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 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 continued, 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.
“You’ve had a vision?”
The Warleader snarled. It was a sound of impatience and frustration. “Nothing so clear, Your Holiness. I feel...something. I’ve seen nothing in the swirling eddies of the Sphere, but it feels as if there is something out there. Waiting. Biding its time.”
“No indication of what that something might be?”
Xenir tossed his head, his gums pulling back from his teeth in a feral growl. “No Your Holiness, not for lack of trying.”
Zarfensis laid his hand on the Warleader’s massive shoulder.
“No matter, Warleader. The Dyr will lead us to victory against the armies of man. Your portent will become clear in its time.”
Nose flaring, Xenir shook his head slowly. “I can smell your uncertainty, Your Holiness. I have failed you.”
“Nonsense,” Zarfensis replied with more conviction than he felt. “Your second sight is a warning, nothing more. You need to rest. We march tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
Zarfensis watched Xenir until he had left the cathedral. He stood there for a long while after, worrying over the hidden omen and wondering how they could best heed a warning they didn’t understand. Finally he retired to his chambers, putting his own advice into practice.
* * *
Motes of dust danced in the shaft of sunlight that fell through the window of the room she shared with the Captain. When she had woken, he was already gone. There was a note on the table instructing her, in no uncertain terms, to stay within the confines of the inn and the courtyard beyond. Though she wasn’t well pleased with the restriction, Tia knew better than to defy him, especially considering how well her last excursion into the city had gone. She contented herself with pacing the length of the room and back again.
Though the wait was infuriating, she had resolved to remain in the room, not even going as far as the common area. It was stubborn of her, but she wanted to prove that she could follow his orders. Still, not knowing where he was or when he would be back was getting to her. She had chewed all the nails off one hand and had started on the other before she heard the door creak open behind her. She turned and watched the Captain enter the room behind her. He carried a long cedar chest in his powerful arms.
As he turned to place it on the table, she saw her name carved into the front, just above the hasp.
“What is this, Sir?”
The Captain stepped out of the way, gesturing to the box. “Something you’re going to need a lot in the very near future, I’m afraid.” He smiled at her when she hesitated, her hand outstretched tentatively. “Go on, open it.”
Conquering her apprehension at the guarded tone of his voice, she went to the table and lifted the lid of the chest. She peered inside and the lid slipped from numb fingers, slamming closed with a loud bang. Left there holding nothing but air, Tiadaria tried to process what she had seen. Then the Captain was by her side, lifting the lid and folding it as far back as the hinges would go.
He lifted out the fine silk tunic, dyed a rich cobalt blue. Over the thin material, thousands of tiny black metal rings joined with each other. A matte black lattice that spread out from the center of the chest, down the three-quarter sleeves, and all the way to the bottom hem.
“I thought,” he said quietly. “That the blue would look good on you. It brings out your eyes, little one.”
He offered her the tunic and after another moment of trying to pull herself together, she took it from him. Shrugging out of the coarse linen she had been wearing, she slipped into her armor, all sense of modesty forgotten or disregarded. She longed to feel the weight of it on her. It fit perfectly, hugging shoulder and hip and breast, no excess fabric for an enemy to grab hold of, no give in the chain to catch on something. Her fingers danced over the cold metal.
“Is this--?”
The Captain took the dagger from his belt and struck her armor with the broad side of the blade. She felt the metal contract, a tight but not painful constriction across the entire garment. She watched in awe as the metal expanded to its original size.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Witchmetal. Highly durable, but not indestructible. It will serve you well.”
From the chest he lifted a pair of breeches that were dyed the same deep blue and constructed in much the same fashion. Tiadaria quickly shucked her pants and slipped on the rest of her armor. A pair of boots finished out the ensemble. She twirled, indulging in a moment of
sheer girlish delight as she viewed herself in the full length viewing metal attached to the door. The Captain chuckled and reached back into the chest.
“There’s more?” Tiadaria asked, astounded.
“Just a bit.”
