Sevenfold Sword

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Yes,” said Ridmark.

  She smiled again and kissed him.

  He kissed her back.

  And as he did, she felt a flicker of physical desire.

  When had been the last time she had felt that? Hope mingled with that desire. Had she healed enough? Could they…

  “Lady Calliande?”

  Calliande blinked and turned.

  Kyralion stood in the doorway.

  “Kyralion,” said Ridmark, his voice flat.

  “Is this a bad time?” said Kyralion.

  “No, it’s just fine,” said Ridmark.

  Kyralion, as ever, remained immune to sarcasm. “There is a family at the door. Their child has been injured in a fall, and they wish to know if Lady Calliande can heal them. Michael sent me to fetch you since he said his damned wooden leg meant he was not climbing all those damned stairs.” He hesitated. “I am unsure if his leg or the stairs are actually damned.”

  “It’s a mystery for the theologians,” said Ridmark. He looked at her. “You had better go.”

  “I will,” said Calliande. “But I will see you again soon.”

  By the time she had healed the child’s broken ribs and legs and returned, Ridmark had fallen asleep.

  But that was all right. Calliande knew what she had to do now. And if it caused her pain…well, so what? She endured pain whenever she healed wounds. If she had to endure pain for Ridmark’s sake, she would do so gladly.

  The next morning, she went to the Palace of the High Kings and requested an audience with the Queen.

  “I must apologize for leaving so abruptly yesterday,” said Calliande when they returned to the garden. “I was in an ill mood.”

  Adrastea waved a hand. Today she looked every inch the Queen of Aenesium, clad in a gown and jewels and a slender diadem. “It is forgotten. In truth, it was my words that put you in an ill mood.”

  “I won’t change Ridmark’s mind about Kalussa,” said Calliande, “but I was hoping to ask you a favor.”

  Adrastea nodded. “What is it?”

  “Could I borrow some clothes?”

  Adrastea blinked a few times, and then an approving smile went over her face.

  The Queen, after all, was a very perceptive woman.

  ***

  Chapter 15: The New God

  Aenesium was a city of many secrets, and Crown Prince Rypheus Pendragon had learned a few of them.

  Most of those secrets were lost. No, that wasn’t quite right. Rypheus knew exactly where the secrets were. They were in the head of his uncle Kothlaric, who was currently imprisoned within magical crystal at Cathair Animus. The secrets of Aenesium were passed down from High King to High King, along with the mantle of magical power, but the last High King of Owyllain was trapped in Cathair Animus.

  Rypheus’s father blamed the Guardian Rhodruthain and the Master Talitha for that.

  He was wrong, of course.

  Casting the blame for the War of the Seven Swords upon the Guardian and Talitha had been one of the Masked One’s cleverer plans. Painting them both as vile traitors, when Rhodruthain was the only one standing in the path of the ascension of the New God and Talitha had sacrificed her life to stop that ascension, had been a masterstroke.

  The thought pleased Rypheus. His father was King of Aenesium, but Rypheus knew far more of the city’s secrets than Hektor Pendragon ever would. Unlike his father, he knew the truth at the heart of the War of the Seven Swords. He knew who had really forged the Seven Swords, why they had been created and set loose in the world after the Sovereign’s fall.

  And he knew that nothing would stop the ascension of the New God and that humanity and all other kindreds would bow before the New God’s throne.

  It was inevitable.

  Well…almost inevitable.

  Like the Maledicti, Rypheus was a pragmatist. He knew things could go wrong.

  Such as the Shield Knight and the Keeper of Andomhaim.

  Rypheus walked across the Agora of Connmar towards the doors of the Great Cathedral as the sun rose, lost in thought.

  Castra Chaeldon should have fallen to either King Justin or the Confessor by now, drawing the Seven Swords ever closer to their final destiny. Yet Rhodruthain had dropped Ridmark and his wife into the scheme, and they had blown it apart. Castra Chaeldon was still in the hands of the men of Aenesium, and King Hektor would be in a far stronger position when he faced King Justin.

  Perhaps that meant nothing. Randomness and chaos ruled the world, which was one of the things the New God would end. But mischance could destroy even the most carefully prepared plan. Perhaps Ridmark’s victory over Archaelon had been a fluke.

