The Last Swordmage (the swordmage trilogy)

by Martin Hengst

  Torus stepped forward, following Royce’s lead, and saluted.

  “It is my honor to serve, your grace.”

  Royce was startled, but not really surprised, when Tiadaria stepped forward, her salute as crisp as either of the soldiers.

  “It is my honor to serve the One True King.” There was a ring of defiance in her voice and Royce wondered what exactly she was rebelling against at this moment. Her capture? Her slavery? The threat to the Imperium? It could be any, all, or something entirely different.

  Others would have wilted under the shrewd measuring look that Heron Greymalkin, fourteenth of his line and sovereign lord, now leveled on Tiadaria. Royce noted with approval that her gaze never wavered. In fact, the only indication that she was aware of the king’s scrutiny came from the tips of her ears, which had started to turn red in embarrassment.

  “You are an odd slave, girl.” The king waggled a finger at her. “Most slaves have their rightful place beaten into them.”

  “With respect, your grace, my rightful place is at the Captain’s right hand. Where he goes, I follow. His field of battle is my training room, his home is my refuge. His honor is repaid by my loyalty.”

  Heron turned to Royce. “She sounds like you did, when your father was alive. Scant wonder she carries your blade.”

  “So you noticed.”

  “Of course I noticed,” the king snapped. “I’m old, not daft. But being old means I need my sleep. Get out, the lot of you. Be back at midday for the war council.”

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when they left the castle. The air was cold and Tia was sorry that she no longer had the scarf wrapped around her neck to protect her from the biting chill. Torus had excused himself just beyond the mouth of the cavern, claiming other business he had to attend to before he slept. That left Tia and the Captain to make their way down deserted streets under the black, moonless sky.

  They walked in silence for a long time. Had the Captain not been beside her, Tia had to admit that she would have been a little afraid. The stillness of the night and the echo of their footsteps made it sound eerily as if they were being stalked from every side. In the back of her mind, the beast attacking the young Quintessentialist played over and over.

  Every time she thought it had passed, it would pop up again. The blood. The sickening wet thud of the body against the wall. Those blue eyes. The eyes would be what stayed with her the longest. If she closed hers, she could still see those blue eyes, burning with malevolent fire.

  Tia resolutely put it out of her mind, yet again. She was being sullen and she knew it. She wished that the Captain would just yell at her, scream at her, hit her, do something other than just walking inexorably toward the inn with his lips pressed together in that disapproving frown.

  She knew she had disappointed him. She could feel it, hanging like a veil between them. She hated disappointing him. She hated even more that he wouldn’t let her do anything about it. If she bothered to say anything, he’d just nod and carry on as if nothing had happened. It was infuriating.

  At length they reached the inn and crossed the deserted common room to the stairs. In short order they were in their room, the door locked behind them. Tiadaria had never been happier to see a bed in her whole life. She felt like she could sleep for a week.

  Now the reprimand would come. They were in private and the Captain had no appearances to maintain. Now he would tell her how disappointed he was in her, that she didn’t follow his orders and ended up in the middle of something that could have gotten her killed. She climbed into bed, kicking off her boots and waiting for the harangue to start.

  The Captain undressed, folded his clothes neatly and laid them in a pile on the table. He leaned over the glass globe that protected the candle and with a single puff, blew it out. The room was plunged into blackness. No moon hung in the sky to impart any light and the lanterns on the street were all far below the level of their window. Tiadaria heard him get into bed and the rustling of his covers. The room was quiet and still. His breathing grew slower and more regular.

  Tiadaria lay there for a long time after he fell asleep. The fact that he couldn’t even talk to her wounded her more deeply than the fact that she had disappointed him. It was true that she had disobeyed. There was no getting around that, but hadn’t she also provided valuable information to the realm? To the king? Surely the knowledge that there was a Xarundi running around inside the Imperium’s capital city was worth something. A tear, born out of anger and frustration, slipped from the corner of her eye. She brushed it away with a knuckle, determined not to wallow. She couldn’t control the Captain’s silence, but she could control how she reacted to it.

