The Last Swordmage (the swordmage trilogy)

by Martin Hengst

  He laid a finger to his lips and locked eyes with her, ensuring that she understood his silent command. She nodded quickly and he released her, motioning for her to let him past. He preceded her into the room and walked quietly, on the balls of his feet, to the front door.

  When Tiadaria had arrived in the cottage, she hadn't understood why someone living inside the village would have fit their home with such heavy bronze shutters on the inside of the windows. Now, however, she was thankful for the protection they offered and glanced around the room, ensuring that the heavy wood planks that held them shut were in place and that all was in order.

  The Captain had explained to her in no uncertain terms that the duty of securing the house every night fell to her, and promised dire punishments if she neglected any part of that task. She was glad that she had taken those warnings to heart and double, even triple checked that things were in order after their evening meal each night.

  The pounding came again and Tiadaria jumped. Whoever was outside was worried not one bit about waking up half the village with their shenanigans.

  “Constable!” The voice that came from the other side of the door was high and laced with panic. “Constable! Please! Open up, Constable. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible.”

  The Captain went to the door and drew back the brass plate over the view slit. He peered outside for a moment and then threw the bolt, taking the key from around his neck and unlocking the intricate lock from the inside. A moment later, he yanked the door open and the young man standing on the threshold all but fell inside.

  Tiadaria had seen uncontrolled panic before. During a raid by a rival clan, she had seen the men set fire to the long houses in which the women and children were taking their meal. Tiadaria had been lucky enough to have been sent into the pasture that morning to gather the cattle. She arrived back at the village just in time to see her mother and young brother fleeing in panic from the burning structure. They had survived with only the most minor of burns. Others weren't so lucky. The anguish and fear that had overtaken her clan was clearly mimicked on the young man's face that stood before the Captain now.

  “Constable,” he sobbed. “Please, you must come at once. Something horrible has happened in Doshmill. The bodies are all burning and the houses too. There's nothing left standing in the whole village. The priests found a single child, a girl that had been stuffed in a water barrel and hidden under a bed. She said there were terrible monsters that came into the village and…”

  The boy faltered, going even whiter. Tia was positive that he was going to faint dead away. He swayed on his feet and the Captain caught him by and elbow, steadying him with one massive hand.

  “And what, lad?”

  “And they were eating people,” the boy gasped in a low whisper, his eyes spilling over with fresh tears. “She said they were eating people alive.”

  Tia closed her eyes at his anguish and couldn't help but see in her mind the cattle she had found in the pastures periodically. Often the youngest, weakest, or slowest would be savaged by the large wolves or snowy lions that inhabited the rocky crags that surrounded her ancestral home. But what could do that to an entire village? And how quickly would it have to have happened that one young girl was the sole survivor of the massacre?

  “You've done as you ought, Bryce. Go back to your father and tell him that I'll be along shortly. We'll ride for Doshmill immediately. This can't wait until first light.”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  Having a message to relay seemed to steel the boy and set his nerves right. He nodded jerkily to Tiadaria and slipped past the open door and into the night. The Captain pushed the door shut with one foot and leaned against it, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

  He stopped and looked at her. She was still standing, just inside the common room, holding the lantern. In honesty, she didn't know what else to do. Her mind still reeled with everything she had heard in the last few minutes. Even then, she didn't know what her responsibilities were. Beyond cooking, cleaning, and occasionally running to the market on errands for the Captain, she hadn't done much of anything. They had their near daily training sessions, but she suspected that these were more to keep him in shape than to teach her anything.

  During her recovery, the Captain had regaled her with tales of battles fought long ago. He had a wonderful knack for storytelling, filling in details and gaps that placed her on the battlefield, with all of its sights and sounds and smells. She could feel the cold steel in her palm and smell the stench of death when he spoke to her of all the things he had done in his youth, the things he had done in service to the Imperium and the One True King.

  To say that she thought him the bravest man she had ever known wouldn't be inaccurate or an exaggeration. Though she knew her own father to be tough and wiry, skilled in battle, she also knew that if the Captain had done a fraction of the things he claimed to in his stories, that he was a consummate fighter to be feared by all.

  The Captain never boasted. In fact, if his tales were lacking in one detail, it was his direct involvement in the battle, maneuver, or raid. There was no question that he had been there. The depth and breadth of his explanations and ruminations couldn't be questioned. He had commanded many men and had watched more than a few of them die. He had given the orders that sent them to their deaths. Tia knew that those lost souls still bothered him, for when he spoke of the dead he did so in hallowed, hushed tones and then was quiet for a long time afterward. Sometimes, those lapses into silence indicated the end of the evening. They would stare into the fire until it died into embers. He would dismiss her then, sending her to her cubicle while he finished the night in quiet solitude.

  She was torn. Some nights she wanted to go to him and offer whatever small comfort she could. Other nights, she was furious with him for keeping her in this cottage, away from the world and whatever else she might find there. Her anger, she had found, served no purpose. She was owned and wouldn't be free, even if she escaped. The collar would remain with her for the rest of her life. A symbol of her shameful status and a warning to others that she didn't act with her own free will.