  Then Rypheus had seen Ridmark fight at that preening fool Tamlin’s domus.

  Rypheus had never seen anyone fight like that. The Accursed of the Sovereign were deadly enemies, and Ridmark Arban had torn through them like a storm. That blue sword had burned like an inferno in his fist, and he had cut down abscondamnius after abscondamnius. The Keeper’s magic had been just as formidable, but that terrible burning sword had held Rypheus’s attention.

  For the first time in many years, Rypheus Pendragon had known a flicker of fear.

  Subsequent events only fueled that fear. Ridmark and Calliande had descended into the tunnels of Cathair Valwyn, slain a score of urvaalgs and an urdhracos, and forced Qazaldhar to retreat. The powerful Maledictus of Death had brought the haughty gray elves to their knees with his plague curse, and he had still been forced to flee. Undoubtedly that idiot Tamlin and that boor Aegeus had helped, but Rypheus knew the limits of their abilities. The victory had belonged to the Shield Knight and his wife.

  And the Keeper possessed the Sight. Worse still, she had a more comprehensive knowledge of magic than any other human in Owyllain. For twenty-five years, no one had discovered the secret at the heart of the Seven Swords. Kothlaric, Talitha, and Rhodruthain had known, but Talitha was dead, Kothlaric imprisoned, and Rhodruthain discredited.

  But another flicker of fear had gone through Rypheus as he had seen Calliande Arban’s distant blue eyes. When he had met her, Rypheus feared that those eyes could see into his heart and discover the truth he had so carefully concealed there. The Keeper was not a warrior as her husband was, but she was just as dangerous. If she discovered the truth, she would tell Ridmark, and the Shield Knight would fall upon their plans like a hammer.

  The New God’s inevitable ascension might not be so inevitable after all.

  Well, that made things easier, didn’t it?

  Rypheus would just have to kill them both.

  Just as well he had already been planning to kill so many other people tonight.

  Rypheus walked through the doors of the Great Cathedral and into the vast space beneath the dome. It was a beautiful building. The great windows let in brilliant sunlight, and the walls had been painted with scenes from the scriptures, the Dominus Christus healing the lepers, or the Angel of Death slaying the Assyrians outside the walls of Jerusalem, or St. Paul proclaiming the gospel before the throne of the Emperor of the Romans. A dais rose in the center of the church, supporting the great altar and the crucifix.

  A flicker of contempt went through Rypheus. As his mother had lain dying, he had knelt on the steps of that dais, praying to God and the Dominus Christus and the saints to spare her. His prayers had gone unanswered.

  Then the Maledicti had found Rypheus…and he had discovered a new god, a god that answered prayers with death and fire.

  The Great Cathedral was mostly empty, the morning worshippers departing to attend to their work for the day. Several of the men and women bowed as he passed, and Rypheus donned the mask of the noble prince as he passed, smiling and nodding.

  How he had wearied of this mask. How he looked forward to discarding it.

  His half-brother knelt before the altar, head bowed in prayer. Like Rypheus, Tertius Pendragon was Swordborn and had fought in the field. Two years ago, he had lost his leg to an orcish axe, and he had become a priest i
nstead, their father appointing him the curate of the Great Cathedral. That had caused some murmuring, but Tertius’s obvious zeal for the faith, coupled with the ferocious diligence with which he looked after widows and orphans, had soon won him respect and even cowed the bishop of Aenesium. The Pendragons were meant to rule.

  Even the bastard son of a whorish concubine.

  Tertius straightened from his prayers with a grunt, leaning upon his crutch. “Crown Prince.”

  “Curate,” said Rypheus. “It is good to see you.”

  That was a lie. Rypheus hated all his half-siblings, and looked forward to killing every single one of them, from fanatic Tertius to that mouthy little bitch Kalussa and that plodding brat Arion.

  “The people are anxious, brother,” said Tertius. “They know the battle is coming soon.”

  “Then it is good they seek the aid of God,” said Rypheus. “I would like to pay my respects one last time, brother. Tomorrow the army marches, and who knows when we shall return?”

  “Of course,” said Tertius. “The crypt is open, and I shall give instructions that you will remain undisturbed.”

  “Thank you, brother,” said Rypheus, and he crossed the vast floor to the crypt stairs.

