Sevenfold Sword_Necromancer Read online

  SEVENFOLD SWORD: NECROMANCER

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  A brief author’s note

  Chapter 1: Fire, Earth & Air

  Chapter 2: The Bronze Dead

  Chapter 3: The Monastery

  Chapter 4: Magistri

  Chapter 5: Wounds

  Chapter 6: Trojas

  Chapter 7: Acolytes

  Chapter 8: The King’s Men

  Chapter 9: The Plague Dead

  Chapter 10: Guardian

  Chapter 11: Patterns

  Chapter 12: The Princess

  Chapter 13: Repetition

  Chapter 14: To Kill A Tyrant

  Chapter 15: Seven Shards

  Chapter 16: Who You Are

  Chapter 17: The Blue Castra

  Chapter 18: The Necromancer of Trojas

  Chapter 19: Fire & Death

  Chapter 20: Eight Words

  Chapter 21: Wrath of the Necromancer

  Chapter 22: Blood of the Necromancer

  Chapter 23: Fury of the Magistria

  Chapter 24: Find Me Again

  Epilogue: Maledicti

  A Second Author's Note

  Glossary of Characters

  Glossary of Locations

  Chart of Kings, Cities, the Maledicti & the Seven Swords

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

  The quest of the Seven Swords has put terrible power in the hands of madmen.

  The Necromancer of Trojas wields the Sword of Death, and with it he has summoned a vast host of the undead. Unless Ridmark Arban can stop him, the undead horde will conquer all the realm of Owyllain.

  But the city of Trojas holds other secrets.

  And one of those secrets might kill Ridmark and destroy Owyllain...

  Sevenfold Sword: Necromancer

  Copyright 2018 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published January 2018.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  A brief author’s note

  At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book, along with a chart listing the nine cities & Kings of the realm of Owyllain, the bearers of the Seven Swords, and the seven high priests of the Maledicti.

  A map of the realm of Owyllain is available on the author's website at this link.

  A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link.

  Chapter 1: Fire, Earth & Air

  Forty-five days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, forty-five days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban came to a sudden halt, his right hand falling to Oathshield’s hilt on reflex.

  He thought he smelled something burning.

  Ridmark looked around, the wind tugging at his gray cloak. The sky was overcast, the clouds the color of iron, and it was the coolest afternoon yet since Rhodruthain had brought him to Owyllain forty-five days ago. Perhaps it was because they had gone so far north. In all directions, the countryside was a rolling plain, covered in tough grasses. Hills rose frequently, their tops crowned with rocky tors. Few people lived in this region of Owyllain, perhaps because the soil was too rocky for farming.

  Yet Ridmark nonetheless smelled something burning, though he saw no smoke against the gray sky.

  Ridmark shook his head in irritation, fingers tapping against his bamboo staff.

  “Is something amiss?” said a woman’s voice, cold and calm.

  Ridmark turned. The woman stood six paces behind him. She was only an inch or two shorter than him and wore dark clothing and close-fitting black armor over her lean body. A sheathed short sword rested on either hip, and her eyes were black as her hair. At the moment, her long black hair had been bound in a braid, making her pale face look even sharper, the points of her elven ears more pronounced.

  He was glad that she was with him. Third had accompanied him into danger many, many times, and they had come out alive.

  So far, anyway.

  “Do you smell that?” said Ridmark.

  Third tilted her head, and her nostrils flared a few times. “No. Wait…yes. It smells like burned grass.” She frowned. “Quite a lot of it.”

  “A grass fire, you think?” said Ridmark.

  “That seems unlikely,” said Third. She reached down and rubbed a strand of grass between her fingers. “The weather has not been dry enough for a wildfire. Additionally, a grass fire would generate a great quantity of smoke.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “It’s coming from the north, I think. Let’s have a look. If bandits are nearby, or raiders from the Deeps, I want to find them before they find us.”

  “Or to avoid them entirely,” said Third. “I doubt fighting a group of raiders would help accomplish our task from King Hektor.”

  “No,” agreed Ridmark, and he headed north, Third walking at his side.

  His eyes swept the plains and the hills, seeking for any sign of enemies. The wild plains north of the Nine Cities of Owyllain and south of the Cloak Mountains were claimed by no one, and they might encounter any manner of foes here. The dvargir, the muridachs, and the kobolds might raid out of the Deeps. Or the pagan jotunmiri could come down from the Cloak Mountains, seeking both slaves and food. For that matter, they might encounter Vhalorasti orcs fleeing from the rout of King Justin’s army. King Brasidas and King Atreus had switched their allegiance to Hektor Pendragon. The pagan jotunmiri and the surviving Vhalorasti orcs had not.

  And given that Ridmark had killed Justin Cyros, perhaps his former followers might desire revenge.

  “There,” said Third, pointing.

  A hill rose ahead, and on the other side of the rocky hill drifted a few streamers of black smoke.

  “I will scout ahead and return shortly,” said Third. Ridmark nodded, and Third disappeared in a pulse of blue fire. A few hundred yards ahead, he saw the flicker as she reappeared, and then disappeared again as she used the power of her blood to travel.

