Sevenfold Sword: Unity Read online

  “Perhaps we should decline the parley, then,” said Rhomathar.

  “Maybe not,” said Ridmark. “The muridachs are dangerous, but it’s Nerzamdrathus and the prophet of the Lord of Carrion who have made them so deadly. If we have a look at them, perhaps we can discern some of their weaknesses.”

  “Yes,” murmured the High Augur. “Yes, the Sight could discern any weaknesses that they might possess. Very well.”

  “Will you accompany us, Lord Ridmark?” said Rhomathar. Athadira scowled but did not say anything. “Because another possible reason for the parley is to lure out the High Augur to kill her. They will find that harder if you are with us.”

  “Of course,” said Ridmark. “But I suspect we’ve already fought against the prophet of the Lord of Carrion.”

  ###

  Tamara took a deep breath as she and Tamlin walked to the square with the others.

  The High Augur had cast a spell to amplify her voice, and she and the muridach herald had negotiated for the better part of an hour. At last, Athadira had agreed to come out to speak with Great King Nerzamdrathus, accompanied by Ridmark, Calliande, Third, Kyralion, Rilmeira, Tamlin, and Tamara.

  Tamara was slightly annoyed to realize that the High Augur was relying on the Shield Knight and his friends so as not to put any gray elves at risk.

  Then again, the High Augur would be as safe with the Shield Knight and the Keeper as she could be.

  Tamara came to a stop as the others waited before the gate. Lord Rhomathar would remain behind to command the defense in case the muridachs planned treachery. Tamara took a deep breath, her fingers tapping on the golden staff in her right hand.

  “Are you ready?” said Tamlin, his voice quiet.

  “Yes,” said Tamara. “And no. I’ve fought muridachs most of my life. Just…not so many of them at once.”

  “I don’t think anyone has ever fought so many muridachs at once,” said Tamlin. “I read of the old High Kings’ wars against the muridachs in the monastery library. They fought the muridachs often, but never in such numbers. The ratmen could never cooperate long enough to gather such a large army, and…”

  He shook his head and laughed a little.

  “What?” said Tamara, smiling. She didn’t know what was funny, but she did like to see him laugh.

  “You’ve probably fought muridachs more than I have, and I am lecturing you about it,” said Tamlin.

  Tamara shrugged. “You’ve read more than I have.” She felt herself grow wistful. “I think I’ve seen five books in my life. Father Nathan had a copy of the scriptures in the church. I guess it came with the first settlers from Aenesium. Sir Rion had a few books on the history of Owyllain.”

  “I want a library one day,” said Tamlin. He rolled his shoulders beneath his golden armor. “I have a room for one in my domus. I just haven’t had time to find any books.”

  “I would like to read some books,” said Tamara. “I do know how to read. There just hasn’t been much opportunity for it.”

  And there might not be a chance for it. Not when the muridachs killed them all. Tamara supposed it was possible they might survive the siege, that they might yet be victorious against the muridachs, but she could not see how.

  “Someday,” said Tamlin. She saw the same realization on his face. He, too, knew that the odds were against them.

  Tamara smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it. “Someday.”

  He smiled back. They were probably going to die in the next few days, she knew. According to her nightmares, she had died six times before. Tamlin had seen her die twice. Was he going to see her die again? Or was she going to see his death?

  That thought distressed her as much as anything ever had.

  Maybe there were some things she ought to do before it was too late.

  “Ready?” said Ridmark.

  “We shall meet with the muridach Great King, Shield Knight,” said the High Augur, her tone aloof and frosty. Calliande had a knack for taking a calm, queenly mien when acting as the Keeper, but she lacked the arrogance of Athadira. “Take us there.”

  Ridmark looked at the gray elven warriors standing before the gate and nodded. The warriors opened a small postern gate, and he led the way outside the city.

  The stench hit Tamara’s nose at once, and her stomach clenched. Countless dead muridachs and kalocrypts lay scattered on the slope of the hill. The kalocrypts smelled bad when they were alive, but they smelled much worse once they were dead. With so many slain muridachs piled on the ground, the musky stink of muridach fur filled her nostrils. The odor of rotting flesh mingled with the musky reek, so strong that it made her eyes water.

