Sevenfold Sword: Shadow Page 3

  The others struck with equal speed. Calem could not use any of the Sword of Air’s greater powers without triggering the spells of dark magic that still bound him, but he could use its lesser powers without harm, and he used one of them now. He leaped into the air, white cloak snapping behind him, and landed as he brought the Sword of Air down in a two-handed blow. The thick neck of a jotunmir proved no obstacle to the Sword’s edge, and Calem hewed a jotunmir’s head from his shoulders.

  Third whirled behind a rising jotunmir, her blue swords seeming to blur around her. She opened the back of the jotunmir’s knee, and the giant fell with a bellow. Before the creature could react to the new threat, Third drove both her swords into its neck. Next to her, Tamlin lopped off a jotunmir’s hand with a slash of the Sword of Earth, and then a stab found the giant’s heart. Krastikon swung the Sword of Death with a bellow, and green blood sprayed from the neck of a jotunmir as the creature collapsed to the ground.

  Ridmark stepped back, Oathshield raised in guard, and another jotunmir thundered towards him, club raised. He started to dodge, and then a crystalline blur shot before his eyes. One of Kalussa’s crystal spheres slammed into the jotunmir’s forehead, and for a brief, wild instant, Ridmark was reminded of the account of King David and the giant Goliath from the scriptures. Though David had carried a sling and a stone, and Kalussa had the Staff of Blades.

  The jotunmir fell, and Calliande cast a spell. White fire flashed over the battle, seeming to settle around Ridmark and the others. He had seen her use that spell many times before, and he knew it was a spell of augmentation, designed to make them faster and stronger. Tamlin, Krastikon, Calem, and Third responded with vigor, tearing their way into the stunned jotunmiri as Kyralion sent arrow after burning arrow into them.

  Ridmark turned towards another jotunmir, raising Oathshield just in time to see the side of the giant’s head explode beneath one of Kalussa’s crystalline spheres.

  A bellow of rage came to Ridmark’s ears, and he whirled as Earl Mearozak charged towards him, the bronze-bound club a blur in his massive fist. Unlike the two jotunmiri that Ridmark and Third had fought earlier, Mearozak knew better than to throw all his strength into a massive attack that would leave him vulnerable, and his club swept before him in short jabs. With jotunmir strength behind that club, a single tap would send Ridmark flying, and he retreated, staying ahead of the huge weapon.

  Mearozak raised his club for another blow, and Ridmark charged, drawing on Oathshield’s power. Combined with Calliande’s augmenting magic, he hurtled forward like an arrow, and he slashed Oathshield at Mearozak’s knee. The jotunmir earl saw the danger coming and jumped back, but Ridmark’s sword still bit through the bronze and bone armor and inflicted a wound.

  The earl roared in fury and lumbered in pursuit, and Ridmark retreated. Yet he saw that the wound was paining Mearozak. Ridmark darted to the right, and Mearozak turned, swinging his club towards Ridmark’s head. As the jotunmir twisted, more of his weight went upon his wounded right leg, and the muscles jerked. Mearozak stumbled with a roar, and Ridmark struck, Oathshield again biting into the giant’s right leg. The earl raised his club, and Ridmark surged forward and drove Oathshield into the jotunmir’s chest. Mearozak’s yellow eyes went wide as the soulblade found his heart.

  Ridmark ripped Oathshield free, green blood glistening upon the blue blade, and Mearozak fell over and went still, his yellow eyes still glaring and unblinking.

  A clang came to his ears, and Ridmark turned, Oathshield coming up in guard as he sought for another foe.

  But there were none left.

  He looked around and saw the dead jotunmiri scattered across the ground. Third straightened up, yanking her swords free from a slain jotunmir. Ridmark spotted Calem and Krastikon and Tamlin walking towards him.

  “Anyone hurt?” called Ridmark.

  “I don’t believe so,” said Krastikon. He shook his head and looked at the black sword in his right hand. “This is an evil thing…but God and the saints. Twelve jotunmiri overcome without any of us wounded or slain.”

  “Three of the Seven Swords gathered together in one place is a potent force, even if we cannot use the Swords’ powers,” said Tamlin. He pulled off his bronze helmet and raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “That jotunmir looked surprised when I cut his club in half.”

