Sevenfold Sword_Warlord

by Jonathan Moeller

  But she was pretty good at throwing globes of magical fire, and that was a skill that transferred to the Staff.

  Kalussa braced the dark Staff in both hands, pointing it towards the melee. She focused her will and magic into the Staff, and the misshapen blue crystal at the end bulged in response to her focus. Ridmark and Calem whirled around each other, the lightning of the Sword of Air snarling against the white fire of Oathshield, and Tamlin and Aegeus and that strange woman who called herself Third started to close around him. The last several times that had happened, Calem had leaped away, forcing his enemies to pursue him. Kalussa knew enough of swordplay to know that repeating a tactic was dangerous, especially in the face of a skilled enemy, but Calem was fast enough that he could do it.

  Perhaps Kalussa could be faster.

  Third slashed at Calem’s shoulder, her blue swords a blur. The woman moved with the speed of a fox and the dexterity of a serpent. Tamlin and Aegeus were only annoyances to Calem, but Third gave the assassin as much of a challenge as the Shield Knight himself. What was more, Third knew how to fight alongside Ridmark, stepping into the openings he created for her, and Ridmark moved to shield her when she attacked. Together the two of them drove Calem back, forcing him to retreat, and Third was fast enough and skilled enough to stay ahead of the Sword of Air.

  Then Calem leaped backward, the white cloak billowing behind him like wings, and he landed forty paces from Ridmark and the others, lightning snarling around his silver sword as he pointed it at his enemies.

  But this time, Kalussa was ready.

  She thrust the Staff of Blades in his direction. Kalussa might not have been as skilled as Calliande, and she might not have been able to wield the Staff with the masterful skill that Khurazalin had displayed.

  But she was pretty good at using it to make globes.

  A fist-sized sphere of blue crystal erupted from the end of the Staff, sped across the open air with the speed of a crossbow bolt, and slammed into Calem’s chest.

  Even from this distance, Kalussa still heard the ribs crack beneath his dark elven armor.

  The impact of the sphere threw Calem from his feet, and he landed hard on his back. The assassin scrambled back to his feet at once, but Kyralion was already moving. Two burning arrows sped towards the assassin, and one plunged into his right shoulder, another into his right leg, just below the edge of his armor. Calem stumbled with a snarl and ripped out the arrows with his left hand. Blood leaked from the wounds, but not as much as Kalussa expected, partly because the fire had cauterized the wounds, and partly because the Sword of Air was already healing Calem.

  But Calem had to pause to yank out the arrows, and that was another marvelous opportunity for Kalussa.

  Another globe of crystal hurtled from the end of the Staff. Calem saw it coming and started to dodge, but the sphere hit his right hip. The impact spun him around, and his leg was already wounded. He let out a cry of pain and fell to one knee, his green eyes fixed on her. He looked…surprised. Confused, even.

  Ridmark, Third, Tamlin, and Aegeus closed on him, and Kyralion drew back another arrow, but before he could release, Calliande cast a spell.

  White fire ripped from her staff and struck Calem, and the assassin threw back his head and screamed.

  ###

  Calliande walked towards Calem, her entire will and power bent upon him.

  She threw the full power of the Well of Tarlion and the mantle of the Keeper into Calem, sent the magic hammering at the spiked chains of dark magic woven through his flesh. Calliande didn’t think she could break the spells, not without killing him in the process.

  But maybe she could protect him from them.

  The magic surged through her in a torrent of fire, and she bent it to her will, shaping it into a warding spell. Calliande cast the warding spell around Calem himself, wrapping the magic around his mind like a helm. The chains of dark magic writhed and snapped against the ward, but could not penetrate it.

  Calem screamed again, still on his knees, his head thrown back and the cords bulging in his neck.

  Ridmark and Third approached, swords raised.

  “Wait!” said Calliande. “Don’t kill him. Wait!”

  Ridmark stopped, though he still held Oathshield ready, and Third followed suit. Tamlin and Aegeus and Kyralion drew closer, and Kalussa followed them, the Staff of Blades still leveled at Calem.

  The dark magic within Calem surged against her power once more, but Calliande was ready. She caught the attack against her power and forced it back, wrapping the ward tighter around Calem’s mind. He threw back his head and screamed once more, blood leaking from his nostrils and his ears, and then he went limp and collapsed motionless to the ground.

  Calliande lowered her staff with a sigh, the white fire winking out.

  ###

  Ridmark looked at Calem’s prone form, at Calliande, and back to Calem.

  “Did you kill him, my lady?” said Kalussa, clutching the Staff of Blades with both hands.

