Sevenfold Sword

by Jonathan Moeller

  But maybe Calliande could disrupt it.

  She drew together her remaining magic into a spell of dispelling, focused her power, and unleashed the spell.

  A shaft of white fire slashed across the agora and cut across Calem’s torso.

  ###

  Ridmark dueled Calem, Oathshield ringing against the silver blade of the Sword of Air.

  The young man was good, one of the best swordsmen Ridmark had ever faced, as good as Tarrabus Carhaine had been all those years ago. Calem’s skill was mated to the strength of a young man in his prime. Without Oathshield to draw upon, without the power of his soulblade, Ridmark would not have lasted long against Calem.

  Even with Tamlin distracting Calem, Ridmark still barely held his own. The Sword of Air made Calem as quick as lightning, and Ridmark could barely keep up.

  Then a shaft of white fire drilled into Calem, punching through his chest and shooting out his back. Ridmark had seen that spell many times before. It would not harm a mortal but would break other spells.

  Calem screamed as if he had been burned, and he staggered back, green eyes wide with agony. He clawed at himself like he was trying to pull something from his skin, and Ridmark seized the opening. Oathshield plunged forward with all his strength and all the soulblade’s power behind it, and the blade stabbed through Calem’s dark elven armor and into his chest.

  Calem screamed again and fell backward. He landed hard on the ground, his armor clattering, crimson blood staining the blue armor. Calem tried to rise, tried to lift the Sword of Air, but the strength had drained from his limbs.

  Ridmark rested one boot upon Calem’s right wrist, pinning the Sword of Air in place. His first impulse was to take the Sword, but Kalussa had mentioned that it was death for anyone other than the bearer to lift one of the Seven Swords. Instead, he put Oathshield’s tip against Calem’s throat.

  “Surrender,” he said.

  Calem’s green eyes met his, hazy and full of pain.

  “I…I don’t understand,” said Calem.

  “Surrender, or I will kill you,” said Ridmark.

  “But…who are you?” said Calem. “I don’t understand. Where am I? Why can’t I wake up?”

  Ridmark blinked, and the Sword of Air blazed with silver light.

  He lost his balance and stumbled as Calem became insubstantial. The wounded young man instead became a translucent wraith of silver mist and pale light. Ridmark slashed Oathshield downward, but Calem, or the wraith he had become, moved faster. The wraith sank into the ground, and Oathshield’s blade clanged off the paving stones.

  The air around Ridmark shivered, and the strange rippling effect vanished. He straightened up, and he heard a sudden babble of shouts and voices from the town of Myllene. Evidently, the strange paralysis effect had covered the entire town.

  Ridmark turned in a circle, seeking for his foe, but there was no sign of Calem.

  His eyes met Calliande’s across the agora.

  “He’s fled,” called Calliande. “The fight is over.”

  ***

  Chapter 3: Augurs

  Even before Calem’s attack, Ridmark had much to discuss with Sir Tramond, and once the townsfolk had been calmed and an extra watch placed upon the walls, Ridmark and the others withdrew to the castra’s great hall.

  It looked like a smaller version of Castra Chaeldon’s hall. Tall, narrow windows admitted sunlight, and a small dais against the far wall held a curule chair where the town’s magistrate could sit and dispense judgments. The men of Andomhaim had brought the custom of a curule chair with them from Old Earth, and it seemed the men of Owyllain had retained it.

  Sir Tramond Azertus seated himself in the curule chair. He struck Ridmark as a competent knight, a man attempting to do his duty as best as he could. Tramond reminded Ridmark a little of Sir Tyromon Amphilus, though Tramond tended to enjoy the rhetorical flourishes of formal Latin a little too much.

  “First,” said Tramond, “I must extend my thanks to you, Lord Ridmark, and to you, Lady Calliande. It seems fantastical that you came from our ancient homeland across the sea…but, well, you have displayed powers that I have never seen before. It is well that you were here. If not, the bearer of the Sword of Air likely would have destroyed the town.”

  “I fear, Sir Tramond, that you were only in danger because of our presence,” said Calliande. She had taken the mien of the Keeper upon herself, cool and calm and collected, as she usually did when treating with lords and knights and kings. “Calem specifically said that he had come here to kill my husband and me. I suspect Calem simply chose Myllene has a suitable place to make his attempt upon our lives.”

