“And you think you can make the change permanent.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that part is easier for a contriver. We’re essentially talking about transforming the object into something new. People like to think contrivance is all cleverness and trickery, but as I’ve taken great pains to emphasize so many times, its core is imagination.”
Wardin nodded, beginning to follow her somewhat tangled thoughts. “If you want to create something, tapping into the most creative affinity seems like a good idea.”
“Yes, exactly. A sword isn’t a potion, and I can’t get a spell into it the same way. But if you and Arun can, perhaps I can help you seal it in there.”
Now it was Wardin’s thoughts that were tangled. Late as it was, tired as he was, it took him several moments to get hold of the wisps in his mind.
“Think about the victories we’ve had.” He gave Erietta a wry smile. “It won’t take long, there haven’t been many. When we beat Bramwell back from Pendralyn, it was the three of us together, each with their own part—each affinity with its place. When we won at Bering Pass, it was with all of us working in concert. When we got Dragon’s Edge, we were together.”
Her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand. Arun wasn’t at Bering Pass, and you were the only one who used much magic at the Well of Songs. It wasn’t even regular affinity magic. So are you talking about battlemagic, sagacity, and contrivance, or you, me, and Arun?”
Wardin tugged at his ear. “Perhaps both. The same way you were just talking about contrivance in general and your experience particularly. The three of us have been at odds. Conduction, Pate, Odger, Bramwell, Iver. Things have gotten between us.”
“And?”
“And…” Wardin spread his hands, unsure how to express a murky idea that sounded a little silly even to him. But somehow, he felt that the treachery they needed to be afraid of, the thing that was holding them back from Dragon’s Edge and possibly everything else, had nothing to do with conduction or assassination or any of the things they’d been clashing over. Perhaps it was the clashes themselves. Perhaps their greatest loyalty had to be to one another.
“We just work better together than we do apart,” he said. “Perhaps it’s as simple as that.”
* * *
They were ready, in nearly every way.
Arun and Eldon had both been in contact with Varin several times. Bramwell had still not been seen, though rumor had him still living. Word had spread that the Dords had taken Corghest, and secured the southern coast with a great army and a mighty fleet of ships. With so many advantages to embolden them, the Narinore Eyrds were ready to defy Tobin and throw their lot in with Wardin.
Queen Lira was ready to sail up the river from Corghest. Iver was restless and ready to attack. Pate, too, was fairly itching to march on Narinore.
But first, Wardin and his friends were ready to try, one last time, to enchant Dragon’s Edge.
Wardin was set on making this final attempt at the Well of Songs. It was only a short journey, and three people could travel far faster than an army. If they all left Pendralyn on the same day, Pate, Iver, and Alaide—who had insisted on joining the fight this time—could lead the troops east toward Narinore, while Wardin, Erietta, and Arun went to the well first, then caught up with them.
Enchanted or not, there was no denying that Dragon’s Edge was no ordinary weapon. Not when those wraiths had spent years guarding it, waiting to give it back. It was tied to the well in some way. And the well had powerful magic of its own.
Perhaps it was the final missing piece that would see all their efforts rewarded. If the salt water of the sea made it difficult to cast spells, perhaps the well’s water would have the opposite effect.
Or perhaps Wardin was being a fool, and the Well of Songs meant nothing, to either him or the sword. But at least it would get them away from the noise, the people, the incessant pestering of Pate and Iver, the stress and strain of what was to come. They would have to leave the blackhounds behind—Wardin had no intention of ever bringing them to war, though Pate had suggested it more than once—but it would be worth it if it meant a bit of peace in which to concentrate.
Iver and Pate both encouraged the plan. They were equally eager to see Dragon’s Edge enchanted, though Iver’s interest was academic and Pate’s political. (Wardin continued to refuse to lie to his people, and would make no claim that the sword was enchanted unless it truly was.) Their mutual approval, and the lack of objections from Wardin’s other officers, sealed it.
Accordingly, the three would-be enchanters came to the Well of Songs on a warm, damp midday that suggested summer had arrived. They found the clearing much as they’d left it, though it was perhaps made a bit more eerie by a heavy mist rolling along the ground.
“Should we touch the water?” Erietta whispered, as though afraid it would hear her.
“I don’t see how being either a bard or a madman would help us enchant the thing,” said Arun.
“But the water is why we’re here, isn’t it?” Wardin approached the well and knelt beside it. He felt the same power radiating from it, neither more nor less than the last time. There were no faces in the water.
Arun snorted. “I’m not quite sure why we’re here, apart from the fact that you insisted, and Pate and Iver both applauded you for it. Probably because they enjoy leading your army more when you aren’t there.”
Wardin looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “You yourself agreed that the sword has something to do with the well that we don’t understand. I’m going to dip it in.”
“We ought to be cautious with things we don’t understand,” said Erietta. “Suppose the well decides to take the sword back the moment it touches the water?”
“It won’t. The sword is mine.” Wardin was sure of that much, if nothing else.
“All right, then.” Erietta knelt beside him. Arun took Wardin’s other side. Each put a hand on his shoulder.