  Ridmark waited.

  A few minutes later Third reappeared in front of him, her veins and eyes shining with blue fire.

  “There is a burial mound ahead,” said Third as the blue flame faded.

  Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff. “Like the others we’ve seen?”

  “Aye,” said Third. “The Necromancer emptied this one as well. But I think you should see it firsthand.”

  Ridmark nodded and jogged forward. A few moments later they reached the top of the hill, and Ridmark looked down at the burial mound on the other side.

  They had seen dozens since leaving the battlefield north of Castra Chaeldon, and this mound looked much the same as all the others. Millennia ago, the Sovereign had started burying his orcish soldiers in mounds scattered across the northern plains. His reasons for doing so were practical – with the dead orcish warriors secured in their tombs, at need the Sovereign and his lieutenants could cast a spell of necromantic power and bring the dead warriors forth as undead creatures. It was a stratagem of devilish c
unning, and it seemed characteristic of the Sovereign, who for fifteen thousand years had ruled Owyllain from his seat at Urd Maelwyn with stratagems of subtle brilliance.

  At least until the Sovereign had met Kothlaric Pendragon, who had slain him below the gates of Urd Maelwyn.

  The burial mound was a dome-shaped hill about thirty yards tall. A ring of a half-dozen black menhirs stood atop the hill, their sides carved with scenes of the dark elves torturing and murdering other kindreds. Oathshield shivered in its scabbard, reacting to the lingering dark magic hanging over the standing stones. Dozens of craters marked the sides of the burial mound, broken stone and torn earth that looked as if something had forced its way out from the inside.

  It looked that way because something had, in fact, forced its way out from the inside. At the call of the Necromancer of Trojas, the undead warriors had clawed their way free from the burial mound, marching to join the vast host of undead gathering near the city of Trojas.

  But something had been waiting for the undead warriors.

  Several small fires burned at the foot of the hill, and Ridmark saw a dozen twisted black shapes.

  He looked at Third, and together they walked to the burial mound in silence. Ridmark stepped around a smoldering grass fire and gazed down at a twisted black shape. A long, long time ago, it had been a living orcish warrior, but then the warrior had died and had been buried. The power of the Sword of Death had called the corpse forth once more as a twisted, withered abomination.

  And then something had burned it.

  Ridmark looked at the corpse. The undead flesh had turned into black char. The undead warrior had been armored in a bronze cuirass and helmet and carried a bronze sword, the metal an odd grayish color from the chemical treatment that had let it survive the millennia without corroding. Both the sword and cuirass had warped in the heat that had burned the undead warrior.

  “A magical attack?” said Third. “Antenora could conjure flame hot enough to do this. Lady Kalussa could as well. Perhaps there is a wizard with the power of elemental flame nearby.”

  “No,” said Ridmark, gesturing with his bamboo staff. “Look at the pattern of the burns on the ground. The fire came from above.” He pointed with the staff again. “See how the burns sweep across the ground at an angle? Something dove at the undead, breathed fire at them, and then circled around for another pass. It would have been…yes, there.” Another burned patch marked the ground there, along with two more destroyed undead.

  “Fire drakes?” said Third.

  “That would be my wager,” said Ridmark.

  “Are there even fire drakes in Owyllain?” said Third.

  “We’ll have to ask Tamlin and Aegeus when we get back,” said Ridmark, “but it would appear so.” Third grimaced. That was unlike her. “You’ve had encounters with fire drakes before?”

  “Yes,” said Third. “Several centuries ago, when I was still an urdhracos. I was flying south from the Wilderland over what would become the Northerland, and I caught the attention of a nest of fire drakes. They would not stop chasing me.”

  “They’ll eat any kind of meat, so long as it’s burned,” said Ridmark.

  “Even urdhracos, it would seem,” said Third. “We should rejoin the others and warn them.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Krastikon thinks we’ll reach the village of Argin and the Monastery of St. Paul later today. We had best warn them as well.”

  “Likely they already are on their guard from the Necromancer’s great muster,” said Third. “Assuming the undead have not killed them all already.”

  “Agreed,” said Ridmark. He shook his head, weariness coming over him, and he tried to ignore it. King Hektor had given Ridmark a dangerous task, and every step they took towards the Necromancer’s stronghold of Trojas increased the danger.

  What Ridmark wanted was to return to Aenesium and rejoin his sons.

  But retreating would solve nothing. If Ridmark withdrew to Aenesium, perhaps in a year or two the Necromancer’s horde of undead would knock upon the gates of the city.

  Perhaps someday he would have time to rest, but not yet.

  “Come,” said Ridmark. “Let’s rejoin the others. If the fire drakes attack, they’ll need our help.”

  Third smiled a little.

  “What?” said Ridmark.

  “If those fire drakes attack,” said Third, “they shall face the Keeper of Andomhaim, a gray elven archer with an enspelled bow, and the bearers of the Staff of Blades, the Sword of Air, and the Sword of Earth. Truly, those fire drakes would be the unluckiest drakes in the history of this world.”

  Ridmark laughed. “Aye! Well, then let’s hope the drakes enjoy good luck and avoid us entirely.”