  They walked down the slope towards the waiting muridach embassy. The herald and the High Augur had bickered about the location and finally settled at a point halfway between the northern gate and the muridach siege camps. From here, they were out of arrow range of both the walls and the camps, and they could withdraw back to the city if the muridachs attempted treachery. Though Tamara supposed the kalocrypts could cover the distance, but they would come into arrow range if they chased anyone fleeing towards the city.

  Her eyes fell on the muridach embassy. There were twenty hulking muridachs in the crimson armor of the Throne Guards, swords sheathed at their sides. Behind them stood a dozen priests of the Lord of Carrion, gaunt muridachs in their crimson cowls and mantles.

  With them stood two figures, both grim and dangerous.

  The first was a huge muridach, the single largest muridach man that Tamara had ever seen. He stood nearly nine feet tall, his rat-like head almost the size of a small boulder, his front teeth like swords. Blood sigils burned on his crimson armor, and in his right hand he carried a huge black sword longer than Tamara was tall, and more blood sigils blazed upon the dark blade. A twisted crown of gold and rubies rested on his head, and earrings of bronze and gold pierced his ears. This had to be Nerzamdrathus, the Great King of the muridachs, and power and malice rolled off him in waves.

  Next to him stood a shorter figure draped in an elaborate black robe.

  Or floated, rather, since the robed form hovered a few inches off the ground.

  It was a Maledictus. Tamara recognized the design of the robe from the Tower of Nightmares. Mhazhama’s robe had been silvery-gray, and the Maledictus of Shadows had worn a mist-colored robe, but this robe was black, so black it seemed like a hole in the air. Against the robed figure’s chest hung a medallion of strange dark metal wrought in the shape of a double ring pierced by seven spikes. Tamara’s skin crawled as she gazed at the Maledictus, and she felt the creature’s attention as they approached.

  “Damn it,” muttered Tamlin. “I knew it. I knew it was him.”

  Behind the Maledictus waited the Scythe, her black wings folded and hanging behind her like a leather cloak. Her void-filled eyes turned towards Third, and her face twisted with hatred and loathing.

  The High Augur hesitated for half a step when she saw the Maledictus and then lifted her chin and kept walking.

  “You know that Maledictus?” whispered Tamara.

  “Qazaldhar,” said Tamlin, his voice hard. “The Maledictus of Death. We fought him in Cathair Valwyn and at Trojas. He helped kill Tirdua and Aegeus.” Tamlin took a ragged breath. “He taught necromancy to Taerdyn…and he was the one who placed the plague curse on the Sylmarus.”

  The High Augur stopped a dozen paces from the muridach party, gazing at the ratmen with disdain, and Tamara and the others stopped around her.

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  Likely Athadira would wait for the Great King to speak first out of sheer arrogance.

  The huge muridach took a step forward. Perhaps he was impatient for the killing to begin.

  “So.” Nerzamdrathus’s voice was a deep rumble that made Tamara’s teeth vibrate. “You are the High Augur of the last of the gray elves.”

  “I am,” said Athadira, her glare unwavering. “And I assume you are the warlord commanding this rabb
le?”

  The Throne Guards let out their chittering muridach laughs, their tails lashing with amusement. The Maledictus of Death shifted, his face still hidden beneath the deep black cowl. The Scythe opened and closed her right hand, her talons rasping against each other.

  “I am Nerzamdrathus,” said the huge creature, “Lord of the Warrens, master of the seven strongholds of our kindred, conqueror of the Deeps, and Great King of the muridachs. Soon I shall have an additional title.”

  “Oh?” said Athadira. “And what title is that?”

  “The destroyer of the gray elves,” said Nerzamdrathus. “I shall succeed where the Sovereign failed, and I shall exterminate the last remnant of your wretched kindred from the face of the earth.”

  “Hardly a convincing start to this parley,” said Athadira.

  “What is there to negotiate?” said Nerzamdrathus. “If you surrender now, we shall kill you painlessly. Our priests can prepare an elixir for you to drink, and it will slay your kindred swiftly and without pain. But if you resist, you shall suffer. We shall breach your walls and swarm your city. We shall devour your people alive, and rejoice in their screams. We will devour the children in front of their mothers and laugh as they beg for mercy. We shall consume the wives in front of their husbands. It will take weeks for the killing to end, and you shall be the last to die, High Augur, so you may hear every single member of your kindred perish before we at last grant you the mercy of death.”