Hoping his shaking wasn’t too obvious, Wardin leaned forward and immersed the blade nearly to the hilt. He gasped as the well’s power coursed upward, into his arms, into his mind.
He suspected the chill in his fingers had nothing to do with cold water. It was far more likely to be caused by the dread that was also threatening to launch his heart from his chest. Now came the part that terrified him.
On a battlefield, killing was justified, even righteous. But elsewhere it was murder, a grievous sin. Everyone understood this. Perhaps it was exactly the same with conduction. Perhaps taking from the innocent was always a dark deed, no matter what or how much one took.
That was not the sort of power Wardin wanted to infuse into his blade, even if he could. He’d gotten the sword by conducting his own life, wittingly, willingly. At the time, he knew it to be the right thing, even though it nearly killed him.
But Erietta and Arun weren’t willing to risk his death this time, and for Wardin’s part, he doubted his energy alone would be enough. Instead, the three of them had agreed that he would conduct from all of them. It was a mark of Arun’s desire to see the enchantment done that he’d been the one to suggest the idea.
Wardin tried not to think about the awful burden of their trust. He could do it. He’d learned his boundaries. He would not cross them. He was good at this now.
I’d better be.
Pushing his doubts aside, Wardin closed his eyes, gripped the hilt harder, and willed himself to concentrate only on the spell he was preparing, rather than its potentially disastrous consequences. He reached out, feeling his own heartbeat, his own life. And then the lives beside him. Testing their strength. Getting ready to take from them.
His friends’ power swelled along with his, just as it had when they’d defended Pendralyn. As then, the air was crackling with energy, like being inside a bolt of lightning, by the time the three of them released their spells at once.
Wardin couldn’t worry about what the other two were doing, only his own part. He must pull as much life
from himself and his companions as he dared. He would offer up the spell, Arun would bind it with the sword, and Erietta would seal it there.
And so he pulled. And pulled and pulled, until he could barely breathe, until his friends were shuddering beside him. Erietta moaned in pain. Instantly, Wardin retreated, nearly stopping. But she gripped his shoulder harder.
“Just a bit more,” she rasped. “Finish it.”
Wardin pulled just a bit more.
He couldn’t feel his own limbs. If Erietta was still clutching, still whispering, he didn’t know it. All he knew was his magic and the cold sword in his hands, and the even greater cold emanating from the water.
Then, all at once, that cold turned to searing, boiling heat. Wardin cried out as the hilt burned his hands. He thought he heard the well bubbling, though he couldn’t see at all. He fell forward, gasping, lungs burning, hands sinking into the scalding water.
But he never lost hold of his enchanted sword.
28
Wardin
“Perhaps you should give a speech, War,” murmured Arun. “You’re so good at giving those rousing battle speeches.”
“Perhaps he’s better at it now.” Erietta pitched her voice equally low. “He practically took a bath in the well, and he doesn’t seem much madder than usual. Perhaps he’s a bard.”
“I’m glad the two of you can joke.” Wardin shifted from one foot to the other, feeling small and vulnerable in the shadow of Narinore’s north wall, despite the hundreds of men lined up behind him. He’d have felt more comfortable on horseback, but Pate and Iver had the command of their small cavalry. It was just as well; poor Ciril had been lost at Corghest, presumably killed after Wardin fell. He had no desire to ride another horse to its death.
“Jokes are the appropriate response, at the moment.” Arun shrugged. “Either we’re going to win, in which case we have cause to smile, or we’re going to die, in which case I’d prefer to be smiling.”
“Fair enough. But I’ll dispense with the speech, if you don’t mind. I haven’t got anything to say that they haven’t heard already.”
“No time for a speech anyway.” Erietta nodded to the southwest, where a flare of light flickered in the sky. A signal from one of their sages.
The bulk of the Eyrds would charge the main gate, though they didn’t expect to bring it down. That attack was to keep the Harths distracted while Wardin’s group broke through the smaller north gate, with the help of Varin’s resistance, who would storm it from the inside. Once that was breached, they would circle around to take the main gate from inside as well, while Lira led the Dords through the river gate.
Even without magic, it was a good plan, especially with the likes of Tobin leading the Harths and the apparently equally inept Radley the Aldars. Rumor had it that Bramwell was recovering now, but still too ill to get out of bed for any length of time.
With magic, the rebels ought to be unstoppable. Assuming larger quantities of the antimagic still wouldn’t work on an enchanted object, Dragon’s Edge would provide them with enough of what they needed.
In any case, Pate was right about what the sword and its legend could do. When Wardin and his companions had joined their army on the road east, word quickly spread that Dragon’s Edge had come into its own at last, in the hands of the last Rath. Everyone seemed convinced that it was a sign of Eyrdri’s blessing, and no army marching behind it could fail.
Without a word, Wardin raised the sword in his own signal. Then he ran, Erietta and Arun beside him, the rest of their soldiers following with a roar of feet and voices.
As they charged, the magicians among them pulled cloths up over their mouths, to help protect them from the antimagic that would no doubt be coming, in one form or another. Erietta already knew from experience that it worked as a powder.