  He descended into the gloom, using a minor spell to call a sphere of light to his hand. His Swordborn heritage gave him some access to fire magic, but he was not particularly good with it and had not been strong enough to become an Arcanius.

  No matter. He had a greater destiny.

  The crypt was like the one housing the Low Gate, but far larger and more ornate. The High Kings of Owyllain had been buried here for centuries, their ashes interned in elaborate funerary shrines, their images in stone rising over the urns.

  Rypheus crossed to the tomb of his mother.

  Helen Pendragon’s stone face gazed at him with serene beauty. She hadn’t been beautiful towards the end as the disease claimed her, her face a sweat-drenched skull, her breath an agonizing, rasping whistle. His father had sat with her until she died, and after the end had come Hektor did not move from her side for nearly a day.

  Rypheus’s lip curled with contempt.

  How long had Hektor waited after Helen’s death until returning to the arms of his whorish concubines? Two weeks? Maybe three?

  Oh, he would regret that.

  Rypheus smiled, rested his hand on the stone urn for a moment, and crossed to the wall.

  Here was another secret of Aenesium. Rypheus pressed the masonry in a specific pattern, and the hidden door swung open. He closed the secret door behind him and took the spiraling stairs downward, his spell throwing back the gloom. Soon the rougher stonework of the men of Owyllain ended, and the walls and floor became the smooth white stone of the ruins of Cathair Valwyn. Light glimmered ahead from the ancient glowstones, and Rypheus stepped through an archway and into the vast pillared hall.

  He walked down the central aisle until he came to the moldering carcasses of Qazaldhar’s urvaalgs. The symbol of the double ring pierced with seven spikes marked one of the pillars, the symbol of the New God.

  The symbol that Rypheus himself had carved into the stone.

  A tall figure in a hooded robe the color of blood waited below the carved pillar, a staff of dark metal in its right hand. The figure stood nearly seven feet tall, and though the end of the staff rested upon the ground, the robed shape floated a few inches off the floor.

  Rypheus stopped, and the robed form turned. The face beneath the cowl was orcish, but it was withered and desiccated, the skin dried to cracked yellowish-green leather, the tusks like yellow daggers of bone. The eye sockets were empty save for ghostly blue fire, and Rypheus felt the attention of the undead wizard fall upon him.

  An amulet of black metal rested against the robed wizard’s chest, wrought in the shape of a double ring pierced with seven spikes.

  “Prince Rypheus,” said the Maledictus in the red robe. His jaw did not move, but Rypheus heard the deep, calm voice nonetheless.

  “Lord Khurazalin,” said Rypheus with a smile. Tamlin had slain Khurazalin at Urd Maelwyn, of course, but death had no hold upon the seven high priests of the Maledicti. The Seven Swords saw to that.

  “Your staff,” said Rypheus, looking at the staff of dark metal. “Is it…”

  “Yes,” said Khurazalin, holding it out. “The Staff of Blades itself, one of the personal weapons of the Sovereign. Fitting, is it not, that I will carry it this night?”

  “Is it safe?” said Rypheus.

  Khurazalin’s withered face remained the same, but Rypheus heard the amusement in the deep voice. “It most certainly is not. I suggest that you do not touch the weapon, lord Prince. The effects for unprepared mortal flesh are most deleterious.”

  The Staff of Blades had been forged of dark gray metal, and at its end rested a misshapen blue crystal that looked like an enormous, uncut blue diamond. The crystal gave off a flickering blue light, and Rypheus felt the power rolling off the weapon. The Sovereign himself had forged and wielded that Staff, and while it was not as powerful as the Seven Swords, the legends spoke of the Sovereign striding through the armies of his enemies, the Staff of Blades leaving hundreds of corpses in his wake.

  “I am not so foolish,” said Rypheus, turning his attention from the Staff. “But we have other things to discuss, do we not?”

  “Indeed,” said Khurazalin. “Are you ready, lord Prince?”

  “I am,” said Rypheus. “I have been awaiting this moment my entire life.”

  “Good,” said Khurazalin. His free hand disappeared into his robe and emerged holding a crystal vial of black fluid. “Take this.”

  Rypheus took the vial, his skin crawling as it brushed Khurazalin’s leathery, dead fingers. “It is the poison?”