  “Go get dressed,” the Captain said, his harsh voice startling her out of her thoughts and making her jump. “We must prepare for battle.”

  “Now!” he roared as she hesitated, and Tiadaria scampered down the hallway to her room.

  She threw open the chest and quickly shucked her thin nightshirt, replacing it with underthings, a pair of plain doeskin breeches, and a pale green tunic. This she wrapped twice with a belt and knotted it above her left hip. She slipped into her boots, supple leather with woven wool inners that felt soft and inviting against her bare feet.

  Tia ran back down the hall to find the Captain staring at the maps tacked to the wall, tugging at his lower lip. Although more parchment had been added to his collection since then, he had kept things in the cottage as she had organized them. It was obscurely pleasing that he found her simple tidying helpful. She crossed the room and went to the heavy leather armor that was hung up on pegs to the right of the maps she had organized weeks before.

  “Not that,” he said quietly. “Look at that armor, what do you see?”

  Tiadaria stared at him, unsure of why, when time was apparently of the essence, he would be taking her to task for not knowing his preferences.

  “I see leather and brass, Sir.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, nodding. “Leather and brass, but what do you see?”

  She glanced at him and then back at the armor on its pegs. She didn't know what he wanted from her, but she was determined not to fail in whatever test this represented. She looked hard at the armor, trying to decipher the mystery he obviously saw there.

  “It’s thick,” she said, deciding to enumerate all the details she could. “The armor is slabs of thick leather, cut in sheets, and fastened with brass. It’s bulky.”

  She paused, not wanting to anger the Captain, but having one final, if impudent, thing to say. He ar
ched one eyebrow, waiting.

  “It looks slow, Sir.”

  The Captain nodded. “Indeed, little one. That armor is slow. Its heavy, meant to deflect a blade or keep it from piercing. It is the armor of a slow, plodding warrior who says, going into battle, 'I am going in this direction and nothing will stop me.'”

  “And what armor do you prefer, Sir?”

  “This,” the Captain said, with an unexpected grin. He opened the cabinet door and took out a neatly folded parcel of cloth.

  He laid the package on the table and unfolded the heavy velvet. Tiadaria gasped, for what was revealed sparkled and gleamed like the finest silver the in the lamplight. A tunic of fine silk, overlaid with a mesh of tightly joined, tiny rings lay in the center of the bundle. The Captain laid the tunic aside and set out a pair of breeches of the same manufacture. Finally, he laid a pair of slippers out on the table. Turning to the cabinet, he withdrew two of the finest swords Tia had ever seen.

  These were not the scimitars that he carried daily. These were awe-inspiring weapons that radiated a power she could feel in the base of her neck. Scabbards of supple white leather held the hidden blades. The guards, pommels, and hilts of the identical blades sparkled with the slightest movement. A golden dragon twined around the dark leather grip, frozen fire forming the guard that met the sweeping curved steel blade that the Captain withdrew a few inches from its housing for her to see before laying the swords and their belts next to his armor.

  The Captain dropped his sleeping pants, and quickly slipped into the armored breeches. As he tightened the drawstring, Tiadaria got her first look at his naked chest. She had seen men naked from the waist up before. The men in her clan would often wear less than this in the drum circles around the great bonfires. What she had never seen before was a man with so many scars.

  They stood out against his tan skin in bright relief. They crisscrossed his arms, his torso, and the broad line of his shoulders. There were some that were small and some that nearly wrapped around him. There were those that were straight as an arrow shaft and others that had jagged, torn edges. The ones that mesmerized her, though, were the fine white scars that made up intricate patterns that adorned his body here and there. They were incredibly detailed, obviously intentionally cut and not the result of some random wounding.

  He pulled the tunic on next. Then passed the belt around his waist and slipped on the slippers. He stood before her, resplendent in the glory of the finest armor and most intricate weapons she had ever seen. They stood that way for a moment, before he smiled at her, catching her eyes.

  “Get our horses, little one. We have an adventure ahead of us.”

  Chapter 9 — Old Friends

  Whatever Tiadaria expected to see when they arrived at the edge of what had once been Doshmill, a burgeoning village at the frontier of the Human Imperium, she wasn't ready for what they found. Everything in the village had been burned to the ground. The tall wooden palisades, the cottages, the temple, the lattices in gardens and fences around yards. Nothing that could burn was left standing. Those buildings that had been largely constructed of stone were charred and blackened.

  The worst thing was the pile of smoldering bones and charred flesh that were the earthly remains of every single human inhabitant of Doshmill except one. The girl who had been hidden away in a water barrel and managed to survive until daybreak. Had she not been tucked away under and old bed in the earthen cellar of the inn, the largest stone structure in the village, it was unlikely she'd have survived either. As it was, she was white and shaking, being attended to by two priestesses when they arrived.

  Royce swung from his saddle and handed the animal's reins to the girl, indicating a decent pasture for the horses with a curt nod of his head. His armor jingled quietly as he landed on the balls of his feet and set out with long strides toward the knot of people gathered just beyond where the gates had once been. He pushed his way through the crowd, making his way toward a barrel-chested man with coal-black hair and amber eyes that seemed to drink in every movement and every detail of the people and events around him.