  “I’m not angry with you.”

  With an inarticulate cry, Tiadaria sat bolt upright. She had been certain that he was asleep. His voice sent her heart thundering in her chest in a reaction that wasn’t entirely fright. The silence had lowered again. She tried to feel him across the darkness. Tried to feel what he was feeling, what he needed to say.

  “I’m not angry with you,” he repeated and Tia heard the waver in his voice. “I was worried for you. I know what the Quints do to rogue mages, and I don’t want that for you.”

  “What would they have done, Sir?”

  “Censure,” he replied, his voice flat. “They’d take away the things that make you, you. That can’t happen. I need you. Solendrea needs you.”

  Tiadaria felt the sudden weight of all his hopes and expectations on her shoulders. Her chest was tight and the darkness was no longer a thin silk shift, it was a smothering blanket that pressed down on her from all sides and threatened to drag her away with it. She wanted to be held, and comforted, and told that everything was going to be alright. That this man who she had come to love wasn’t going to leave her and expect her to carry on his legacy.

  “It’s coming, isn’t it,” she asked, inwardly begging him to deny it. “The day when I will be the last.”

  “Yes.”

  Her fragile composure cracked and she began to sob. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, burning rivulets of fear and sorrow. He was preparing her for his death, she thought bitterly. His silence a macabre portent of things to come. Consumed by her grief, she didn’t hear him climb out of his bed, or into hers. He wrapped her in his arms, the bond-shock dancing like lightning across their skin. She turned her head into his chest, the weeping sweeping over her like a wave that threatened to carry her away.

  The Captain’s hands, far more gentle now than they ever had been, smoothed her hair down. She bristled at the kindness, only too aware that the comfort she received from him now, that she had wanted from him for so long, would be one of the last times he would be able to offer her that comfort. He tightened his grip as he felt her stiffen. She pushed ineffectually at his chest, furious at him for making her care and then leaving her alone. Tia felt his lips brush her forehead. His tenderness was almost unbearable.

  “Shhhh now,” he whispered in her ear. His hot breath tickling the nape of her neck where she still leaned against him, as much for support as for comfort. Her hands clutched spasmodically at his scarred chest.

  All at once, the terrible grief washed out of her, like someone pulling the plug in a tub drain. Left in its wake was sadness so profound that Tia wondered if she would ever be able to be happy again. Slowly, the sobs subsided, but she dared not move. She had waited so long for his touch that she didn’t want to break the tenuous bond between them any sooner than she had to.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. It was the first, last, and only time Tiadaria ever heard him cry. “I’m sorry that I put all of this on you. You didn’t choose to be on the platform that day, and you didn’t choose to be what you are. You certainly didn’t choose for me to place all of my hope in you.”

  She reached up, her palm caressing his cheek. It was her turn to offer what comfort she could.

  “It’s okay,” Tiadaria said softly. “I belong to you. I am w
hat you need me to be, and I’m happy that I can be.”

  “No-”

  She silenced his interruption with a finger across his lips. If she were to stand on her own, without him, she would need to learn to take charge. It was time for him to hear what she had to say. Slave she may be, but she was no one’s property. She owned herself. Who she honored with her service was her decision and her decision alone.

  You saved me, Captain. When no one else would. When no one else cared. If it weren’t for you, I’d have been dead at least twice over. You’ve given me my life. The least I can do is to gift that life to you. For as long as you have left.”

  “And what after?”

  She shrugged. “What comes after, comes after. You’ve never treated me as property, but I still belong to you. In a way that I will never belong to anyone else. You’ve given me purpose and trained my talents to meet that purpose. I’ve given you my service. I think we both got something we needed.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Tiadaria gave him a gentle push and he went to his bed. After she heard him settle, she slid under her own covers. She waited until his breath became deep and regular and then she closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly.