  “He wasn’t surprised for long, I imagine,” said Krastikon.

  Tamlin grunted. “He wasn’t.”

  “Lord Ridmark!” someone shouted from the monastery.

  Ridmark looked towards the monastery’s curtain wall and saw a middle-aged man in leather armor standing atop the battlements. The recognition came after a moment.

  “Praefectus Titus?” shouted Ridmark.

  “By God, sir!” said Titus. “Your arrival was timely. Those jotunmiri…we wouldn’t have been able to stop them.” He sounded stunned. “And you slew them all.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “I am pleased we were able to arrive in time.”

  “I think the lord abbot will want to speak with you,” said Titus.

  Ridmark nodded and glanced at Krastikon. “We have news for him.”

  ###

  The vegetable garden behind the monastery’s keep had not changed since Calliande had been here twelve days past.

  Had it truly only been twelve days? It seemed like half a lifetime. So many things had happened since their last visit. Taerdyn had been defeated and slain, and poor Sir Aegeus had perished in Khurazalin’s fire. Tamlin had found Tysia, in a way, only to lose her again. Kalussa had received her link to the Well of Tarlion, and through pain and agony had learned to heal wounds, saving Tamlin’s life in the process.

  Calliande’s life had been filled with dangers and battles, and even by her standards, the last two weeks had been eventful.

  So, it was pleasant to sit once more in the monks’ vegetable garden.

  Though the monastery wasn’t nearly as peaceful as it had been. The entire village of Argin had crammed into the courtyard to shelter from the jotunmiri raiders, and now the villagers were returning to their homes. Calliande saw them exiting the courtyard like water swirling down a drain. They seemed shocked, but mostly relieved – at best, their homes and crops would have been burned, and at worst, the monastery would have been taken, and their children carried off into slavery in the Cloak Mountains.

  Calliande was pleased they had been able to spare Argin from that fate. The war of the Seven Swords had been raging for twenty-five years, and Calliande wondered how many villages like Argin had been destroyed, how many people had been carried off into slavery as Tamlin had been.

  She glanced at the young knight, but his face was impassive, his eyes distant. She wasn’t sure he was even listening to the conversation.

  Come to think of it, Calliande ought to be listening.

  She forced her mind from its distractions and worries and made herself pay attention.

  They sat on the benches in the garden, and old Abbot Rhasibus stood before them. The abbot of the Monastery of St. Paul was elderly and bald, with only a fringe of white hair remaining on the back of his head. Despite his age, he still looked strong, with keen dark eyes under white brows. He had been a soldier once, as had all of the monks of St. Paul’s, many of whom were missing limbs or showed the scars of old battles.

  “And then Queen Zenobia wed Prince Krastikon,” said Ridmark. He had been telling the story of the events in Trojas and the Blue Castra in his usual unadorned way, though he had left out mention of the woman of the seven shards and Tamlin’s mother. “We are on our way back to Aenesium to bring news to King Hektor, along with Queen Zenobia’s pledge of fealty and alliance.”

  “Then it is true?” said Rhasibus. The old man looked stunned. “Taerdyn is truly slain?”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, his voice grim with the memory. Calliande hadn’t seen the corrupted heart floating in the desecrated chapel, but Ridmark had. “A lot of good men died to defeat him, but the Necromancer is dead. The
spells upon the Bronze Dead have been broken, and they will not rise again.” He gestured to where Krastikon sat next to Tamlin. “And if you do not believe us, then look at the sword Prince Krastikon carries. It is the Sword of Death itself, and Taerdyn would not give it up while he still lived.”

  “No,” said Rhasibus. “No, I doubt it not. It is still a hard thing to understand, though.” The abbot ran a hand over his head. “For a quarter-century, I have seen the War of the Seven Swords burn through Owyllain, and then in the space of a single month, both King Justin and the Necromancer are overthrown. And the last daughter of old King Malachi now reigns in Trojas? I never thought to see such a miracle. Truly, the ways of God are beyond all knowing.”

  “Truly,” agreed Calliande.