  Third shook her head. “He is still breathing, Lady Kalussa.” She tilted her head to the side, examining him. “Should we take that dwarven sword of his? It seems to be a weapon of fell power.”

  She started to reach for it.

  “No!” said Kalussa, Tamlin, and Aegeus in unison.

  Third froze.

  “Touching one of the Seven Swords brings death to anyone but its bearer,” said Calliande. Her blue eyes were distant as she gazed at Calem, no doubt because she was using the Sight.

  “Why did you say it was a dwarven sword, my lady?” said Tamlin.

  Third shrugged. “It resembles a sword forged by a dwarven master smith. I have seen them used in battle before.”

  “We can worry about it later,” said Ridmark. “Calliande, what did you do to him?”

  “I think he’s a puppet,” said Calliande. “I think someone is controlling him. There are spells of great complexity and power woven into his flesh. I couldn’t break them…but I could ward him from them. Unless I’m wrong, when he wakes up he’ll have control of his own mind.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” said Ridmark.

  Calliande let out a long breath. “Then we’ll have to kill him.”

  “If we can,” said Ridmark. During their last fight at Myllene, Ridmark had mortally wounded Calem. Not only had the white-cloaked assassin survived, but he had also returned healed. “The Sword of Air let him escape the last time.”

  “I don’t think it was the Sword that let him escape,” said Calliande. “There’s a spell on his cloak.”

  Come to think of it, the cloak had been acting oddly during the fight, rippling when it should have been motionless. For that matter, Calem had landed in the dust a few times after Kalussa had hit him with those crystal spheres. The cloak ought to have been dusty, perhaps even torn. Yet it remained pristine and white.

  “I recognize that cloak now,” said Kyralion.

  “You do?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Kyralion. “During our first encounter with Calem, the battle raged too fiercely for me to take a good look at him. During our recent battle, I was shocked by the appearance of the woman from the Augurs’ vision,” Third raised an eyebrow but said nothing, “and by the necessity of fighting for our lives.”

  Aegeus clapped him on the shoulder, and Kyralion blinked. “That was good shooting, by the way. God and the saints, but we ought to take you hunting sometime. Think of the trophies we would claim!”

  “I would enjoy that, Sir Aegeus,” said Kyralion. “But to return to the matter at hand. The cloak is a relic of the Liberated, the gray elves, my kindred. It is called a wraithcloak, and it allows the wearer to become insubstantial and immaterial for a short time.”

  “That would be a useful tactical advantage,” said Third.

  Kyralion looked at her. “Indeed, my lady. I wonder why Calem did not employ it against the Shield Knight.”

  “Probably because the cloak would make him immune to material weap
ons,” said Calliande, “but it wouldn’t protect him from a soulblade.”

  Calem stirred with a groan, getting his left hand beneath him, his right hand still grasping the Sword of Air.

  “Back, all of you,” said Ridmark, pointing Oathshield at Calem.

  The others obeyed, but Kalussa kept the Staff of Blades leveled at Calem’s head. Given the force with which she had flung those crystal spheres, at this range the impact would likely turn Calem’s head to a bloody pulp.

  Calem pushed to his knees and looked around, blinking. Before, his face had been an aloof, distant mask. Now he looked only confused. It reminded Ridmark a little of an elderly man he had met at Castra Arban as a boy, a man so old that his mind had gone out of focus and he had often forgotten his own name.

  Calem looked at Oathshield and blinked a few times.

  “Oh,” he said. “It wasn’t a dream.” He looked at Calliande. “You put…you put flames in my head. It’s burned away some of the shadows. I think…” He frowned and shook his head as if trying to remember.

  “Who are you?” said Ridmark.

  “Calem,” he said. “My name is Calem. I am a slave of the Confessor, a gladiator in the Ring of Blood at Urd Maelwyn.” Tamlin stirred at that. “I don’t know any of you.” He looked at Tamlin. “But I do remember you.”

  “You do?” said Tamlin. “I don’t think we’ve met. Except for that time you tried to kill me at Myllene.”

  “We fought…six or seven times in the Ring,” said Calem. “Maybe more. There are so many shadows in my memory.”

  “I don’t remember fighting you,” said Tamlin.

  “Ah,” said Calem. “I was wearing a masked helmet. And I always fought with a trident and a dagger…”

  “You!” said Tamlin. “You were the Fisherman!”

  “The what?” said Ridmark.

