“Lord Ridmark’s sword,” said Niall. “It can open magical gates. After the siege of Castarium, we used it to travel from Castarium to Cintarra in a single day.”
And then Accolon had reversed the illegal and the unjust sheep enclosures, but Niall kept that thought to himself.
“And just who is this Guardian we’re supposed to be saving?” said Ricatus.
“She was at Cathair Animus,” said Rufinius. “One of the sorceresses who helped fight against the jastaani horde and save the kingdom of Owyllain. She and my uncle were friends before the Frostborn war.”
“And what is she the Guardian of?” said Ricatus.
“I don’t really know,” said Rufinius. “But I think she was spying on the Heptarchy. We still don’t know anything about the Heptarchy and their red orcs. If we can save the Guardian, perhaps she can tell us how to defeat them.”
Ricatus only grunted. Not even he could find anything to oppose in that logic.
They came to the boundary of the camp, the men forming up behind them. Calliande stood there with both hands gripping her staff, her eyes hazy as she stared at something only she could see. Ridmark stopped and turned to face them, and Decimus came to Niall’s side, breathing a little hard.
“We’re ready to leave,” said Ridmark. “Sir Niall, Sir Ricatus, Sir Rufinius. While I hold the gate open, get the men through as quickly as possible. I can only hold it open for a short time, so we’ll need to hasten. Decimus, you’re here? Good. There may be spiderling priestesses among the arachar orcs, so we’ll need you to cast warding spells.” Decimus offered a grave nod.
“And to aid the wounded once the fighting is over,” said Calliande. She drew in a deep breath. “We’re ready.”
Ridmark nodded, drew Oathshield, and grounded the sword’s point, both hands grasping its hilt. Calliande put one hand over his, the other grasping her staff, and for a moment they both stood like that, eyes closed. Ricatus shifted, an incredulous look on his face, but managed to hold his tongue.
A curtain of gray mist rolled up next to Ridmark. It was about ten feet wide and ten feet tall and rippled and flowed as if driven by hidden winds. The mist thinned and brightened, and suddenly it became a gateway through the air. Through the gate Niall glimpsed the coast road near Cintarra, a broad sandy beach, and the rippling expanse of the southern sea.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Ricatus.
“Go!” shouted Niall. “We need to move. Through the gate. Go, go, go!”
The soldiers started forward.
###
Cintarra came into sight at last, the great city spread on either side of the river and harbor. Morigna saw the crimson walls and towers of the Prince’s Palace, the spires of the cathedral, and the proud towers in the domi of the haughty Cintarran nobles and merchants. But the city was several miles away, and her longship was heading towards an empty stretch of broad beach perhaps three miles east of Cintarra’s walls.
The captain was nervous about their proximity to the city.
“If we get stuck on the beach, priestess,” said the captain, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Cintarra, “we may not be able to get back into the water before the enemy surrounds us.”
“Fear not, captain,” said Morigna, eyeing the shore. “As soon as we get close enough, I will go overboard and swim the rest of the way. I suppose it will do no harm to tell you that I am to spy out the enemy and report back to the High Priestesses with what I have learned.”
The captain said nothing and looked to the south.
The other longships had gotten close, so close that Morigna saw the arachar orcs toiling at their oars. If she reached shore soon enough and raced for Cintarra, she might be able to avoid them. The walls of Cintarra would be guarded, and the soldiers there would be ready to repulse any raids from the arachar orcs.
If she got to the shore first.
If they didn’t run her down.
Then one of the orcs on the nearest longship began waving flags in a specific pattern.
Morigna knew that the captains of the Heptarchy fleet had a code they used to communicate by waving flags. But she didn’t know the code and had no idea what the orcs with the flags were saying. Was he sounding the alarm that Morigna was a spy?
The captain and his first mate stared at the flags. Their expressions did not change, but Morigna saw the crimson shimmer of orcish battle rage start in their black eyes.
