The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3

by Martin Hengst

  Tiadaria--

  Little one, if you’re reading this letter, it means that I’ve fallen. Either to sickness or in battle. I’m sorry that I won’t be around to witness you becoming the powerful warrior I know you will be, but it pleases me to have been the instrument that guided you on your path to destiny.

  You are now the last swordmage. Faxon is the only person who I trusted to know my secret. Now he knows yours. If you have questions about your powers or abilities, he can be trusted. Trust no one else. He alone will bear the burden that comes with knowledge of our unique gift.

  I hope by now you’ve found the key. The cottage and all my possessions are yours now. The deed to my land is enclosed. Use them as you see fit. Start a new life for yourself. A good life. A happy life.

  Try not to mourn overlong, little one. I knew my time was short when I met you, but oh the joy you brought to my last days. I was a better man for having known you.

  --Sir

  Tiadaria traced the looping scrawl with her finger. Reading the short letter a second time and then a third. Finally, she carefully refolded the parcel and laid it on the bedside table, placing the cottage key reverently on top of it.

  “He never spoke of anyone the same way he spoke of you, Tiadaria.” Faxon said from his seat by the window. “He’d known he was dying for a long time. You gave him a sense of purpose and a reason to see this last battle through. You saved him.”

  He chuckled, glancing at her.

  “Hell, girl, you probably saved all of us. Without the two of you on the battlefield, things would have ended much differently. We might have won, but at what cost?”

  “The Captain said I could trust you...with my...secret.”

  “Did he?” Faxon raised his eyebrows waggishly. “He probably also warned you about telling anyone else. Heed that advice. The Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences exists in black and white. There is good, there is bad, there is no middle ground. The untrained are not to wield magic of any kind, those that do face censure or death. Most mages would rather die than face censure, so it’s often the same thing.”

  “Then why do you keep our secret?”

  “Because the world doesn’t operate in black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray between good and bad, righteous and evil. As a man, I recognize this. I’m nothing if not a pragmatist.”

  “So you’re hedging your bets,” Tiadaria said bitterly.

  “Not exactly.” Faxon shrugged. “I believe in the right tool for the right job, regardless of how that tool came to be, or how it’s used. There are many who believe that magic in the hands of the uninitiated is the gravest danger we face.”

  “Do you?”

  “Obviously not. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I did.” Faxon steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at her a moment before continuing. “I believe the gravest danger we face is ignorance. You saw what happened out there. How many people would have honestly believed that the Xarundi had returned before they had seen it with their own eyes? Had their own blood spilled?”

  “Not many.”

  “Precious few,” Faxon snorted. “You and I...Torus, the Captain...even the King to some extent...we are breeds apart. We don’t see the world how we want it to be. We see it how it is.”

  “For all the good that does us.”

  The mage spread his hands in an expansive gesture, encompassing the palace and everything beyond.

  “We’re here. Good triumphed over evil. The realm was spared. We live to fight another day. It is because of us that the rest of the world can live in blissful ignorance. That they can sleep at night without fear of the demon lurking in the dark. We live on to serve.”

  “Most of us.”

  Faxon waved a finger at her.

  “Your bitterness does you no credit, girl. Royce knew he was dying before he set foot on the battlefield. If you honor him half as much as you claim, you know in your heart that dying in bed wasn’t his way. He died with a blade in his hand. There is no finer way for a warrior to die. Don’t sully his sacrifice because you’re wallowing in pity.”

  As much as it hurt her to hear it, she knew in her heart that there was no place the Captain would have rather been than on the battlefield, defending the realm and the people who he had dedicated his life to protecting. If she disparaged the manner of his death, she also dismissed the man, and the Captain was more deserving of respect and honor than anyone she had ever known.

  “You’re right,” she chuckled ruefully. “He’d slap me with the broad side of his sword if he knew I was acting this way.”

  Faxon rose, his heavy robes swirling around his feet like an ebbing tide. He walked to her and took her shoulder in his hand, a gesture not unlike that of the Captain.

  “Don’t be afraid to mourn,” he said softly. “We all miss him and likely will for the rest of our days. Just don’t allow your mourning to consume you.”

  “You’ll be there tonight?” she asked, almost plaintively. “For the interment?”

  “Of course. We’ll all be there.”

  With that, he left her, sweeping out of the door as quickly as he had entered, leaving her to her thoughts and to the memory of a man who had been more her father than the man she had known from childhood.

  * * *

  The infection spreading through his left leg smelled like death and decay. The most powerful magic at his disposal had done little to stem the spread of the disease. Zarfensis was cold with more than the chill of night. His body was afire with its attempts to burn off the sickness.

  He had cut through the elven lands on his way back to the Warrens, but he was in no condition to fight. Every patrol meant hiding, biding his time, waiting until the cousins of vermin had traveled far enough beyond that he could evade them, even in his current condition. That meant many days spent hiding in caves and outcroppings, one eye and ear wary for any danger while he tried to catch sleep where and when he could.