  Sir Tramond raised a hand. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady, but let us address that matter later. This Calem rogue has fled, and even with the power of the Sword of Air, it will take him time to heal his wounds and return. There are more immediate concerns. King Justin Cyros is marching for Aenesium with all his power, and Castra Chaeldon and Myllene lie directly in his path.” His gaze turned towards Tamlin and Aegeus and Kalussa. “You were marching with Sir Tyromon to reinforce Sir Archaelon at Castra Chaeldon. But we heard rumors that Castra Chaeldon had fallen to King Justin or perhaps the Confessor…”

  “Sir Tramond,” said Tamlin. “Castra Chaeldon is still in the hands of men loyal to King Hektor. If I may?”

  Tramond nodded, and Tamlin recounted the story of Sir Tyromon’s death and the recapture of Castra Chaeldon from Archaelon and his undead. The young Arcanius Knight was a good speaker, and he told the story swiftly and without embellishment. Tramond drummed his fingers against the arm of his curule chair as Tamlin spoke.

  “An astonishing tale,” said Tramond. “Yet the truth of it is before our eyes.” He looked at Ridmark. “I would not have believed that any man but another bearer of the Seven could stand against the Sword of Air, but I have seen it myself. These…Swordbearers, you say, are common in Andomhaim?”

  “Relatively common,” said Ridmark. “There were about a thousand Knights of the Order of the Soulblade when last the roll was taken. The number varies, for Swordbearers are often slain, and their soulblades passed to a new bearer.”

  “A thousand Swordbearers,” said Tramond, shaking his head. “A thousand such weapons of power. The thought boggles the mind. Little wonder Andomhaim survived the urdmordar if you wielded such blades against them. A pity there are no Swordbearers in Owyllain. Else our bitter war against the Sovereign might not have raged for so long.”

  “Andomhaim has had no shortage of war, my lord,” said Ridmark.

  “Alas, perhaps war is the natural condition of all kindreds, and peace the exception,” said Tramond. His eyes shifted to Calliande. “And you, my lady, wield great powers. In our chronicles, we read of the powers of the Keepers of Andomhaim, and I see now that those histories were not exaggerated.”

  “They are not, Sir Tramond,” said Kalussa. Ridmark was surprised that she had managed to stay quiet throughout Tamlin’s tale. “I can say without hesitation that Lady Calliande is stronger than any of the Arcanius Knights, even stronger than Master Nicion himself. She is probably the strongest human wielder of magic in Owyllain.”

  “Then we are indeed fortunate that you came to Castra Chaeldon in our hour of need,” said Sir Tramond.

  “I am glad we could help,” said Ridmark, “but I wish we were still in our homeland. Rhodruthain brought us here against our will.”

  “Aye,” said Tramond. “Your association with Rhodruthain would be suspicious, but you have already rendered great service to Owyllain.” He shook his head. “But if you will permit me a blunt question?”

  “If you will,” said Calliande.

  “What do you intend to do now?” said Tramond.

  “Why is that a blunt question?” said Ridmark.

  “Because,” said Tramond, “between you and Lady Calliande, you have magical power to match one of the Seven Swords. Furthermore, you have no ties of allegiance or loyalty to Owyllain or King Hektor. Kin
g Justin is bringing war against us, and the other bearers of the Seven Swords are all wielders of dark magic. Will you side with them, or will you side against us?”

  “In truth,” said Ridmark, “what we wish to do is to travel to Aenesium, return Sir Tyromon’s sword to King Hektor, and find Rhodruthain. We will then persuade or force Rhodruthain to return us to Andomhaim. The Keeper and I have duties there, and we must return. That is all we desire.”

  Tramond nodded, but the old knight looked dubious. Ridmark understood his fears. Magical swords with the power of Oathshield were rare in Owyllain, and none of the Arcanii could match Calliande’s skill and arcane strength. Had such powerful strangers appeared in Andomhaim, High King Arandar would have regarded them with caution. Ridmark could not expect Hektor Pendragon and his men to do any different.

  “King Hektor has nothing to fear from us, Sir Tramond,” said Calliande. “As Keeper, I am sworn to protect the realm of Andomhaim from dark magic, and the same holds true for the Shield Knight. So long as King Hektor and his men do not use dark magic, we will not act against him.”