The Captain withdrew a sword belt and pair of scabbards. The supple leather was dyed the same color as her armor, the clasps and hardware silver that danced and sparkled in the sunlight. The scabbards were curved, like his, but the hilts of the weapons that stuck out above them were nothing like any weapon she had ever before seen. The grips were polished to a bright silver shine and were crafted in the likeness of a winged horse, the wings spreading out to form the guard before sweeping back along the hilt. The legs of the beast lie alongside the guard, giving it the appearance of gliding.
He circled her waist with the belt, pulling it tight so the scabbards rested at her hips. He fussed with it a bit and then apparently satisfied, buckled it. “The Pegasus is a noble, honorable, and highly intelligent creature. One that has been gone from Solendrea for hundreds of years. They represent a legacy of swiftness and passion that I now pass on to you. You’ve learned everything I can teach you, young Tiadaria. Now it’s your turn to fly.”
The Captain reached into the chest and Tiadaria wondered what could be left. He had already given her so much. Her throat was tight and she was on the verge of tears already. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself together.
Taking an oddly shaped, matte black instrument from the chest, he beckoned her to him. She recognized the device and her heart skipped a beat. It was the same tool that Cerrin had used to lock on her collar.
“I thought the collar was permanent,” she asked, puzzled.
“It most cases it is. Faxon happens to be a good friend of mine. He knows quite a lot about the enchantment of witchmetal and the tools used to manipulate it. He invented it, after all.”
He fitted the end of the instrument over her collar and she suddenly knew what he intended.
“Sir, wait, please!”
His grip on the tool slackened and he looked at her questioningly. “You’re a slave no longer, Tiadaria. You shouldn’t wear a collar.”
She took his hand in hers and gently removed the device from the band around her neck. She folded his hands over it, and then her hands over his.
“I came to you as a slave, as property, but you never treated me like your property. You trained me, taught me, and you helped me find my purpose. Everything that I am, or want to be, I learned from you. The collar has never defined me. You showed me how to choose what I wanted for myself. I’d like to keep it. It’s a reminder that things happen as they’re supposed to...and that freedom can be found in the unlikeliest places.”
“It’s a tactical liability,” he protested. “An enemy could use it against you. A strike against the collar could render you vulnerable at the worst time. Gasping for breath on the battlefield isn’t how you want to die.”
“No, it’s not,” she admitted with a wry smile. “We’re all vulnerable in our own ways, Captain. This is no better, or worse, than any of them. Please respect my decision. You’ve taught me well, and I choose to keep the collar to honor the man who made certain that it would never bind me.”
“If that’s really what you wish.” He tossed the instrument back into the chest, looking at her with thinly veiled skepticism.
“It is, Captain.”
She threw her arms around him, drawing him close and laying her head against his chest. They stood there for a long time, bathed in the golden sunlight of the rapidly dying day.
~~~~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Royce and Tiadaria were among the last to enter the council chamber. The vaulted ceilings, each with a painting of some important moment in Solendrea’s history, were normally a delight for Royce. Today, however, his mind was elsewhere. Tiadaria had changed. She still wore the collar, which he thought was a distraction at best and a hazard at worst. It had been her decision to keep it and he had to respect her wishes.
Collar or not, she had changed. No longer did she follow behind him. She kept step at his side, a smaller version of the warrior whom she did her best to emulate. Her chin was tipped a little higher, her eyes flashing with the stubborn defiance that Royce had come to know and understand very well. She had become a powerful warrior in her own right, no longer overshadowed by his skill, but a fitting complement to it.
There was a cold ache in his belly that had nothing to do with this council or the battles that they soon would face. Over the past few days, the medicine in his flask had done little to ease the gnawing pain that had grown worse with every morning. He had spied himself in the mirror this morning before they left the inn. He was pale and haggard. Royce thought, with no small amount of remorse, that their departure from the inn would mark the last time he would stay in such an establishment. There were many things that were drawing to a close now.