  Chapter 14 — So Below

  The tunnel to the cathedral was pitch black and tightly cramped, the blind turns nearly doubling back on themselves. Countless sub-tunnels branched off in all directions. Many leading nowhere but to a dead end or a shaft that fell deep into the earth. It was said that a man could spend his lifetime exploring those tunnels and never find the entrance to the holiest of the Xarundi holy places. It was probably so. No other living thing on Solendrea could follow the path that Zarfensis now raced down. Even if they could, there were things in the tunnels that wouldn’t threaten the Xarundi, but would make short order of any interlopers.

  Zarfensis burst out of the tunnel and raced across a natural stone bridge toward the cathedral. The wind was cold and dank, wafting up from the depths of the chasm that surrounded the huge stone building. The windows danced with blue fire, hundreds of eyes peering out at him, awaiting his arrival. Running on all fours was well and good for travel, but it didn’t make for a dignified entrance. As he reached the end of the bridge, he stood on his hind legs, his powerful tail counterbalancing the slightly heavier weight of his muscular arms.

  Walking the torch lit path to the cathedral, Zarfensis gazed upward. He had known he was destined to be High Priest when he was still just a pup. He remembered vividly coming to the cathedral with his pack. His sire and grand-sire had been priests, but Zarfensis had ultimately proven them weak. Advancing through the ranks of the Shadow Assembly with a combination of deception, cruelty, and guile, Zarfensis had taken control of the Xarundi and the lesser species they controlled. His brethren were a great army, a force to be reckoned with, and soon the army of man would be scattered to the corners of the glove. The dark days of the Cleansing would be repaid in full.

  This temple was the seat of his power. Its black granite slabs, shot with lines of white, reached high up into the massive subterranean chamber. Torches cast writhing shadows across the doors, two rectangular stone slabs set in the face of the building, each taller than Zarfensis by double. They slowly retracted as he approached, the mechanism rumbling beneath his feet. Striding into the building, he paid no attention to the few bitches and pups in the antechamber. He pushed through the doors that lead into the center chamber, with its rows and rows of benches on which his army now perched. They shot to their feet at he entered, their howls brass thunder that bounced off the stone walls.

  Bounding up the stairs to the dais, he raised his arms and the crowd fell silent. Even the lesser races, who had been allowed to stand in the back of the chamber to witness their High Priest, stood expectantly quiet.

  “A thousand years ago, man all but wiped the Chosen from the face of Solendrea. They rose up against us, their rightful masters, and drank deeply of the blood of our ancestors. Soon, we will make them feel the pain of the Cleansing as it comes to their doors. We will drink of their blood and feast on their flesh and we will walk in their cities, confined to our underground sanctuary no longer!”

  The roar of the assembly shook the building. Zarfensis could feel it through the pads on his feet, a steady, growing vibration that heralded the conflict that would soon explode from the confines of their refuge.

  “Tonight, go and spend time with your bitches and pups. Walk the stone halls that you have walked for you lifetimes, for some of you will not return. Those of you, who fall in battle, fall knowing that you have returned Solendrea to our care. That your sacrifice ensures that we will once again reign supreme. Tomorrow, we begin our assault!”

  As one, the assembled Chosen rose to their feet and howled a long, dissonant cry that warned their prey of their coming demise. Zarfensis waved his hand in dismissal, and the cathedral began to disgorge the massive number of bodies it held. The exodus was loud and chaotic, but soon the High Priest was left alone in the cathedral. His ears swiveled to and fro, alert for any indication that some wayward subject might have remained behind. There was only silence.

  Zarfensis dropped from the dais and crossed to the rectory, sliding the heavy doorway aside with ease and replacing it behind him. He took the short hall to his chambers in two great leaps and landed lightly on his feet in the sparsely furnished room. Sliding a claw into the space between two rocks, he toggled the hidden switch there. A feral smile crossed his elongated face as the false wall moved out of the way and revealed a curving staircase beyond.