  “Well, you need not fear on that account,” said Tramond, leaning back into his curule chair. “The Order of the Arcanii expel or kill any members who use dark magic, and the Order remained loyal to King Hektor after its previous Master betrayed and murdered High King Kothlaric. The Necromancer of Trojas and the Masked One of Xenorium are both former Arcanii who have taken up one of the Seven Swords and turned to dark magic. King Justin is not a wizard, but he has allied himself with those who use dark magic, orcish warlocks and outcast Arcanii and worse creatures.”

  “And, of course,” said Calliande, “the Confessor himself uses dark magic.”

  “Aye,” said Tramond. He looked at Ridmark. “You intend to continue on to Aenesium?”

  Ridmark nodded. “Tomorrow morning, if possible.”

  “I wish to accompany you,” said Tramond. “My hoplites and I are due in Aenesium for King Hektor’s muster, but I remained here until I could learn the fate of Castra Chaeldon. But now that Castra Chaeldon is secure, I must join King Hektor’s muster with all haste.”

  “We will be glad of your company, my lord,” said Ridmark. “There is safety in numbers.”

  Tramond nodded. “And King Justin’s scouts have been seen this far south already. Kobold raiders and orcish mercenaries from Vhalorast. Justin has convinced the Warlord of the orcish city of Vhalorast to side with him, and the Vhalorasti orcs are marching to join him. Orcish warbands have slipped south of both Castra Chaeldon and Myllene. If we travel together, we have a better chance of reaching Aenesium and King Hektor’s muster.”

  “Agreed, my lord,” said Ridmark, suppressing a grimace. He did not like the thought of taking Gareth and Joachim through a potential battle. Still, he had little choice. The safest course for the boys was to return them to Andomhaim. The only way to return them to Andomhaim was to find Rhodruthain, and the best path to Rhodruthain led through Aenesium.

  “Splendid,” said Tramond. “I shall be glad of your company. Now, let us turn our consideration to the mystery of Calem and our guest Kyralion.”

  The attention of the men and women in the hall turned Kyralion.

  The gray elf had stood motionless against the wall throughout the entire conversation, his face blank. Ridmark noted that Kyralion had chosen a position that let him see the doors and nearly all the windows at once. The gray elf stirred and looked at the dais.

  “I shall be happy to answer any questions you require, Sir Tramond,” said Kyralion. “Also, any questions that the Keeper and Shield Knight wish to pose.”

  Tramond nodded to Ridmark. “Shield Knight, Keeper. Our visitor came seeking you, so it seems only fair that you should question him first.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Calliande. “Kyralion, we are grateful for the warning. Calem would have taken us unawares otherwise.”

  Kyralion thought about it and then smiled. It was an oddly mechanical expression, like his bows and his nods, but there was no malice to it. “I am pleased I was able to execute my duty.”

  “But how did you know where to find us?” said Calliande. “And how did you know that Calem was going to attack us?”

  “I did not, Lady Calliande,” said Kyralion. “All I know is what the Augurs told me.”

  He fell silent. Calliande waited for him to continue, but Kyralion remained silent.

  Ridmark was reminded of some of the monks he had met in his travels, men who spent their days in the scriptorium of their monastery copying books, men unaccustomed to social graces and unsure of how to conduct themselves in the presence of others. A few years after the defeat of the Frostborn, Ridmark and Calliande had visited a monastery on an errand for the High King, and some of the monks had been so nervous around Calliande that they had been unable to speak.

  Kyralion was a hunter and a warrior, not a monk, yet Ridmark wondered if he, too, was unused to social graces.

  “Kyralion,” said Ridmark, “what did the Augurs tell you?”

  Kyralion blinked and began to speak. “The Augurs gave me a threefold task. First, I was to find the Shield Knight and the Keeper. Not even the Augurs knew where they would appear, but they thought it would be near Castra Chaeldon. Second, I needed to warn the Keeper and the Shield Knight of immediate danger and to stand guard over them against future threats. Third, if I survived to save them, I was to watch for an omen.”

  “What omen is that?” said Calliande.

  “A woman in flames,” said Kyralion.

  “Was that me, Lord Kyralion?” said Kalussa. “I used fire magic during the battle.”

  “It was not you, Lady Kalussa,” said Kyralion. “The Augurs said I would know the sign when it appeared to me. A woman in flames.” He frowned. “I fear my command of your Latin tongue is inadequate to convey the Augurs’ instructions.”

  “But your Latin is excellent, sir,” said Tramond.

