A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  Four.

  Gabriel reached out for his griffon. Ready? High as you can.

  Ready. Very tired.

  Last stop. I promise.

  From Morgon’s hand. Three.

  Where can I land?

  I’m working on that. Gabriel felt Ariosto’s fatigue and sorrow.

  Two.

  Here we go. High as you can.

  I will give you everything I have.

  One.

  Now, Ariosto.

  Since the count began, the great griffon had begun to fly faster, the red and green and gold wings sweeping up and down, the freezing air passing over them, the rush become a hurricane.

  And now Ariosto’s head came up in a snap on the word now. And with his head his body, and his wings beat like a cavalry charge, and a surge of power lifted them up.

  And as they rose, the sun crested the mountains far to the east. One single warm ray like a lance of light caught Ariosto’s wings so that he seemed to catch fire.

  Below them, every head on every not-dead creature swiveled. Every head.

  And still Ariosto raced up into the heavens, burning like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.

  Not there yet, Morgon said. Higher.

  Trying!

  As far as Gabriel could see, there were not-dead. And every one of them seemed to raise an arm in salute; there was a ripple in the aethereal.

  Aspis.

  Hoplon.

  Scutum.

  Greatly daring, Gabriel angled his shields.

  In the emotional safety of Morgon’s chessboard, the magister uncrossed his legs. “Oh, very good indeed,” he said.

  The first strike of the Odine was fire. Every not-dead raised a spark, like a choir of discordant sound that nonetheless makes music, and the fire rose in a magnificent ball. A human sorcerer’s effort, cast by the Odine.

  Gabriel angled his shields and took the fire as heat, deflected and contained it, and Morgon helped him, and the inferno became propulsion, and they rose suddenly.

  Ariosto let forth a scream, whether of pain or triumph Gabriel didn’t know, and rode the sudden updraft.

  Higher. We can take anything they can throw. Mortirmir now sounded like himself. Certain.

  We have been wrong so many times.

  Higher. One time pays for all.

  A second time the chorus of Odine sent fire, and again Ariosto rode it.

  Now it will change tactics. Too late.

  Morgon Mortirmir’s voice had the hard sound of fate.

  A little higher.

  I am very tired, friends.

  Everything, my love. This is for everything.

  Hah! Take this then! called the gallant griffon, and his wings beat, and beat again, like a giant hummingbird.

  And they went higher. The people in the fields below were no longer visible as people, or even a mass of people, but only as colours. And the fields and high passes of Arles spread under them like a carpet, and the massing of all the slaves of the Odine was like a stain, spreading even as they watched.

  There, Morgon said.

  He raised his hand. Gabriel turned to watch.

  “To cast fire upon the earth,” Morgon said, and with those words, his working unfolded like dye in water, or smoke from a new fire.

  First he held a fire in his hand, and then an uncountable multitude of tiny dots of intense red light fell away from his hand, exploding into the darkness below, falling and yet flying, spiraling, a fountain of light and fire and gold and green and red exploding outward and away.

  The myriad of light fell away into the Darkness at the speed of thought, and yet had presence and colour, so that trails of light burned in their retinas, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand.

  They raced to the earth for as long as a man might draw five breaths. So long, that Gabriel began to fear...

  And in one long breath, the Odine flinched. There was a ripple of Darkness, a sort of purple effervescence across ten miles of fields. And yet in that moment, Gabriel had the impression that the Odine had found some limitation; that their choir could not access potentia as they expected.

  The black wave rippled through the Darkness.

  The world took a shuddering breath.

  And every pinpoint of red and gold and green blew through the black and struck its target.

  There was a flare, a flicker of light.

  I must go down now, Ariosto said.

  Can you glide? Gabriel asked.

  For a little while, I suppose. Ariosto turned. That was glorious. Did we...win? Did we subsume our prey?

  Gabriel was looking at the ground. I don’t know, he said. And then he rushed to Morgon’s palace.

  We need to help him get down, he said. I assume you know how to fly.

  Morgon laughed. Fly is a little extreme, he said.

  * * *

  They came to rest in a field a few hundred paces from the great citadel of Arles, which showed in its fabric the attempts of the last two months to take it. The citadel had mighty protections that rose hundreds of feet in the air, and neither Morgon nor Ariosto had the energy to spare to flutter weakly against the great shields for admittance.

  And Ariosto, game to the end, managed to bring them to rest against the slightly rotten remains of a hayrick. The griffon could not stand; in fact, he simply toppled over as soon as he came to rest, and Gabriel, having survived a black dragon and the Odine, was only saved from a particularly nasty broken leg by cutting his harness straps with his dagger.

  He rose, cut Morgon free before the griffon could roll on him, and then spent a moment cutting the saddle away too.

  Morgon Mortirmir was on his knees.

  Gabriel thought of Amicia and joined him. He said his first prayer in ten years.

  Morgon spat and got to his feet.

  “Hear that?” he said.

  Gabriel pulled the helmet from his head. Sound rushed in, normal sound, the background noise of life.

  A baby was crying. Two ragged and very hungry sheep were baaaing for all they were worth.