  The first few steps were taken in total blackness, but as he descended, the bottom of the circular stairs began to glow with a sinister blue-black light. He could feel the pull of the rune, the sickly-sweet power of it, its tendrils reaching out to encircle his mind. The High Priest could feel it trying to press into his thoughts, to twist them with images of macabre death and pestilence and all things foul and unholy. He allowed the images to wash through him, but steeled his mind against the rune taking over.

  The rune was their power. It was a physical link to the power of the Quintessential Sphere. The living embodiment of death, disease, and decay. The Xarundi had held this rune, and its power, for a thousand years, since before the time of the Great Cleansing, when men had all but wiped the chosen from the face of the world. Zarfensis and his holiest priests had studied it, learning its ways, learning to keep it at bay enough that they didn’t go mad, but were still able to wield the terrible powers it held.

  Necromancy, pestilence, and horror were the way of the Dyr. The power of the rune let them call forth the dead and inflict the living with plagues that would literally eat the flesh from their bones. Then, as they died, the Xarundi would take control of their corpses, turning them against the very men they had fought shoulder to shoulder with. The terror that the Xarundi unleashed against the army of man would be unimaginable. They would pay, Zarfensis swore, for every Chosen whose blood had ever been spilled.

  He stepped off the stairs and into the tiny chamber that held the rune. He could feel its sickness now, writhing inside him like a snake coiled around its prey. It tried to burrow into his mind, thin ice cold tendrils of hate and fear that pushed relentlessly at his thoughts. How easy, he thought. How easy it would be to let the rune take over, to control his body and his thoughts. Zarfensis growled, doubling his effort to keep the allure of the rune at bay. To give oneself over to the raw power flicking within it was to be lost, forever. It would consume the soul and leave only a rotting, withering husk in its wake. The rune offered incredible power, but the price was damnation.

  The High Priest reached out, his claw tracing the embossed symbol on the surface of the rune. He felt the power crawl up his arm, like the legs of a thousand spiders burrowing into his skin and chewing their way toward the base of his spine. The power was intoxicating and Zarfensis threw his head back in sensual pleasure, panting as he fought to keep his identity safe from the grasping claws of the rune. The infusion co
ntinued, heightening his senses until he could feel every crease and crack in the stones under his feet. Finally, the insistent pressure of the rune was unbearable, and Zarfensis bounded up the circular stairs, two at a time.

  It wasn’t until he was in his quarters, with the secret door sealed behind him, that he felt the siren call of the rune slowly begin to fade. It knew it had lost its quarry…this time. It would allow him to take the power he had gathered from it, knowing that he would be back for more. No matter, Zarfensis thought, the power would grant him the victory over the armies of man and then what happened to him didn’t matter. The rune could have him and he would be consumed happily.

  Zarfensis’ nose twitched. There was someone else in the cathedral. He left the rectory and returned to the sanctuary. Xenir, the Warleader, was crouched before the altar, his long snout tucked down into his chest, his tail flaccid, ears limp. It was an uncharacteristic pose for one of the most fearsome warriors that Zarfensis had ever known. So immersed he was in his supplication that he started when the High Priest laid a heavily muscled hand on his shoulder.

  “Have you so little faith in me, brother?”

  The Warleader unwound from his crouch and got to his hind legs. He stood a full head taller than Zarfensis and his skin was marred with thick scars and patches of missing fur. One milky eye was lost in a mass of scar that traveled from forehead to jaw line. His good eye blazed, piercing the priest like a white hot brand. He reached out and grasped Zarfensis’ arm, their forearms pressed together, clawed hands wrapping around elbows

  “My faith in you is absolute, your Holiness.” The Warleader gestured at the altar. “I come to the rune’s altar because it helps settle me before battle. I’ve been…restless.”

  Zarfensis cocked his head to one side, his critical regard ranging over the Warleader’s face. Xenir was well-known for his ability to see all the different layers in the Quintessential Sphere. If he was troubled, there was probably a good reason. Zarfensis was sure of their victory, but if the Warleader had seen a portent, it would serve them well to listen.