Shield Knight Third's Tale Page 4

  It was Third, or rather Third as she had been as a child, centuries ago.

  The dead woman was her mother. Third could not remember her name. Or, rather, she had never known it. Her mother had been a slave kidnapped by the Anathgrimm orcs and then taken by the Traveler as a concubine. Third had been the result. Eventually, her mother had annoyed the Traveler, and the dark elven lord had ordered her death.

  Third remembered. Oh, she remembered. The pain of it seared through her mind like a knife. Her mother had been the first person she had ever seen die.

  The first, but most certainly not the last.

  She shook her head and kept walking, and came into sight of another mirror on the left.

  Again, it showed a scene from her past.

  This time, the day of her transformation.

  Third stood frozen, watching that awful day. She had been twelve or thirteen years old, and she feared that in a few years the Traveler would take her into his bed to replace her mother. But the Traveler had intended something different for her. Third watched as blue fire erupted from the eyes and mouth and hands of her younger self, watched as she had screamed and screamed in agony.

  Because it had been agony. It felt as if she had been ripped apart and rebuilt.

  When the flames faded, she was something else. Armor of black steel covered her body from neck to foot, and black talons rose from her fingers. Great black wings rose behind her, and her eyes were utterly black, filled with the void of the dark power that had consumed and transformed her.

  The new-made urdhracos flexed her wings and leaped into the sky, hearing the song of her master and flying to join him.

  Third shook her head and hurried forward, trying to get away from the awful scene.

  Yet the mirrors showed her horror after horror from the centuries of her enslavement at the Traveler’s hands.

  In one she saw herself slaughtering terrified villagers as houses burned, the Anathgrimm orcs butchering any who got away from her.

  In another she saw herself with the other urdhracosi slicing apart a prisoner at the Traveler’s command, the man’s screams filling her ears.

  Another mirror showed one of the Traveler’s favorite cruelties. For the dark elves had loved cruelty, rejoiced in it in the way other kindreds rejoiced in art or wine or music, and the Traveler had been no exception. As an urdhracos, Third had possessed the power to take other forms, and one of those forms had been beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. In that form, the Traveler had sent her to seduce prisoners, watching as she lay with them. In the instant the prisoner reached the moment of his climax, she had returned to her true form and ripped open his throat with her talons while the Traveler watched in amusement.

  She had done that so many times. She had killed so many people. And all the time her father’s song had filled her mind, his aura dominating and enslaving her.

  It had lasted for centuries.

  A monster. Third had always been a monster. Was she any different now? She was about to kill a man at the behest of the dvargir. An evil man, true, but she was still going to kill him.

  No. She had her task. She could not fail her sister. She could not fail Ridmark and his family.

  Third pressed on down the corridor, tears stinging in her eyes as the mirrors displayed the endless horrors of her past.

  Chapter 7: Bare Your Soul To Me

  Third felt the tears burning upon her cheeks as she stepped into the cylindrical chamber.

  A monster. She had always been a monster. How could she have ever deluded herself into thinking otherwise?

  Nevertheless, centuries of instincts did not fade, and she glanced around the chamber, assessing it for threats.

  Twelve mirrors lined the walls, each showing endless scenes of horror and death from her past. No matter where Third looked, she saw herself as an urdhracos, saw herself killing innocents at her father’s command. She was sorry for it, sorry for what she had done, sorry for the creature that she had been...

  The plinth demanded her attention.

  It was an unremarkable stand of rough stone, and atop it rested the corrupted soulstone, a fist-sized knot of irregular milky crystal. Ghostly blue fire danced within its depths, and even without magical ability, Third felt the power rolling off the thing.

  “You see now, do you not?” came Valgerius’s voice.

  Third turned and saw the Eternalist standing between her and the archway to the corridor. His cowl was still down, and his rotting face looked almost sympathetic as his dark eyes roved over the scenes of horror and death from her past.

  A flickering blue light crawled up and down his bony fingers.

  “Such horrors in your past,” murmured Valgerius.

  “Yes,” said Third, her voice flat and dead.

  “So much suffering you have seen,” said Valgerius, stepping towards her. “So much suffering you have worked.”

  “Yes,” said Third. “I…pray for forgiveness, every day. Since I was baptized.”

  “It was not your fault,” said Valgerius. “Your father forced you to do those things. He commanded you. An urdhracos could no more have resisted a dark elven lord than water could resist flowing downhill.”

  “No,” murmured Third. “But I did those things. I did them all. I remember every single one of them.”

  “Have you not earned a rest, my lady?” said Valgerius.

  Third stared at him.

  “Centuries of life,” said Valgerius. “Countless deaths and countless battles. How it drags upon you. How it wearies you.” He sounded sympathetic. “Do you not yearn for death sometimes? Do you not wish for its peace?”

  “Yes,” whispered Third.

  “I can give that to you,” said Valgerius, stepping forward. The rippling light around his hands brightened as he raised them. “One touch and you shall know endless peace, endless forgetting. No more will the past trouble you. You shall be free of it at last. Do you not wish that?”

  Third said nothing.

  “I can see your memories, poor woman,” said Valgerius. He raised his right hand towards her face, a terrible chill radiating from his fingers. “Let me take the burden from you and let you rest at last.”

  A sob went through Third, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Valgerius gave her a gentle smile, his fingers rising towards her face.

  Third dropped her right-hand sword and seized his wrist, holding it in place.

  Valgerius hissed and tried to pull away, but she held him fast.

  The mirrors shimmered and began to display different images.

  “Maybe I do deserve to die,” said Third. “But you are not the one to do it.”

  A scene appeared on a nearby mirror. Third saw herself after the Traveler had died, maddened and frantic and insane. The urdhracos that she had been tried to kill Ridmark, dueling him beneath the branches of Nightmane Forest. The death of the Traveler had shattered the song in her head, and she had returned to Nightmane Forest intending to die in battle.