  “Though I fear,” said Rhasibus, “that these battles are but the precursor in a far larger war.”

  “The Confessor,” said Ridmark.

  “Once the lieutenant of the Sovereign, and now the bearer of the Sword of Water,” said Rhasibus. “He has stayed aloof from the war for the last several years, save for raids.”

  “Not entirely aloof,” said Ridmark. “He sent his soldiers to help Archaelon hold Castra Chaeldon.”

  “But he has not committed his main forces to any battles for years,” said Rhasibus. “Troublemaking raids, like you said, but no battles. He was waiting for King Justin, King Hektor, and the Necromancer to finish fighting, and no doubt planned to fall upon the exhausted victor.”

  “That would be King Hektor, then,” said Ridmark.

  “But he is not exhausted,” said Kalussa. She coughed and cleared her throat. “The army of Aenesium and my father’s followers took losses against King Justin, yes, but we prevailed. And King Brasidas, King Atreus, and Cytheria will follow my father as well.”

  “The Bronze Dead were destroyed before they could be unleashed on the rest of the realm,” said Tamlin. “They were not overcome without loss,” the distant look on his face intensified, “but a few men died fighting them, rather than tens of thousands.”

  “If King Hektor indeed means to reunify the realm and destroy the Seven Swords,” said Rhasibus, “then he will need to face the Confessor next.”

  “Most likely the Confessor will come for him,” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Rhasibus, “that seems likely.” He sighed. “Though, at least, I hope Argin shall be out of the war.”

  “Most probably,” said Ridmark. “When Hektor and the Confessor meet, the battle shall likely be far from here.”

  “You will be our guests tonight?” said Rhasibus. “You will be welcome to stay here as long as you wish. Indeed, it will be our honor. You saved our village from both the fire drakes and those jotunmiri, to say nothing of the Bronze Dead.”

  “Tonight, but no longer,” said Ridmark. “We need to return to Aenesium as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “We must speak with King Hektor of what we learned.”

  That was a good reason. It was an important reason.

  But the real reason was that Calliande wanted to see her sons again. She and Ridmark had left Gareth and Joachim in good hands, under the tutelage of Tamlin’s seneschal Michael and Father Clement. That was no substitute for seeing them in the flesh. And Calliande needed to see them again. She only used the Sight to check on them in the morning and before she went to sleep, but the temptation to check on them every hour was near overwhelming.

  And if she didn’t need to conserve her magical strength for the dangers they faced, she probably would have checked on them every quarter hour.

  “Yes, of course,” said Rhasibus.

  She wanted to see her sons again…but her duties as Keeper weighed heavily upon her. And if she did not fulfill the duties of her office, then her sons would grow up in a world ruled by the likes of the Confessor or the Necromancer.

  But Calliande feared that they would face a far more dangerous foe than the Confessor.

  “Lord abbot, a question, if I may,” said Calliande.

  “Of course, my lady,” said Rhasibus.

  “The Confessor carries the Sword of Water,” said Calliande, “but the Masked One of Xenorium holds the Sword of Shadows.” Rhasibus nodded. “Is he not as great a danger to the realm as the Confessor?”

  Rhasibus made a dismissive gesture. “Fear not, my lady. The Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone.”

  The others all murmured in agreement, though Ridmark frowned at the abbot.

  “Yes,” said Calliande. “I rather thought you would say that.”

  ###

  Later that evening, Ridmark went to the guest cottage he would share with Calliande. She was still at the dinner the abbot had given for the deliverers of Argin, talking with Rhasibus and Titus about the Confessor. Ridmark supposed he ought to have joined the conversation, but he was tired, and he hadn’t felt like talking.

  He felt tired, more tired than he would have expected, and his shoulders and knees ached. Perhaps he was simply getting older. Ridmark was thirty-eight, and he had spent most of his life fighting. Twenty years ago, as a new-made Swordbearer in the court of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland, he had spent the day riding or fighting, only to return and drink until the early hours of the morning with his friends.

  That had been a long time ago.

  He let himself into the small bathhouse behind the cottage. The sudden heat hit him in the face. The bathhouse was dominated by a wooden tub large enough to hold four people. At the moment two of the monastery’s saurtyri servants were pouring buckets of steaming water into the tub. The saurtyri were short, squat creatures with blunt features, yellow eyes, and stubby tails, their bodies covered in scales of gray and brown.