She started to pull together power for a spell. It was harder than it should have been. Speaking to Calliande over such a great distance had been an immense effort, and searching for someone in Cintarra who could hear her had been an even greater labor.
“I see,” said the captain, and he and the first mate shared a look.
They moved with the blurring speed of the arachar orcs. The captain carried his sword, and the blade flashed from its scabbard, glinting in the morning sun. If Morigna had not been watching him, it would have taken her off-guard and sliced her throat open. As it was, her backward jump just barely saved her life, and the sword missed by an inch.
But she finished her spell and thrust out her hand.
A whirling sphere of mist dropped from her palm and exploded in a gray wall, covering the entire longship in a hazy gray cloud. The captain stalked after Morigna, raising his sword for another strike, and then both he and the first mate fell to their knees. Around Morigna the orcs slumped over their oars.
It was a spell of earth magic, charged through the Guardian’s mantle for extra power. The sleeping mist would knock out anyone who inhaled it, but Morigna knew it would not last long against the arachar orcs. The urdmordar taint in their blood let them resist poisons and toxins, and she had been forced to spread the mist across thirty orcs. Already some of them were stirring, recovering from the spell.
Morigna had one chance to act.
She dropped her illusion spell since it no longer served any purpose. Then she slung her staff over her back from its leather strap, vaulted over the railing, and started swimming for shore.
A half-mile. Could she swim a half-mile? Her elven body was strong and fit, and Morigna had taken care to keep it that way. But a half-mile was a long distance to swim, the water was choppy, and Morigna was wearing clothing and armor. During her first life as a human, in the Wilderland near Moraime, she had sometimes swum in the cold lakes of the hills. But she had always done so naked. Immediately she was reminded why when her armor and clothes started dragging at her, but she had dared not remove them. For one thing, there had been no time.
For another, if she was too close to the ship when the orcs woke up, without her armor they would have no difficulty shooting her in the back.
Morigna ignored the fatigue and strain and swam onward, moving as fast as she could manage.
###
The last of the soldiers came through the gate, followed a few seconds later by Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande. The Shield Knight looked dazed, almost confused, and Calliande had to guide him along. Niall didn’t know how the strange power of Lord Ridmark’s sword worked, but it exacted a sharp toll. Niall had been in the Shield Knight’s service long enough to realize that Ridmark only used his sword’s power to travel when absolutely necessary.
The gate dissolved into nothingness, and Ridmark looked around, his eyes jerking back and forth at something only he could see.
“Give him a moment,” said Calliande, holding her husband’s arms, maybe so he wouldn’t wander off.
“God and the saints, it actually worked,” said Ricatus, pointing at the towers and walls of Cintarra to the east.
Niall understood the older knight’s astonishment. He had known what would happen, but traveling through a magical gate was still a strange experience.
“And it seems that the Keeper’s warning was right,” said Rufinius, turning to the south. “Behold, the enemy comes.”
Niall turned to look at the sea, and his gut tightened in alarm.
He saw five Heptarchy ships in the water to the sout
h. They were small ships, with single masts and twin banks of oars. Niall was no expert on ships, but he suspected these vessels could move much faster than the large warships he had seen during the attack on Cintarra’s harbor. One of the ships was wreathed in a dissipating gray haze – maybe smoke? The other four were further to the south, but they were closing fast, their oars hammering at the water.
“Damn it,” said Ricatus.
Niall took a quick look around. Calliande was still focused on Ridmark, who remained dazed. The soldiers stood on the coast road, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
“Form up!” shouted Niall. “Form up! The enemy’s coming, get ready to meet them!” The men-at-arms and militiamen began to move, forming into a shield wall facing the beach.
Ricatus grabbed Niall’s arm. His initial impulse was to punch the older knight in the face, but Ricatus’s expression was grave.
“We need to get some patrols out,” said Ricatus. “If those red orcs chased that Guardian bitch here, she’s got to be nearby. Best we find her before the enemy.”