  “By what right do you presume to make these threats?” said Athadira.

  “I do not make threats, but promises,” said Nerzamdrathus. “And I make them through the right of conquest. The muridachs hunger, High Augur, and your flesh is sweet to us. Once Cathair Caedyn falls, we shall continue our conquest. All Owyllain will belong to us. The Seven Swords of the Sovereign shall be ours. The Lord of Carrion has decreed it to be so. All that remains is for you to decide if you shall die in agony or in peace.” His red-glazed eyes turned towards Tamara. “And to determine the nature of the strange companions you have convinced to die alongside you.”

  “There is no need, Great King,” said the Maledictus.

  Tamara flinched. The voice was horrible, a snarling wet gurgle that sounded as if had been forced through a dead throat. If disease and blight and illness could speak, they would sound like that.

  She had never heard that voice before…but it had flickered through her nightmares.

  One of her other lives had encountered this creature, maybe more than one.

  “Prophet?” said Nerzamdrathus.

  “The prophet of the Lord of Carrion,” murmured Calliande. “Of course.”

  Qazaldhar lifted his cowled head and gazed at them.

  His face was hideous. Both Mhazhama and the Maledictus of Shadows had been undead, but they had been mummified, withered husks. Qazaldhar was also undead, but his face was rotten and collapsing into itself. The green flesh of an orc had turned grayish-black and glistened with slime that dripped from the jaw and the ears and the nose. The eyes were black craters, and blue fire burned within them.

  Yes. Tamara had seen that face in her nightmares.

  “The human man is called the Shield Knight,” said Qazaldhar, “and bears a weapon of high elven magic. The woman is the Keeper, a powerful sorceress. And unless I miss my guess, the Shield Knight’s companions have three of the Seven Swords with them. The Lord of Carrion has indeed smiled upon you, Great King, and chosen you as his instrument. For soon three of the Seven Swords shall be yours.”

  “You have been deceived, Great King,” said Calliande. “Qazaldhar is not a prophet of the Lord of Carrion but of the New God, the Kratomachar. He has been lying to you and manipulating you as a weapon against his enemies. He has no interest in the muridachs or the Lord of Carrion.”

  Qazaldhar loosed a gurgling laugh. “Heed not the words of this human sorceress, Great King. Have I not brought the word of the Lord of Carrion to you? Were you not chosen as his instrument and champion? And have you not risen high, far higher than any Great King before you? The entire muridach kindred bows before you. Soon you shall annihilate the gray elves, a feat that even the Sovereign could never achieve, and then you shall conquer the realm of the Nine Cities. What are these if not signs of the favor of the Lord of Carrion?”

  Tamara felt a chill. Ridmark and Calliande had said that they suspected the Maledicti of manipulating the War of the Seven Swords, of orchestrating the battles behind the scenes in pursuit of their sinister goals, and watching Qazaldhar talk to Nerzamdrathus proved it. How long had Qazaldhar been manipulating the muridachs? How long had he been preparing Nerzamdrathus for this moment? How many different schemes and plots did the Maledicti have underway?

  “It is curious,” said Calliande, “that the Lord of Carrion would choose to speak through an undead orc who was once a priest of the Sovereign.”

  “The Sovereign has been dead for twenty-five years,” said Qazaldhar. “A new order is coming. The time of the orcs and the humans is over. The hour of the muridachs has come. And you, Great King Nerzamdrathus, you shall be the one to spread the power of the Lord of Carrion across the face of the world.”

  “And once you are finished with the Great King,” said Calliande, “you will cast him and the muridachs aside, just as you did with Prince Rypheus, Justin Cyros, and the Necromancer of Trojas.” She pointed at Qazaldhar. “For I have seen him and his brother Maledicti serving the bearers of the Seven Swords, Great King Nerzamdrathus. He is playing you for a fool, just and he and the Maledicti did with King Justin and Lord Taerdyn.”

