  A slight tension to her voice now, like a bowstring being strung, an
d he knew he was touching on her most sensitive insecurities. He had no intention of drawing that string tighter. On the contrary.

  He dropped the light tone. “I can declare you a wizard if I’d like.”

  “Why, did you attend a secret wizard initiation ceremony that gave you that right?”

  “What do you think being a wizard is, anyway?”

  “Markal, we discussed this already. If you don’t feel like a wizard just because Memnet said so, why should I feel any better to hear the same thing from you? Wizard or not, you aren’t the master.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point is that when we get home—assuming we are so lucky—Memnet will ignore your proclamation and give me twenty more years of study.”

  “No, he won’t. He’ll respect my decision.”

  “I notice you didn’t address my other point. If you don’t even believe you are a wizard, how can you make me one?”

  “I didn’t address the point because you didn’t make one,” Markal said. “I am a wizard, and I feel like one, too.”

  “That’s Wolfram’s moon pendant talking.”

  “Hogwash. The pendant does nothing until I call up magic, and then it’s a small boost at best. I won’t claim that I feel like a powerful wizard, more like a novice. But I’m not an apprentice anymore, that’s for sure. There is no master here guiding my decisions.”

  “Hey,” she said, “some of those decisions were mine.”

  “Exactly.”

  Nathaliey sighed. “I can’t accept that . . . Markal, I’m not a wizard just because you say I am!”

  “It’s all right if you don’t accept it right away. I didn’t at first, either. In any event, I’m not worried about Toth’s acolyte. We are a pair of wizards of the Crimson Path. May the Brothers guide us to victory.”

  #

  The gray sky of predawn brightened into blue as the sun rose behind them, peeking through the cliffs. Birds chattered in the trees, and the mist began to clear as a warm breeze rose from the lowlands.