As they crossed the threshold into the council chamber, all activity stopped. Faxon and Adamon looked up from the table where they had been talking. Torus and his men, gathered around a large map, paused in their strategizing and looked up at them. Even the King, high on his council chair, peered at them as they entered the room. Let them stare, Royce thought. Every one of these men, save the quints, had once followed him into battle. Let them see that he had passed the torch to the spectacular young woman who stood beside him.
Tiadaria was resplendent in her royal blue armor. The witchmetal rings caught no light, but seemed to ripple in waves of shadow across the fine silk. Her weapons hung at her sides, their silver hilts sending motes of reflected lantern light dancing across the floor. If anyone noted the collar, they ignored it.
Torus raised his hand, greeting her as an equal. The mages nodded gravely. The King, leaning on his cane, made his way down the few steps to the floor of the chamber and met them as they crossed the room.
“I’d have thought you would do something about that collar, Royce.”
“He attempted to, Your Grace,” Tiadaria bowed respectfully from the waist. “I asked to keep it.”
“Keep it?” Heron Greymalkin was aghast. “Whatever for?”
“Because it is a solid reminder that one can overcome the worst adversity if one sets their mind to it...and has the right kind of teacher.”
The King peered at the girl, then to Royce, then back to the girl. Royce suspected that the King would have still preferred her to be without the collar, but in the end, it wasn’t his decision. Tiadaria had decided what was best for her, and Royce wasn’t inclined to argue. She was perfectly capable of making her own decisions now. She’d have to. It was time for her to stand on her own and make her own legacy, or die trying. Just as he had.
“Well, young Tiadaria, when this mess is over with, you’ll come see me. You’ll have a writ signed by my own hand, with my own seal, which states that the collar you wear is by your own choice, not because any man holds dominion over you.”
“I’d like that very much, Your Grace.”
Royce couldn’t help but smile. Stubborn as she was, she was learning diplomacy and tact at a frightening rate. He was sorry that he wouldn’t get to see her grow into her new role. He had a feeling that she would surpass even his expectations.
The King grasped her shoulder for a moment, and then called the room to order. They gathered around the map, Royce on one side of the King, Tiadaria on the other. The quints and the soldiers gathered round. Dragonfell was laid out before them, every road and alley, every twist and turn. Colored markers dotted the surface and Heron wasted no time in pointing some of these out to his council.
“Scouts went out last night and this morning. We have confirmed sightings from some of our best men that the Xarundi are indeed moving on Dragonfell.” He pointed to a few of the markers with a crooked finger. “In addition, there is a splinter group that has split off from the main column and has turned toward Blackbeach.”
“Gatzbin’s gonads!” Faxon sw
ore under his breath. The King looked at him, cocking one bushy eyebrow at his outburst.
“Gatzbin’s gonads, indeed.” The quint inclined his head in oblique apology and the King went on. “We’ve released our fastest messengers to Blackbeach. Five of our swiftest coursers are on their way to the Academy even as we speak. We have confidence that the Xarundi won’t be able to intercept all five. We’ve asked for their assistance, after they’ve dealt with the beasts on their doorstep, of course.”
“Your Grace,” Adamon put in quietly. “I would like to send my own messenger to the tower, if that’s alright?”
The King nodded. “Of course, man. Any help is good help right now.” He pointed to a different set of colored markers. “We have defensive troops here, here, and here. They cover all the approaches into the valley. We don’t expect them to be able to hold these choke points, so I’ve issued standing orders that any regiment that gets overrun should fall back behind this line.”
The King drew a wide semicircle with his forefinger, indicating an area of crop fields just beyond the edge of the city proper. The regrouping area was far too near the city for Royce’s peace of mind, but the valley was relatively small and if they had any chance of keeping the civilians safe, they would need to funnel their attackers away from the innocents and into the waiting arms of the infantry.
Heron tapped the map, looking at each of them in turn.
“This is where you will make your stand, for good or ill. I want the lot of you and your people on this line. You are the last line of defense before those mangy beasts sack Dragonfell and I want you to teach them exactly why they spent the last thousand years hiding in their holes.”
The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 Page 14