“Aye,” said Niall. “Send out whoever you think best.”
Ricatus nodded and hurried away. Rufinius started to say something, and then turned to the east, frowning.
“Sir Niall?” came a woman’s surprised voice.
Niall looked to see a horseman riding towards them. A Cintarran nobleman sat in the saddle, clad in a loose coat, trousers, and leather boots, a sword at his belt. He had thick red hair bound back in a tight braid, and brilliant green eyes…
Recognition flashed through Niall’s brain.
“Moriah?” he said, an incredulous smile going over his face.
“My lady Moriah,” said Rufinius, offering a courtly bow. “It is an entirely unexpected pleasure to see you here.”
Niall should have made a bow like that, but it was too late now. He’d have to remember that for the future.
“I just saw you all emerge from a hole in the air,” said Moriah.
“Yes, Lord Ridmark’s gate,” said Niall. “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” said Moriah. “I had a vision from someone calling herself the Guardian Morigna. She claimed she had been spying on the Heptarchy, but they realized it, and she fled for her life. It sounds insane to say it aloud…but you’re here, so I’m guessing I didn’t just imagine it.”
“No,” said Niall. “I think she appeared to Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande. If she’s really been spying on the Heptarchy, maybe she can tell us everything about them.”
“Maybe,” said Moriah. “Spying’s harder work than it looks.” She gazed at the five ships to the south, her expression solemn. She really was very pretty, even when wearing men’s clothing. “God and the saints, it’s just like the day the Heptarchy attacked, isn’t it?”
“Not quite,” said Niall. “There were a lot more ships.”
Moriah gave him a sharp look. “Yes, that’s right, you saved Accolon’s life again that day. You think those five ships were chasing the Guardian?”
“I surmised as much,” said Rufinius.
“We’d better find her,” said Moriah. “If those arachar orcs came all this way to kill her, they’re not going to turn around without a fight.”
“Aye,” said Niall.
He heard Lord Ridmark take a long breath and shake his head, something like clarity returning to his expression.
###
Ridmark did not like to use the power of the Shield Knight to travel unless it was an emergency.
For one, he could only use the power once a day. If he did, he would be unable to use Oathshield’s magic to armor himself until twenty-four hours had passed. For another, the side effects were unpleasant. A little fatigue, but nothing permanent or serious.
But his vision became unanchored in time.
In the moments after opening a gate, he could see the true relationship between time and space and consciousness, but it was knowledge that the mortal mind could not hold, and his memory refused to retain it. And he saw potential pasts and futures in the same moment. When he looked at Calliande, he saw her dying atop that black altar on the day they had met, or saw her laughing and talking with a grown Gareth as she held their first grandchild in her arms, or dying as she battled spiderling priestesses in a blaze of dark magic.
Ridmark looked towards Niall, and he saw the young knight dying of starvation and illness in a back alley of Cintarra, or becoming a prosperous freeholder in the village of Ebor, surrounded by a dozen children, or taking Moriah Rhosmor to his bed, or applauding as Moriah wed Sir Rufinius, or dying in battle with a ring of slain arachar orcs around him. Ridmark looked towards Cintarra and saw the city was it was, saw the city when the first Gwyrdragon Prince had founded it, and saw the city burning as Heptarchy soldiers marched through its streets and dark shadows flew overhead.
Most of the city’s potential futures ended in fire.
“You see, Father,” said Rhoanna. “You see what we have to stop.”
He looked under the city and saw the Great Eye, its ancient history extending back fifteen thousand years. A thousand different futures revolved around the mighty relic, and Ridmark looked through the Eye.
The Warden of Urd Morlemoch looked back at him.
The dark elven archmage stood over seven feet tall and wore a black tunic, black trousers, black boots, and a long blue coat that danced around him in the endless cold wind atop Urd Morlemoch. His head was bone-white and hairless, and a diadem of blue dark elven steel encircled his head.