  There were people moving with the ragged imprecision of people. Many lay still in the unmown hay, but others were moving, crying, laughing, embracing. Falling to their knees.

  Morgon extended one puissant hand. He lifted the two sheep from the warm grass and moved the two astounded creatures through the air and dropped them at Ariosto’s beak.

  “Some eggs have to be broken,” Morgon muttered.

  With painful deliberation, the griffon looked at the sheep, and then, in one careful lunge, it had one, and began to pull it apart with all the finesse of a predator. And eat.

  Gabriel smiled at his mount. “Indeed,” he said to Morgon. He was looking out over the fields of Arles, where thousands of peasants, and survivors of various armies, and all the souls held captive by the Odine had become a mass of panicked, hungry people. “Fewer eggs than I expected. I think I’m on the side of the smallest negative outcome. For once.”

  “And you have a plan for fifty thousand refugees?” Mortirmir asked.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said. He shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “You have a plan for saving N’gara and beating Ash?” Mortirmir asked.

  “I do now,” Gabriel said.

  Mortirmir smiled. “I like it when you sound confident. What do we do now?”

  The Red Knight pointed at the citadel of Arles. “We get inside that fortress,” he said.

  Morgon nodded. “How do we get in?” he asked.

  Gabriel pointed at the gates. “Clarissa de Sartres comes and lets us in. And then...” He smiled. “And then the hard part starts.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  The gates to the fortress were, indeed, opening. Ariosto opened one eye, and a taloned foot shot out, and the second sheep died.

  “Arles holds a master gate. In twenty-three days, all the gates will be aligned in seven spheres. Ash thinks he’s lured us to this point with his Odine allies, whom he wanted destroyed anyway, so
that while we were focused on Antica Terra, he could take Lissen Carak, control the gates, and win the game. And since we’ve just put the Odine down, they won’t be waiting at the other master gate as rivals.”

  Morgon ran his fingers through his beard. There was a streak of grey in his beard, and a flash of white at each temple. The night had aged him. “Ash is very clever.”

  There was a young woman on a white horse, in armour, emerging from the fortress and riding toward them. A hundred men-at-arms followed her, and Gabriel could detect not one but two magisters with her.

  Gabriel twirled his mustache. Seated his sword where he wanted it, and put his dagger back in its sheath.

  “Since you are your usual cocky self, I assume you have something in mind,” Morgon said.

  “I am betting everything...a pretty large everything...on Ash having forgotten that gates swing both ways,” Gabriel said. “After we defeat the Patriarch and stabilize all the starving people, we march to Lissen Carak. Through all seven spheres.”

  Morgon began to laugh.

  “Oh,” he snorted. “Oh God. That’s...beautiful.”

  “Tom Lachlan thinks so, too,” the Red Knight said.

  The woman in armour was coming closer, and her knights were pointing at the griffon, and two were riding toward the vast crowd of people in the valley at their feet.

  Gabriel waved to Clarissa. “As promised, I’ve come back,” he called.

  BY MILES CAMERON

  The Traitor Son Cycle

  The Red Knight

  The Fell Sword

  The Dread Wyrm

  The Plague of Swords

  The Fall of Dragons

  Praise for Miles Cameron and The Traitor Son Cycle

  Praise for The Red Knight

  “The magic system is one of the most difficult and interesting ones I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading about....The plotting is dense and intricate—without sacrificing pace. The exposition is brief but effective, the rising action is gripping, the climax is powerful. The Red Knight is a modern myth, a legend to substitute the traditional tales of heroism and valor. It has all the trappings of a great knightly tale with contemporary sensibilities. There is violence and moral ambiguity, but at its core is the beating heart chivalry. Traditional idealism may be tempered with realism but it makes for a rousing read.”

  —SF Signal

  “Fans of hefty adventure epics will enjoy this dense, intricately plotted historical fantasy debut....[Cameron] packs this thick volume with enough magic, violence, and intrigue for three books, flavoring the story with period detail and earthy dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Red Knight is an excellent debut....You will be won by the intricate story and sophisticated world-building.”

  —Fantasy Book Critic

  “The Red Knight is medieval-fantasy at its finest....If you’re a fan of characters that are incredibly realistic and battles that put you right in the sweaty, gritty action, this is a book for you.”

  —Fantasy-Faction

  “Literate, intelligent and well-thought-out...George R. R. Martin comparisons will no doubt be in abundance...one to lose yourself in...a pleasingly complex and greatly satisfying novel.”

  —SFFWorld.com

  The Fell Sword

  “The Fell Sword is another huge novel that somehow feels shorter than it really is. There’s a great flow to the novel, making it the kind of book that will keep you up late reading. I believe the kids nowadays refer to this as ‘unputdownability,’ but whatever the proper lit-crit term is, The Fell Sword has it in spades. Highly recommended.”

  —Tor.com

  “I cannot recommend the Traitor Son Cycle enough...amazing.”