  “Behold the begging of the cornered prey,” said Qazaldhar. “And her very presence here is a sign of the Lord of Carrion’s favor. For the Keeper and the Shield Knight would have been your most dangerous foes, Great King, once you invaded Owyllain. Yet they will perish with the gray elves. Three of the Seven Swords shall be yours once Cathair Caedyn burns. They will…”

  The glowing blue gaze passed over Tamara and then snapped back towards her with a sudden unnerving intensity.

  Tamara stared back, refusing to show weakness before this creature.

  “And behold!” said Qazaldhar. “Another sign of the favor of the Lord of Carrion! The seventh and final shard is here to die as well.”

  “Seventh shard?” said Nerzamdrathus, his beady eyes narrowing. “Seventh shard of what?”

  “One of the most dangerous enemies of the Lord of Carrion,” said Qazaldhar.

  “And why am I dangerous, Maledictus?” said Tamara, hoping to goad him into an answer. Mhazhama and the Maledictus of Shadows had known who she really was, but they had refused to share any information. Perhaps Qazaldhar would be more talkative.

  “Why is she dangerous, prophet?” said Nerzamdrathus. “She is a human female and a wizard of minor power. She is no threat to the children of the Lord of Carrion.”

  “Indeed not,” said Qazaldhar, “but what she once was and what she might become are dangerous. Behold! Once there was a sorceress who fought against the rise of the Lord of Carrion. She failed and was mortally wounded, and fearing to fail in her duty, split her life and soul into seven shards. The seven shards were reborn as seven women, and one by one they struggled against the Lord of Carrion and perished. Now only the seventh shard remains, and when Cathair Caedyn falls, another foe of the Lord of Carrion will perish.”

  “The Lord of Carrion or the New God?” said Tamara.

  Qazaldhar only smirked at her. Could not Nerzamdrathus and the other muridachs see how Qazaldhar had manipulated them, how he used them as his weapons? Perhaps they could not. Maybe Qazaldhar had told them what they wanted to hear, and they blinded themselves willfully. Perhaps Qazaldhar had manipulated Nerzamdrathus since childhood, twisting his mind as Tamlin had told her that Khurazalin had twisted Prince Rypheus Pendragon. With a chill, Tamara wondered if the Maledictus of Shadows had edited the memories of the muridachs, making them more susceptible to Qazaldhar’s suggestions than they might have otherwise been.

/>   Not that it mattered. The muridachs were here, and even if they realized that Qazaldhar had been manipulating them, they would not stop. No doubt Nerzamdrathus’s desire to destroy the gray elves and conquer Owyllain was genuine. Perhaps Qazaldhar had simply given Nerzamdrathus and the muridachs the permission and the means to do what they wanted to do anyway.

  “Enough,” said Nerzamdrathus, his gaze swinging back to Athadira. “The time for talk is over, High Augur. Make your decision. You, your people, and your allies are doomed. All that is left is to decide whether you shall die without pain or after weeks of agony.”

  “I made my decision long ago, vermin,” said Athadira, glaring at the Great King. The Throne Guards rumbled at the insult, but Nerzamdrathus lifted a clawed hand, and they fell silent. “Bring your hosts against the walls of Cathair Caedyn. The Sovereign failed to destroy us, and when you attack Cathair Caedyn, you shall meet his fate as well.”

  Nerzamdrathus loosed a chittering, high-pitched muridach laugh, and the Throne Guards and the carrion priests followed suit. It was disturbing to hear that sound coming from the hulking muridach king. Tamara remembered seeing that poor gray elven warrior getting eaten alive in Cathair Avamyr, and she had a sudden, vivid vision of Nerzamdrathus doing the same thing to her.

  “So be it,” said Nerzamdrathus. “We shall put the question to the test of arms, will we not? I gave my sworn word to allow you to return unharmed to the walls of your city, and the Great King of the muridachs keeps his word. So hear my word, High Augur of the gray elves. You shall see every last gray elf die. You shall be the final member of your kindred. Your death will take months, and you will beg for the end.” He stepped back. “The attack will begin once I return to my lines. I suggest you be within your walls by then.”

  Nerzamdrathus turned and beckoned, and the Throne Guards and the carrion priests followed the Great King as he strode back to the siege camps. Qazaldhar gazed at Tamara for a moment longer, that smirk still on his rotting face.