  Instead, Ridmark had defeated her, and spared her, urging her to accept baptism as Mara had done. Mara herself had spoken of how she had faced herself, how she had directed her transformation. The urdhracos that Third had been had done the same, assuming she had nothing to lose and that the process would result in her death at last.

  Instead, she had been liberated from the dark power in her blood, and the urdhracos had become Third.

  Valgerius snarled and tried to pull his hand free, but instead Third yanked him closer. The stench of his rotting flesh filled her nostrils, and she felt the rapid beat of his heart beneath the clammy skin of his wrist.

  “You are a fool,” said Third in a quiet voice.

  The scenes in the mirror changed again. This time it showed Third dueling the Weaver before the Stone Heart in Khald Tormen, fighting to defend Calliande from the dangerous Enlightened.

  Valgerius exposed his teeth. “I shall devour you. I shall feast on your life force, and your power shall be mine. I can see your
memories! I see you for what you are! You are a monster, and your strength shall be mine…”

  “You are a foolish boy,” said Third.

  The scene in the mirrors showed the day that she and Ridmark had fought Tarrabus Carhaine below the walls of Tarlion, the day they had ended the civil war and put the rightful High King upon the throne of Andomhaim. She saw herself standing witness at the wedding of Ridmark and Calliande, saw herself at the baptism of their firstborn, saw herself fighting alongside Queen Mara at the siege of Tarlion.

  Her friends needed her. Third was going to find them.

  And nothing would stop her.

  “Boy?” snarled Valgerius. “I am two and a half centuries old! I have lived for a quarter of a millennium, and…”

  Third burst out laughing, and for the first time, fear went over Valgerius’s face.

  “Two and a half centuries?” said Third. “You are a child, a foolish child. I have lived for a thousand years.” Valgerius tried to struggle, tried to pull away from her grasp, but her hand held him like an iron shackle. “You think yourself the equal of the great dark elven lords, Harvester? Then prove it! You want to see my memories? Behold them, and we shall see if you are as strong as you claim!”

  She lifted his glowing hand and pressed it against her forehead, the fingers bony and cold against her skin. Third felt his mind reach into hers, felt the talons of his dark magic close around her life force. His power was vast and immense…but she had endured worse.

  She had endured so much worse.

  Her mind seized the talons of his will, and she poured her memories into those talons, sending her thoughts thundering into Valgerius’s mind.

  His eyes went wide, and he started to shriek.

  “No!” he said. “No! No! No, I don’t want to see that! No!”

  Third only smiled at him.

  “I warned you,” said Third.

  And she poured all the centuries of her enslavement into his mind.

  Valgerius wrenched free from her, blood pouring from his nose and mouth and eyes, and he stumbled back a step and collapsed to his knees, screaming and babbling incoherently. Third seized her dropped sword from the floor, raised both the weapons high, and hammered the pommels against the soulstone.

  It shattered into glittering shards on the fourth blow.

  Every mirror in the chamber exploded at once, flames dancing in the niches, and Third heard the mirrors shatter in the corridor. Valgerius collapsed dead at once, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. With the soulstone broken, his immortal life had fled him.

  Just to be safe, Third cut his head off.

  Besides, she would need it shortly.

  She left Valgerius’s headless corpse and walked through the burning corridor.

  A crowd had gathered outside the House of Mirrors, likely because flames had burst from the higher windows. Klothalin stood surrounded by his guards, and his void-filled eyes went wide as Third strode from the entrance, letting her boots click against the stone floor.

  “Lady Third,” he said, astonished. “You are still alive…”

  “That is correct, my lord Dzark,” said Third. “Valgerius is dead, as agreed. Please arrange for my transport aboard the barge to Owyllain.”

  Klothalin, the dvargir warriors, and the other denizens of the Market of the Outlanders stared at her in astonishment and not a little terror.

  Third flicked her wrist and sent Valgerius’s head rolling across the ground. It came to a stop against Klothalin’s right boot with a wet squelching noise, and the Dzark flinched back.

  “As soon as possible, please,” said Third.

  It took a little bit for Klothalin to work moisture into his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course.”

  Chapter 8: A New Land

  Ten days after the Eternalist Valgerius’s long-delayed but much-deserved death, Third left the cavern entrance and stepped into the sunlight, squinting a little in the glare.

  The sun was harsh in this new land of Owyllain.

  To the south rolled a broad, rocky plain, dotted with tors and covered in thick grass. To the north rose towering mountains, snow-capped and rugged. Third took a few steps from the cavern entrance to the Deeps, looking over the rolling plain.

  The dvargir kept their word, so long as they couldn’t find a loophole, and Third had made sure to leave Klothalin no loopholes. It helped that the Dzark and the rest of the dvargir had wanted the terrifying killer of the Harvester gone from Khaldurmar as soon as possible, a desire that Third had wholeheartedly shared.

  The underground canal and its barge had sailed south with great speed, and now Third stood upon the soil of Owyllain.

  She checked the magical bracer that Antenora had given her. It tugged at her mind, and unless Third missed her guess, Ridmark was only a few hundred miles to the south. No doubt there would be obstacles, but Third would overcome them.

  Valgerius had found that out the hard way.

  To her surprise, a smile went over her face.

  This sort of journey was the sort of thing she had done countless times before. But she had done it as a slave to her father. Now the Traveler was dead, and Third was here of her own volition to find her friends at the behest of her sister.

  Yes, Third liked this far better.

  She nodded and set off to the south in search of her friends.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading SHIELD KNIGHT: THIRD'S TALE.

  The adventures of Ridmark, Calliande, and Third continue in SEVENFOLD SWORD: WARLORD.

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