  “Torus!”

  The man glanced up and as his eyes landed on Royce, broke into a wide smile. He bellowed an order and people shifted out of the way of the giant man, opening a wide path between them. Royce stopped a few steps away and straightened up, throwing off a salute that was instantly returned by the smiling titan.

  “It’s damn good to see you, Captain,” Torus said, thumping the smaller man on the back and threatening to knock him off his feet.

  “Constable, now, Torus. I hear you're in the running for the Captain's job now?”

  “Aye, Sir, but you'll always be the Captain to me. You raised us from pups. Everything I know about battle and fighting and politics,” Torus wrinkled his face in an expressive grimace at the last word. “I learned from you.”

  “You were always a good student, Torus. You didn't call me out here with all haste to talk about old times, though. What happened here?”

  Torus Winterborne paused, cocking an eyebrow as the girl came up behind Royce, standing behind and slightly to the left. The old soldier glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and looked back at his former prodigy.

  “A slave, Sir?”

  The wonder and disbelief in Torus's tone made Royce wince inwardly. This wasn't the time to get into this discussion yet again. He knew all too well the younger man's views on slaves and the slavers who sold them.

  “It’s a long story, Torus,” he said firmly. “It was my crowns, or an executioner's ax.”

  “Ah,” Torus seemed to regain some of his composure. “Well, I suppose that makes things a might different then.”

  “Circumstances are what you get when you run out of luck,” Royce snapped.

  The younger man roared, slapping a huge hand on his thigh. It was obviously a remark he had heard before. Royce glared at him for a moment and then started laughing himself. The two stood that way for several long moments, drawing the disapproving glares from several of the people gathered around them. Finally, Torus wiped the tears from his eyes and gestured toward the smoldering ruins.

  “It’s good that we got our laughter in now, Captain,” he said as they walked. “I'm afraid there's not much mirth to be found here today.”

  “What happened?”

  Torus shook his head. “I don't know. Or rather, I hope I don’t know. I have a theory that I’m betting you can confirm.”

  “That doesn't sound good, Torus.”

  Torus stopped and turned to look at his former mentor. He was worried, Royce realized. Really worried. He was struck forcibly by a memory from years gone by. Torus had been a teenager, and involved in the typical tomfoolery that boys his age were bound to get into. Someone had gotten hurt and that injury, as accidental as it was, had weighed heavily on the young man. Royce thought that he looked as worried and apprehensive now as he had on that day so many years ago.

  “It’s not, Captain. Not at all.” and Torus's voice dropped to a rough whisper. “If all this means what I think it does, it’s bad. Really bad. For the entire Imperium.”

  Royce whistled through his teeth. A village attacked was bad enough. Something bad enough that Torus thought the entire Imperium might be in danger? He quickened his steps and Torus and the girl trotted to keep up.

  Crossing over what had once been the threshold into the village, Royce had to press the back of his hand to his mouth. He had experienced every form of carnage known to man, but the stench of a burning body still got him right in the back of the throat. This wasn't just one burning body either, it was what was left of an entire village of corpses thrown into a haphazard pile and set to blaze.

  The fire obviously hadn't been tended, as more than a few of the bodies hadn't been consumed by the flames. Royce heard the girl retch behind him and he glanced back to see her doubled over, heaving the dregs of last night's meal onto the charred ground between her feet. He felt for her, but it would do her well to learn thi
s lesson now and harden herself against it. She would face much worse and she would have to be ready. She'd have to develop a stronger stomach for the atrocities of monsters and men.

  “This is everyone?” Royce circled the pile of bodies, taking note of which were completely destroyed and which were only partially eaten. If there was a pattern there, he couldn't see it.

  “Everyone we know of,” Torus replied slowly. “We didn't bring the youngster back into the…well, the ruins. We didn't want to scar her even more.”

  “Wise.”

  Silence fell again and Royce continued his careful plodding walk around the perimeter of the bodies. He was pleased when he noticed that the girl had fallen into step behind him, following the same path, walking, literally, in his footsteps. He saw her straighten and her mouth form a little 'o' of surprise. He turned to her, and she pointed, dropping to one knee.

  “This one, Sir. It looks,” she swallowed hard. “It looks as if this one has marks.”

  Royce went to her and knelt down beside her. The stench was much more powerful this close to the center of the pile. He could feel the heat coming off the bodies and he was thankful that the girl had steeled herself for the task that must be performed. He looked where she pointed, to the thigh bone of a young man whose upper half was all but unrecognizable.

  “You're right, little one,” he said, lightly touching the bite marks on the leg. He grasped the foot, turning the leg gently from side to side. The flesh had been torn from the bone and there were long grooves etched in the red-tinged ivory. “So what eats humans and piles them up to burn the bodies?”

  “Wolves?” she asked tentatively.

  Torus snorted and Royce shot him a quelling look.

  “Wolves don't burn down buildings, little one.” Royce looked at her, willing her to make the connection that he had made.