  They turned south and picked up the pace.

  ###

  “I think,” said Calliande Arban, reaching for the Sight, “that you are ready to try it with a third sphere.”

  Kalussa Pendragon’s pretty blue eyes went wide with surprise. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Nothing in this life is certain,” said Calliande, “but I am confident of it.”

  Kalussa said nothing, her expression troubled.

  Of course, she wasn’t the only one.

  Calliande and Ridmark led a troubled company.

  Calliande glanced back at the others, making sure they were keeping up.

  She walked at the head of the line with Kalussa. Behind them came Calem, Sir Calem now, the bearer of the Sword of Air, the assassin who had once been enslaved to a mysterious master. His white wraithcloak danced behind him in the wind coming from the north, and the silver pommel of the Sword of Air glinted at his belt. His expression was stoic as ever, but he glanced to the side as Calliande looked at him, as if he had been staring at her.

  No, he hadn’t been staring at her. Probably he had been staring at Kalussa.

  Prince Krastikon Cyros walked after Calem. He was a big man, both tall and heavy, but his bulk came not from fat but muscle. He wore the elaborate bronze armor once favored by the Ironcoats of King Justin Cyros, nearly all of whom had been killed in the battle. Krastikon carried a shield and a massive war hammer with a bronze head, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. He had a close-cropped black beard and black hair, and gray eyes the color of steel. He looked solemn, distant, lost in thought. A few days ago, he had been an Ironcoat of his father King Justin, certain that Justin Cyros would reunify Owyllain and defeat the New God.

  And now Justin was dead at Ridmark’s hand.

  Calliande hoped that wasn’t going to cause a problem, but so far Krastikon did not seem inclined to avenge his father.

  Krastikon’s half-brother walked behind him.

  Tamlin Thunderbolt was several inches taller than Krastikon, and lean where the former Ironcoat was bulky. His eyes and hair were the same shade as Krastikon’s. Tamlin wore the bronze armor of a Companion knight of King Hektor. Since Calliande had used her magic to heal Tamlin’s wounds several times, she knew firsthand how many scars marked Tamlin’s muscled torso, most of them acquired while he was still an enslaved gladiator in the Confessor’s games at Urd Maelwyn. Once Tamlin had carried a sword of dark elven steel he had claimed during his escape from Urd Maelwyn, but the blade had shattered during the battle with King Justin.

  The sword that had broken it hung at Tamlin’s belt.

  The Sword of Earth looked identical to the Sword of Air, save that it was an emerald green color rather than silver. As the son of a man who had borne one of the Seven Swords, Tamlin was Swordborn, which meant he was immune to the Swords’ power. He couldn’t use any of the Sword of Earth’s potent magic, but that kept the power from being misused. And nothing prevented Tamlin from using the Sword of Earth as a sword. The blade could cut through nearly anything, and Tamlin was a superb swordsman.

  He and Krastikon ignored each other. Calliande didn’t think they had spoken a word to each other since they had left King Hektor’s army.

  Behind Tamlin came Kyralion of the Illicaeryn
Jungle. The gray elf wore his leather armor and his gray cloak, his enspelled bow in hand. His golden eyes moved back and forth, watching the countryside for any enemies or dangers. Sir Aegeus followed Kyralion, and Aegeus alone seemed to be in a good mood. Like Tamlin, he wore the armor of a Companion knight, and an axe of dwarven steel hung at his belt. He led their pack train of four scutian lizards loaded with supplies. The scutians plodded with placid indifference to their surroundings, stopping from time to time to snatch up a mouthful of the tough grass with their sharp beaks before Aegeus urged them on. Like their larger trisalian cousins, the scutians seemed able to eat just about anything. More than once a scutian had tried to take a bite out of Calliande’s green cloak until she had dissuaded the animal with a sharp blow between the eyes from her staff.

  They all seemed lost in their own thoughts, but Calliande had her own fears. Every morning she sent her Sight roving south to seek her sons, and so far, she had found them every time. As far as she could tell, Gareth and Joachim were safe and healthy, perhaps even happy. Michael would be training them at arms, and Father Clement would be teaching them proper Latin and rhetoric and other academic subjects, and idleness was not good for children.

  God and the saints, but she missed her sons. Still, it was good to know that they were safe. No one else would have that luxury. When Ridmark had gone on campaigns with High King Arandar back in Andomhaim, he had no way of knowing how she and the children fared in his absence.

  Work, in Calliande’s experience, was almost always the best cure for sorrow. She had seen that proven yet again in Owyllain when the dangers of this new land had forced her to shake off the grieving fog that had clouded her mind ever since Joanna’s death.

  “Confident?” said Kalussa at last.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “You wielded your power and the Staff well during the battle. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were ready.”

  “As you wish, then, Keeper,” said Kalussa, taking a deep breath. She was a beautiful young woman, with golden hair and blue eyes, vigorous and strong. Calliande had managed to forgive Kalussa for her failed attempt to seduce Ridmark, and as for forgetting…well, perhaps Calliande was a harsher teacher to Kalussa than she would have been otherwise.