  —SF Signal

  extras

  meet the author

  MILES CAMERON is a full-time writer who lives in Canada with his family. He also writes historical fiction under another name. The Traitor Son Cycle series is his fantasy debut.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE PLAGUE OF SWORDS,

  look out for

  THE SHADOW OF WHAT WAS LOST

  The Licanius Trilogy

  by James Islington

  It has been twenty years since the godlike Augurs were overthrown and killed. Now, those who once served them—the Gifted—are spared only because they have accepted the rebellion’s Four Tenets, vastly limiting their own powers.

  As a young Gifted, Davian suffers the consequences of a war lost before he was even born. He and his friends are despised beyond their school walls for the magical power they wield: a power that Davian, despite his best efforts, cannot seem to control. Worse, with his final test approaching and the consequences of failure severe, time to overcome his struggles is fast running out.

  But when Davian discovers he wields the forbidden power of the Augurs, he unwittingly sets in motion a chain of events that will change his life—and shake the entire world.

  Chapter 1

  The blade traced a slow line of fire down his face.

  He desperately tried to cry out, to jerk away, but the hand over his mouth prevented both. Steel filled his vision, grey and dirty. Warm blood trickled down the left side of his face, onto his neck, under his shirt.

  There were only fragments after that.

  Laughter. The hot stink of wine on his attacker’s breath.

  A lessening of the pain, and screams—not his own.

  Voices, high-pitched with fear, begging.

  Then silence. Darkness.

  Davian’s eyes snapped open.

  The young man sat there for some time, heart pounding, breathing deeply to calm himself. Eventually he stirred from where he’d dozed off at his desk and rubbed at his face, absently tracing the raised scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to his chin. It was pinkish white now, had healed years earlier. It still ached whenever the old memories threatened to surface, though.

  He stood, stretching muscles stiff from disuse and grimacing as he looked outside. His small room high in the North Tower overlooked most of the school, and the windows below had all fallen dark. The courtyard torches flared and sputtered in their sockets, too, only barely clinging to life.

  Another evening gone, then. He was running out of those much faster than he would like.

  Davian sighed, then adjusted his lamp and began sifting through the myriad books that were scattered haphazardly in front of him. He’d read them all, of course, most several times. None had provided him with any answers—but even so he took a seat, selected a tome at random, and tiredly began to thumb through it.

  It was some time later that a sharp knock cut through the heavy silence of the night.

  Davian flinched, then brushed a stray strand of curly black hair from his eyes and crossed to the door, opening it a sliver.

  “Wirr,” he said in vague surprise, swinging the door wide enough to let his blond-haired friend’s athletic frame through. “What are you doing here?”

  Wirr didn’t move to enter, his usually cheerful expression uneasy, and Davian’s stomach churned as he suddenly understood why the other boy had come.

  Wirr gave a rueful nod when he saw Davian’s reaction. “They found him, Dav. He’s downstairs. They’re waiting for us.”

  Davian swallowed. “They want to do it now?”

  Wirr just nodded again.

  Davian hesitated, but he knew that there was no point delaying. He took a deep breath, then extinguished his lamp and trailed after Wirr down the spiral staircase.

  He shivered in the cool night air as they exited the tower and began crossing the dimly lit cobblestone courtyard. The school was housed in an enormous Darecian-era castle, though the original grandeur of the structure had been lost somewhat to the various motley additions and repairs of the past two thousand years. Davian had lived here all his life and knew every inch of the grounds—from the servants’ quarters near the kitchen to the squat keep where the Elders kept their rooms to
every well-worn step of the four distinctively hexagonal towers that jutted far into the sky.

  Tonight that familiarity brought him little comfort. The high outer walls loomed ominously in the darkness.

  “Do you know how they caught him?” he asked.

  “He used Essence to light his campfire.” Wirr shook his head, barely visible against the dying torches on the wall. “Probably wasn’t much more than a trickle, but there were Administrators on the road nearby. Their Finders went off, and…” He shrugged. “They turned him over to Talean a couple of hours ago, and Talean didn’t want this drawn out any longer than it had to be. For everyone’s sake.”

  “Won’t make it any easier to watch,” muttered Davian.

  Wirr slowed his stride for a moment, glancing across at his friend. “There’s still time to take Asha up on her offer to replace you,” he observed quietly. “I know it’s your turn, but… let’s be honest, Administration only forces students to do this because it’s a reminder that the same thing could happen to us. And it’s not as if anyone thinks that’s something you need right now. Nobody would blame you.”

  “No.” Davian shook his head firmly. “I can handle it. And anyway, Leehim’s the same age as her—she knows him better than we do. She shouldn’t have to go through that.”

  “None of us should,” murmured Wirr, but he nodded his acceptance and picked up the pace again.

  They made their way through the eastern wing of the castle and finally came to Administrator Talean’s office; the door was already open, lamplight spilling out into the hallway. Davian gave a cautious knock on the door frame as he peered in, and he and Wirr were beckoned inside by a somber-looking Elder Olin.

  “Shut the door, boys,” said the grey-haired man, forcing what he probably thought was a reassuring smile at them. “Everyone’s here now.”

  Davian glanced around as Wirr closed the door behind them, examining the occupants of the small room. Elder Seandra was there, her diminutive form folded into a chair in the corner; the youngest of the school’s teachers was normally all smiles but tonight her expression was weary, resigned.