  “Lord Shield Knight,” croaked one of the saurtyri. “We have drawn a bath, as you asked.”

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark. Both the creatures bowed and left the little bathhouse, closing the door behind them.

  Ridmark removed his armor and undressed, leaving Oathshield propped up against the side of the tub where he could reach it. he lowered himself into the tub with a wince. The water was just hot enough to be uncomfortable, which felt pleasant against his aching joints. He sat back and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he knew, they would begin the long journey back to Aenesium. They would need to decide what to do about the Confessor, about Cathala, about the woman of seven shards.

  But for now, he just wanted to rest.

  Soon he found himself dozing.

  The faint sound of a footstep awoke him. Ridmark blinked his eyes open. He hadn’t been asleep that long – the water was still hot. He started to sit up, reaching for Oathshield, and then a pale slim form slid into the water next to him.

  “There you are,” said Calliande. She smiled at him, the ends of her hair floating on the water around her. “I wondered where you went.”

  “I intended a bath,” said Ridmark. He yawned and wiped some of the sweat from his eyes. “I wound up taking a nap.”

  “Mmm.” Calliande ran a finger through the water, and then up his chest. “If anyone has earned a rest over the last two months, it’s you.”

  “And you,” said Ridmark.

  “Well, we both have our duties,” said Calliande. She smiled again, flicked her finger, and a flame curled around it. She dipped her hand into the water, and it grew hotter. “Though there are some advantages to being married to the Keeper, aren’t there? You don’t have to worry about your bath going cold.”

  Ridmark laughed a little. “I have to confess, that wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts when I married you.”

  “Oh?” said Calliande. She slid onto his lap, her arms curling around his neck. “What was at the forefront of your thoughts?”

  In answer, he kissed her.

  She grinned at him when they broke apart, and then looked down. “I think I know what’s at the forefront of your thoughts.”

  “Why bother telling you when I can show you?” said Ridmark.

  Later, after they had fi
nished, they lay together in the cottage’s bed, Calliande’s head on his chest, his arm resting against the warm skin of her back.

  “See?” murmured Calliande. “You’re not so old and tired as you think.”

  “You keep convincing me otherwise,” said Ridmark.

  “Like you said.” He felt her smile against his chest. “Why bother telling you when I can show you?”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark.

  They lay in warm silence together for a while, and he felt her start to tense.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande.

  “Yes?”

  “I think there’s something wrong,” said Calliande.

  He sat up, looking around the little cottage. “The Sight showed you something? We’re about to come under attack?”

  She sat up as well, her wet hair falling across her chest. “No. Not like that. I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger, but I think there’s something wrong.”

  He gazed at her. She looked healthier than she had six months ago, but that face was still more sharp-featured than he remembered. Joanna’s death and the long illness after had left its marks upon her.

  “I think it’s something we missed,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath, and even through his sudden worry, Ridmark still wanted to look at her chest as she did that. “Like when we went to Urd Morlemoch, and we didn’t realize it was a trap until it was too late.”

  He took her hands. “Tell me.”

  “If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?” said Calliande. “No matter what the answer is?”

  Ridmark nodded.

  “What do you think of the Masked One of Xenorium?” said Calliande.

  He blinked. The question was so innocuous that it took a moment for his brain to catch up to her words. From the way she had been talking, he had been half-expecting her to ask if he regretted not sleeping with Kalussa when she had tried to become his concubine.

  “Only what I’ve heard of him,” said Ridmark. “He was named Cavilius, and he was one of Talitha’s four favored apprentices. After Talitha and Rhodruthain betrayed Kothlaric, Cavilius ended up with one of the Seven Swords when the dust settled. The Sword of Shadows. He conquered the city of Xenorium, and he has remained there ever since.” He shrugged. “And, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t really seem to have done anything. Maybe he can’t. Michael told me that Xenorium could only field around fifteen hundred hoplites, and the Masked One seems to have kept his head down and stayed out of the War of the Seven Swords for the most part.”