  “Yes,” said Khurazalin. “It will kill absolutely anyone. Make certain that your father is not holding the Sword of Fire after he drinks of it. Otherwise, it will burn the poison from his veins.”

  Rypheus frowned. That was more risk than he liked. His father always kept the Sword close at hand. “Is there no other way?”

  “I fear not, lord Prince,” said Khurazalin. “The Seven Swords, as you know, are surpassingly mighty. It is necessary that they should be so. Even the skill and magic of the high priests of the Maledicti cannot overcome that power. Hence, your father must not be in physical contact with the Sword of Fire after he drinks the poison.”

  “Very well,” said Rypheus. “I shall find the way.”

  “I know you will,” said Khurazalin. His bony fingers rasped against the metallic shaft of the Staff of Blades, and the dusty, leathery smell of his desiccated flesh filled Rypheus’s nostrils. “You have served the New God for many years, Prince Rypheus. And when the New God rises to rule the world, you shall receive your reward. You shall be the High King of Owyllain, and all the other kindreds of this land shall bow their knee to you.”

  Rypheus took a deep breath, ignoring the dusty smell. “And after? After my father dies?”

  “Then the slaughter shall begin,” said Khurazalin. “Your instruments await your will.”

  “There may be a problem, though,” said Rypheus. “Something we did not foresee.”

  Khurazalin inclined his head, the shadows of his cowl shifting across his mummified face. “The Shield Knight and the Keeper.”

  “Yes,” said Rypheus. “I fear nothing, but only a fool would fail to realize they are both gravely dangerous.”

  “Indeed,” said Khurazalin. “Confronting them directly would be folly. Their children might serve as leverage, but harming their sons would provoke a catastrophic rage. We might well create our own worst enemies. No, a subtle approach is required.” Amusement entered the deep voice. “We shall deal with them as the Masked One dealt with Rhodruthain and Talitha.”

  Rypheus blinked and then smiled as comprehension came to him. “I see. Before the dawn comes again, King Hektor will have been poisoned and most of his court slaughtered by the abscondamni. Who better to blame than
the foreign knight and his sorceress wife?”

  “You understand, lord Prince,” said Khurazalin. “As the new King of Aenesium, you can accuse them of the murders and banish them from your lands. If they are driven from Aenesium, they will turn their efforts to finding a way home, and they will cease to be our problem. Better to drive them off than risk the danger of a direct confrontation with a weapon of Oathshield’s power.”

  “I do not fear to face them,” said Rypheus, “in the name of the New God.”

  “You should,” said Khurazalin. “They ruined our plan at Castra Chaeldon, and since that defeat, I have performed divinations and spoken with the spirits of the threshold. Both the Shield Knight and the Keeper alone are formidable enemies, and together they are deadly. The Shield Knight slew urdmordar in single combat, even before he obtained a soulblade, and the Keeper twice saved the realm of Andomhaim from the Frostborn invaders. Do not underestimate them, not when we are so close to the rise of the New God.”

  “I will not,” said Rypheus. He regarded his old teacher. “But if they are as formidable as you say…the plan might fail. They might realize what we are doing, or the Keeper’s healing magic could save King Hektor.”

  “That is a possibility,” said Khurazalin.

  “What then?” demanded Rypheus.

  Khurazalin lifted the Staff of Blades. “That is why I brought this, lord Prince. One way or another, King Hektor will be dead, and you shall be King of Aenesium before the dawn comes again.”

  “You are right,” said Rypheus, taking a deep breath. “I will present Owyllain to the New God. Together we will unite the Seven Swords, and the New God shall rise in glory and splendor.”

  “It shall,” said Khurazalin. “And you shall be rewarded. Long you have kept your allegiance to our cause secret. No longer, though.”

  Rypheus nodded. “Are my abscondamni ready?”

  “Not yet,” said Khurazalin.

  Rypheus blinked. “But they are needed tonight.”

  The blue fire in the dead eyes brightened. “Since you shall be their master, you shall have the honor of creating them.”

  He reached once more into his robes and drew out an amulet of dark metal. It had been shaped into a double ring pierced with seven spikes, and Rypheus realized it was identical to the one that the Maledictus himself wore.