  “Thank you, Lord Tramond,” said Kyralion. “Perhaps rather it is that there are no words in Latin to express concepts used in the tongue of the gray elves.”

  “Did the Augurs tell you why they sent you to help us?” said Ridmark. He guessed that the Augurs were either the lords or the priests of the gray elves.

  “To protect you and watch for the omen of the woman in flames,” said Kyralion.

  Like the monks Ridmark had thought of earlier, Kyralion was quite literal-minded.

  “Did they say why you were to protect us and watch for the omen?” said Ridmark.

  “They did,” said Kyralion. “If I failed in my task, our people would perish, and the Unity would die.”

  Ridmark frowned. “What would kill your people?”

  “The plague,” said Kyralion.

  “Please,” said Calliande, “explain further.”

  “Ever since the defeat of the Sovereign,” said Kyralion, “a plague has spread through the elves of the Unity. I was a young warrior when we marched with the High King against the Sovereign, and I saw the Sovereign’s defeat at the gates of Urd Maelwyn. For a short time, the Augurs thought we could live in peace, undisturbed by the Sovereign’s tyranny. But since the War of the Seven Swords began, the elves of the Unity have been sickening and growing weak.”

  Tramond frowned. “We knew nothing of this.”

  “The Liberated have not ventured from the borders of the Illicaeryn Jungle since the War of the Seven Swords began,” said Kyralion. “The Augurs did not wish for the Unity to become embroiled in the war.”

  “Do…you carry the plague now, sir?” said Aegeus. The burly knight had taken a cautious step back.

  “I do not, Sir Aegeus,” said Kyralion. “But do not fear. Only those who are part of the Unity are susceptible to the plague.”

  “But you are a gray elf,” said Kalussa. “Are you not part of the Unity?”

  “I am a gray elf, as you call the Liberated elves of the Unity,” said Kyralion. “Nevertheless, I am not one with the Unity.”

  C
alliande offered him a slow nod. “I see. You are an…outcast, then?”

  “Outcast?” Kyralion considered the word. “In a way. But the word is not adequate. For I am not a criminal, nor I have been banished, nor am I unwelcome among the Unity. I am simply not part of the Unity, and therefore I am immune to the plague and was sent to the Shield Knight and the Keeper.” He sighed, and there was nothing mechanical about the frustration that went over his alien features. “I fear I cannot explain it any better than that. I am often unable to make myself understood, both with humans and the elves of the Unity.” A hint of bitterness entered his expression, but it vanished at once. “Especially the elves of the Unity. But God has called us each to our own purposes.”

  “Kyralion,” said Calliande, “could you tell us more about your kindred? The gray elves, I mean. The Liberated, as you call yourselves. In the past, I have spoken with both high elves and dark elves, but before Rhodruthain brought us to Owyllain, I had never encountered a gray elf.”

  “What do you wish to know?” said Kyralion. “There are many things I could tell you.”

  “Could you tell us about your history?” said Calliande. “How the gray elves came to be?”

  Ridmark was curious. Neither the high elves he had met or the dark elves he had faced had ever mentioned the gray elves. Perhaps neither the mighty Ardrhythain of the high elves nor the cruel, subtle Warden of the dark elves had known that the gray elves existed.

  “Very well,” said Kyralion, “though I am neither an Augur nor a Lorekeeper of the Unity. I know only what I have been told. Long ago, we were high elves. Our ancestors fought the urdmordar and realized that we would lose, so we surrendered our immunity to the river of time and came here.”

  “You mean your ancestors gave up their immortality?” said Calliande.

  “They did,” said Kyralion. “By the standards of humans, we are still long-lived. Unless ill chance or battle slays me, I will live a thousand years, more or less. My ancestors came to Owyllain and built a mighty civilization in imitation of the high elves. For many generations, we lived and prospered, and we reached and even exceeded the magic and the sciences of the high elves. But the Sovereign followed us and made war upon us for generations. In time, all our cities were laid waste and most of our kindred slain. At last, we abandoned our cities and retreated to the Illicaeryn Jungle, and the Unity was founded. We remained hidden in the Jungle until High King Kothlaric made his grand alliance against the Sovereign. Once the Sovereign was overthrown, we rejoiced that our ancient enemy was defeated at last, but our joy was short lived, for the plague soon spread among us.” Kyralion shrugged, the movement again mechanical. “I fear that is all I know of our history. The Augurs and the Lorekeepers would know more.”