The Warden’s eyes were pits into the void, portals into the eternal frozen darkness between the stars.
Five shadows stood around the Warden, holding swords of crimson fire that burned with the Warden’s power, his Heralds to work his will in the world.
“The Dragon Knight,” said the Warden, his voice far deeper than any human tone. “I slew the high elven Dragon Knights of old, and you are not their equal. Nor shall you stop me now.”
“Ridmark,” said Calliande.
Ridmark’s vision snapped back into linear time, and he looked around.
For a moment, confusion gripped his mind, and then the strange visions he had seen faded. His mind was unable to hold them for long, no more than a bucket with a hole in it could retain water. His men stood on the coast road, facing the beach. To the south, he saw five longships with black sails adorned with the crimson spider sigil of the Heptarchy. There was no trace of Morigna.
Four of the longships rowed in haste to the shore, but the nearest of them had gone motionless, turning in the waves. A faint gray haze surrounded it, and Ridmark recognized that fog. It was the sleeping mist Morigna had conjured in so many battles during their quest to find the truth of the Frostborn. She had been on that ship, recently, to judge from the dissipating mist.
“She’s swimming to shore,” said Ridmark, sliding Oathshield back into its scabbard.
“Ridmark?” said Calliande.
“The Sight,” said Ridmark. “Can you use it to find her?”
“Yes,” said Calliande. “I should have thought of it myself.” She turned her gaze to the south, blinking. “She’s close. A couple hundred yards out. But all five of those longships are behind her. I don’t think she’ll get off the beach before the arachar catch her.”
“We’ll need to move,” said Ridmark. “We…”
“Lord Ridmark?”
Ridmark turned his head and saw Niall and Rufinius jogging towards him. A Cintarran nobleman ran between them, likely someone who had the bad luck to be on the coast road just now. Then Ridmark saw the red hair and the green eyes.
“Lady Moriah,” he said.
“Shield Knight,” said Moriah. “I think you got the same message I did.”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. Morigna must have been desperate, trying to find anyone who could aid her against the Heptarchy. Then Ridmark remembered how Moriah, the legendary master thief called the Wraith, had rescued Sir Rufinius from the Drakocenti. “If you’re willi
ng to help, I have an idea.”
###
Morigna’s arms and legs felt as if they had been encased in lead, and she felt a muscle cramp threatening to lock her right leg. She drew on the mantle of the Guardian for stamina and resilience. Morigna had lost track of the longships, or of the beach and her urgent mission, and her full attention was on the next stroke, and the next, and the next…
Then a wall of foaming water hit her in the face, knocking her back, and the unexpected impact made her pause. The threatened cramp seized her leg, and Morigna felt herself sink, felt the weight of her armor pulling her down…
Only for her boots to touch solid ground.
She blinked the stinging saltwater from her eyes.
Her swim had carried her much closer to the shore than she had realized. Morigna got her feet under her, unhooked her staff from its leather strap, and half-hobbled, half-splashed onto the beach, water streaming from her. There were human men on the beach, armed soldiers. Had Ridmark used his power to travel here in haste?
Morigna clambered onto the beach and broke into a limping run, hope giving her new strength.
Then a crunching noise filled her ears, and she looked to the right just in time to see one of the Heptarchy longships reach the shore. Arachar orcs leaped over the side and sprinted towards her, swords and axes in hand. Morigna couldn’t hope to outrun them, not with her legs aching the way that they were.
She whirled to face them, calling magic, and thrust the end of her staff against the ground. A ripple went through the earth like a banner caught in the wind. The wave knocked the arachar orcs from their feet, most of them, but one kept his balance and sent a javelin sailing through the air. Morigna tried to work a spell to defend herself, but she was too tired and too slow. The javelin slammed into her chest. It would have killed her in an instant, but her elven armor was strong enough to deflect the point.
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