When they got within arrow range, they raised their shields against the onslaught. The battlemages cast their own shields, too; they would use magic for as long as they could. This was the lesser gate, and the Harths would have seen how small Wardin’s force was. The bulk of the enemy troops would be elsewhere. Still, there were enough archers on the walls to slow their progress.
As expected, when they got closer still the arrows were replaced by a white powder that fluttered like snow between their shields. Despite the leather and armor that covered much of his body, some of it found its way onto Wardin’s skin. Some got in one of his eyes as well, burning enough to bring tears.
It seemed those few grains were enough. When he tried to prepare a spell, he was once again met with emptiness.
No matter. They were at the gate now, and it seemed their supporters on the inside had appeared and begun their work. The archers did not return. No more antimagic, nor any hot oil, nor any rocks fell from above. The gate guards must be otherwise occupied.
As their plan relied partly on making the threat to the north gate appear as small as possible, they had no sophisticated equipment, none of Iver’s explosives. Only two battering rams, and small ones at that, each carried by a handful of men rather than rolled in.
It was enough, thanks to Varin and his new militia. Caught between attacks from two directions, the gate was open in short order. Wardin stormed through it to find himself face-to-face with the compact cheesemaker himself, looking quite cheerful as he hailed Arun with a shout. Wardin had thought Varin a nervous sort, but the sights and sounds—and smells, which were often the worst of it—of battle didn’t seem to be bothering him.
“They were as surprised by our uprising as you could hope,” Varin called over the din. “Dozens of city guards have already thrown themselves at our mercy.”
“Arun, Erietta, is your magic gone?” Wardin looked around. “Where is Etta?”
“She ran up to the walls already,” said Arun. “Last I saw, she was still casting. But yes, mine is gone.”
“Stay with Varin then, and help him keep the militia organized. I want this gate held.”
Wardin hurried up the tower to the wall and found Erietta there, the cloth still over her mouth and a cloak covering most of her body, confusing the Harths with illusions while the rest of the Eyrds rounded them up or cut them down.
Nearly all of the other magicians had been rendered powerless, and they weren’t used to relying on mundane weapons alone. As he had with Arun, Wardin ordered them to stay and hold the north gate, which was now decidedly won. It was an important task, but he hoped it would also keep them out of the thickest of the combat.
Some of the scattered Harths were racing along the wall toward the main gate. They would report what had happened here soon enough. More would be coming from that direction.
Let them come. It just so happened that Wardin was going to the main gate himself. He would be only too happy to meet them on the wall.
It was time to put the sword he’d gone to so much trouble for to the test.
He had yet to draw Dragon’s Edge on anyone or anything. It was his intention never to do so, except against a true enemy. Preferably in battle.
Wardin pulled Erietta behind him. “Stay close!”
Wordlessly—most of her face was still covered—she nodded and dismissed the mirror images she’d surrounded herself with. Calling for the rest of his soldiers to rally to him, Wardin surged ahead.
It wasn’t long before they met what would no doubt be the first of many groups of Harths. Wardin hacked his way through them, feeling his sword steal life well beyond what their wounds would have cost. Many shriveled on the spot. Others fled in terror when they saw their fellows turned to husks.
But one difficulty emerged, as he’d feared it would. They had hoped to enchant the sword like the Heathbire lantern, to tell friend from foe. Ideally it would steal from those who wished the wielder harm, and give strength to his allies.
It was no great surprise to find they’d failed. That was far too complex an enchantment to hope for, considering the word novice was a generous description that overstated their abilities.
&nbs
p; Instead, Dragon’s Edge was stealing only from those Wardin attacked—and giving only to him. It would be up to him to pass its gifts to others in turn. Something that might well be impossible under the effect of the antimagic.
The energy flowing into his body was too much. His ears rang. His head throbbed. He was quite certain his heart would burst, if it went on much longer.
It all built so quickly and intensely that Wardin nearly stopped fighting, just to give himself some relief. He reached for the power amassing inside him and struggled for some connection to it, some control over it.
And he felt it.
The antimagic prevented him from summoning his own magic. But it seemed it could not stop him from directing the sword’s.
Renewing his attacks on the Harths with a fury, Wardin sent their life’s energy into his own soldiers, closing wounds, pumping strength into limbs, invigorating spirits. By then, only Erietta and one battlemage had escaped the flecks of antimagic that still occasionally floated by, but it didn’t matter. None of them need cast a spell. The sword was all the magician they needed.
And unlike a human conductor, it had no balance to consider. It needed no rest. Dragon’s Edge was always thirsty, never tiring.
The cries and cheers of the Eyrds grew to a roar as they made their way along the wall. Bold and strong, nearly invincible with their boundless supply of life and power, they went through the Harths as though they were made of no more than paper.
At least, those Harths who were willing to stand and fight—a quickly diminishing number. Many surrendered. Many more ran, no doubt hoping to disappear into the city.
Wardin’s group arrived at the main gate even more quickly than he’d hoped. If one enchanted sword could do this, what might he do with more? Just a few would make them the most powerful army the world had ever known.
Something to consider, when Narinore was taken and he was king—which looked like it would be within the hour.
A Dark Reckoning Page 30