  The night was reserved for travel, when his augmented vision would give him the advantage over nearly every other creature on Solendrea. Now he was nearing the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels that would lead him into the Warrens and to his salvation. The descent into the earth took an agonizingly long time, but eventually, he slipped past the last fissure into the cathedral hall.

  The Warrens were in chaos. All around the cathedral chamber lay dead and dying chosen. Clerics and shaman dashed to and fro, trying to ease the suffering of the injured, or offer a quick death to those too far gone to recover. The sheer number of wounded underlined how badly they had been routed. Their losses were staggering.

  Zarfensis sighed with relief as he saw a familiar hulk lope out of the cathedral. Xenir, then, had survived. Perhaps his second sight had spared him from the worse ravages of battle. The High Priest limped toward the massive Warleader, who had stopped to offer comfort to some of the injured. He felt the weight of many eyes on him as he passed. He knew that many of the Chosen would blame him for this failure. He wondered how many of the Chosen had known that Xenir had predicted their defeat.

  “Your Holiness!” Xenir bounded to Zarfensis, offering him a shoulder as the High Priest stumbled. “You are injured!”

  The Warleader howled and a Xarundi in cleric’s robes bounded over to them. The Warleader and the cleric escorted him inside the cathedral and onto a stone bench. As the cleric inspected his wounds, Zarfensis spoke to Xenir.

  “It would seem that your feeling was well founded, Xenir.”

  The Warleader bowed his head and Zarfensis reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

  “The fault does not lie with you, Xenir. I was the one who made the decision. I was the one who pressed the attack. Any blame for this, if there is blame, is mine to hold.”

  “There will be blame,” the Warleader said sadly. “I was on my way to find you when we met. I was sent to bring you to the Assembly.”

  Zarfensis experienced a sudden chill that had nothing to do with fever. The Warleader hadn�
��t said the pack council, which was the ruling body of the Chosen. He had said the Assembly. He licked his muzzle, a nervous habit he had acquired as a pup. It wasn’t lost on the Warleader, who nodded.

  “Yes, Your Holiness. The rest of the Seven are here.”

  “When did they arrive?”

  “The last of them arrived this morning.”

  “I see.” Zarfensis dismissed the cleric with a flick of his claws. “Be gone, sister. No cleric can save me now.”

  The Warleader shifted, his unease palpable. “Allow me to walk with you, Your Holiness?”

  Zarfensis shook his head.

  “Not this time, my brother. Where I must go, you cannot follow.”

  * * *

  The coach wound its way down the narrow path that led to the cottage. It felt like a lifetime since she had last been here. After the battle, she hadn’t wanted to leave Dragonfell. It was irrational, she knew, but somehow, it felt as if leaving the place where the Captain would lay for eternity, she was abandoning him somehow. She felt a special kinship with the city and its people.

  Tiadaria had passed the winter in the city, splitting her time in residence between the palace and Ecera’s inn. She had taken the time to explore the city and learn the history of the land from its vast libraries, its people, and even from the King. They had needed each other, those first few weeks. The Captain had been like a son to him, and a father to her. Together they had weathered the worst of their grief, coming into spring with a renewed appreciation for life and vigor. Though it was hard for her to say goodbye, she also knew it was necessary. Staying in Dragonfell meant living in the past and that was something she just couldn’t do.

  Torus reigned in the horses and turned in his seat to face her. The battle and his loss had weighed heavily on him. The creases around his eyes were deeper and the eyes themselves were sadder. Still, he managed a smile for her.

  “I could stay,” he offered tentatively. “You know, for a while. To get you settled.”

  Tia laid her hand on his cheek, returning the smile.

  “Thank you, Torus.” She patted his cheek gently, and then folded her hands around the letter that lay in her lap. “But that won’t be necessary. This is the only place that’s ever really been home.”

  The mammoth man looked out over her shoulder and nodded. He swallowed hard. Tia looked down into her lap. Tears seemed to come much easier for all of them, these days. Clutching the worn letter in her hand, she dropped from the coach and went to the gate. The hinges were rusty and squawked in protest as she pushed it open. They would need to be oiled. There were probably a hundred little things that needed to be put back in order.

  The little yard was littered with the debris of a full and harsh winter, but here and there the bulbous heads of flowers were beginning to poke through the ground. It would be summer soon, and all would be light and warmth. The gutters were choked with leaves and there were tufts of brown grass sticking up through the cobblestones. There was work to do here definitely, but it would feel good to set things right. The cottage was hers now. She had the deed in her hand and a letter, signed by the King, which named her as the Captain’s legal heir and successor.

  Torus brought her trunk from the coach and sat it on the path near the door. She could tell it wasn’t comfortable for him to be here. He shifted from one foot to the other, peering around the little yard, looking anywhere but directly at her. How long, she wondered. How long would his ghost linger for all of them?

  “Well,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “I guess this is it then.”

  She nodded.

  “I suppose it is.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a songbird whistled out its beautiful tune. The air was warm and thick with the smell of life and fresh grass. They stood, listening in silence, until the song faded into the distance. Torus cleared his throat, filling the space between them.

  “I’ll see you around, Tiadaria.” His voice cracked as he turned toward the coach. “If you’re ever in Dragonfell...”

  Tiadaria stepped up to him, wrapping her arms as far around his massive frame as she could reach. He patted her back with a gloved hand, as if he was afraid she was going to break apart. It was an awkward gesture, but one she appreciated all the same.

  “Thank you, Torus,” she said into his chest. “Thank you for everything. I’ll come and see you soon, okay?”

  “I’d like that,” he said, nodding. “I’d like that very much.”

  He made his way back to the coach with jerky steps and climbed to the driver’s seat. He gave her a curt wave, flicked the reins, and was gone. Tia ran to the gate and into the road, watching the coach draw away until it turned onto the trade road and was gone. The cottage was quiet and still, save for the murmurings of the insects and birds.

  Tiadaria was alone for the first time in months. Her fingers went to her collar, as they often did now when she was upset or nervous, tracing the smooth cool metal around the base of her neck. She missed the Captain so much that her heart ached almost constantly. There was an empty place where he had been and she wasn’t sure that place would ever be adequately filled ever again. The crushing pain of his loss, however, had passed. She could think about their time together without wanting to curl up and cry.

  Walking to the door to the cottage, she fished out a tiny brass key from inside her tunic. Its length of black ribbon was worn, but the myriad array of gears, nubs, and depressions shone as brightly as ever. She slid the key into the lock and listened as the mechanism whirred and ground, clicked and tinkled. The latch gave and the door opened with a faint click.

  Tiadaria was home.

  # # #

  THE DARKEST HOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  A thin green tendril snaked upward out of the earth. It slithered toward its prey, silent and unnoticed. The constriction started as a gentle squeeze, increasing rapidly as it took hold, threatening to choke the life out of its chosen victim.

  Tiadaria grasped the weed just above the root and yanked it out of the ground. She shook the dirt from the bundle before tossing it over her shoulder into a growing pile on the cobblestone pathway. Spring had come to the Imperium and already birds were singing in the trees at the edge of the fence that circled the cottage.

  Winter had been cold and dark, with the loss of the Captain being harder to bear during the bleakness of the frozen months.

  Still, with time, the sharp pain of loss had been reduced to a dull ache. Two years had passed since that fateful night on the battlefield outside of Dragonfell. The events of that night had forever changed her, but as that first winter had changed into spring, she found the loss easier to bear than she would have imagined. The time she spent in Dragonfell after his death had helped immensely. This past winter had been easier still. She supposed it was true; time heals all wounds.

  She still felt the Captain’s presence in a very real way around the cottage. Although she was frequently called to Blackbeach or Dragonfell on Imperium business, she had no desire to live anywhere but King’s Reach or the little home she had inherited from her former mentor. A new constable and magistrate kept things quiet in the tiny hamlet and it was a welcome respite from the constant flurry of activity in the capital.

  There was a creak from the end of the path and Tiadaria was instantly alert. The gate hinge was left unoiled for precisely that reason. It was an innocuous warning, a first line of defense against anyone who might seek to sneak up on her. True, they could just jump the fence, but even King’s Reach, so far from the heart of the Imperium, was mostly civilized.

  The man who stood at the end of the path was tall and lanky. His curly brown hair peeked out from under the wide-brimmed hat he wore pulled down over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face. He wore a dirt-stained coverall and was stooped over, a common posture ailment for those who walked behind the plow. His dirty hands also lent credence to the image, but the little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Somet
hing told her this was no simple farmer. She shifted into sphere-sight. It was second nature now. She cast out toward the man standing at the end of her path and inspected him in minute detail.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Lady Tiadaria,” he said in a soft voice, very much at odds with his appearance. “I assure you that I am no threat to you. However, I suspect you’ve already allayed yourself of that worry.”

  Tiadaria shifted her sight back to the physical realm. Her cool blue eyes ranged over him as she pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet. She brushed her palms against the thighs of her breeches, loosening the worst of the dirt that was caked on her hands. Her visitor didn’t seem concerned by her dirty attire and unkempt hair. The latter she twisted into a crude blond knot at the base of her neck.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met…” She trailed off, silently prompting him for a name, since none had been offered.

  “Cabot, Lady Tiadaria, with the Imperium Intelligence Service.” He glanced around and nodded to himself as if satisfied. “Do you think we could speak? Inside?”

  Tiadaria led him into the little cottage, stopping only to fit a tiny brass key into the complicated lock set in the door. Cabot’s eyes widened slightly as the lock made its customary series of pops, snaps, and twangs before the key, turning on its own accord, unlocked the door. She pushed it open and gestured for Cabot to precede her into the common room.

  “To what do I owe the honor of a visit by Imperium Intelligence, Cabot?” she asked, ushering him onto a stool by the long trestle table. There were neat stacks of parchment at the end of the table and the far wall had a myriad of maps pinned to it. Weapons and armor of all types hung from pegs around the room. Cabot’s awestruck expression was almost comical, but Tiadaria could forgive him that. It was an impressive room. It had been so when it was the Captain’s and it remained so under her care.