  “One of the other champions of the gladiatorial games in the Ring of Blood,” said Tamlin. He looked thunderstruck. “The dvargir gamemasters sometimes assign gladiators to fight with different weapons and armor. The Fisherman was one of them. He wore no armor save for a masked helmet, and always fought with a trident and a long dagger.” Tamlin shuddered and tapped his bronze-armored chest. “He gave me a scar here. I lost to him four times, and I beat him three times. I thought he was going to kill me the last time.”

  “Wasn’t on purpose,” said Calem. “I never kill a champion. The dvargir gamemasters were clear on that.”

  “Then why are you here to kill me?” said Ridmark.

  “The Shield Knight and the Keeper,” said Calem. “They must die.” He shook his head. “The master decreed it.”

  “The Confessor?” said Ridmark.

  “No, my…other master,” said Calem. “The one who fills my mind with shadows.”

  “You have two masters?” said Ridmark.

  “Yes,” said Calem. “The Confessor owns me, and I fight in his games. But my second master commands me. He fills my mind with shadows, and writes his will into my flesh with great pain.” He shuddered with memory. “Great pain. Then I fall asleep and dream, and in my dream, I kill those for whom the master has decreed death. When I awake, I am back in Urd Maelwyn, and I return to fighting for the Confessor in the Ring of Blood.”

  “You were right,” said Ridmark to Calliande. “The Confessor must have taken the Sword of Air with the Sword of Water from Cathair Animus. He couldn’t wield two of the Swords himself, so he bound a gladiator to his will and gave the Sword of Air to him.”

  “God and the apostles,” said Tamlin. He looked shaken. “That could have been me.”

  “No, it couldn’t, Sir Tamlin,” said Kalussa, her voice quiet. “As Swordborn you could wield one of the Seven Swords, but you couldn’t use its power. You would have been useless to the Confessor.”

  Tamlin tried to smile. “It is about time my father did something useful for me.”

  “The Confessor,” said Ridmark, “or someone else.”

  “Who else could it be?” said Calliande. “The Confessor rules in Urd Maelwyn. Calem said he is a gladiator of Urd Maelwyn.”

  Ridmark didn’t know. He thought that Calem was telling the truth, or at least the gladiator was too damaged to construct a believable lie. Certainly, the story made sense.

  And yet…it seemed off, somehow. Ridmark had never met the Confessor, but from what he had heard, the Confessor did not seem the sort for subtlety, for games within games. The Confessor seemed like the kind of dark elven lord who preferred to subdue his foes through brute force.

  “All right,” said Ridmark to Calem, who remained kneeling. “So, you’re a gladiator of Urd Maelwyn, and a secret master controls you and fills your mind with shadows. What are you going to do now?”

  “I…don’t know,” said Calem, blinking as if the idea had not occurred to him. “I’m not sure…but I think I must obey the woman of the white flame.”

  “What?” said Calliande. She looked taken aback.

  “Your fire has driven back the shadows in my mind,” said Calem, “but the chains are still in my flesh. Consequently, if you give me a command, I must obey.”

  “Oh.” Calliande frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You mean he has to do whatever you tell him?” said Ridmark.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Calliande. “I put a ward around his mind to break the influence of the dark magic on him. Unfortunately, that means he will obey whatever I tell him.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” said Aegeus. “That means the Confessor can’t control him anymore.”

  “It’s not a good thing because I don’t want that kind of power over anyone,” said Calliande. She seemed dismayed by the thought.

  An idea came to Ridmark.

  “Calem,” said Ridmark. “What do you want?”

  Calem blinked. “Want?”

  The puzzled expression made him look almost like a child. Kalussa was nineteen years old, but Calem couldn’t be more than a year or two her senior.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark. “What do you want?”

  “I…” The question left Calem at a loss. “I…I…wish to carry out the will of my masters.”

  Calliande took a deep breath. “Calem.”

  He looked at her with sudden intensity. Perhaps the magic compelled him to heed the sound of her voice.

  “Tell me what you want,” said Calliande in the cool tones of the Keeper.

  “I want…” Calem shuddered and swallowed. “I want…I want to be free of my masters. I want to repay them for all the pain they have poured onto me. I want…I want to be rid of them more than anything.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a shaking breath.

  “Calem,” said Calliande, “the magic might compel you. But I am the Keeper of Andomhaim. I stand opposed to all dark magic. If you follow me, freely and of your own will, then I swear to you by my office as Keeper of Andomhaim I will find a way to free you of the dark magic in your flesh.”

  “Why?” said Calem, baffled. “Why would you do this?”

  “Because it is an abuse of magic,” said Calliande, “to use its power to hold another enthralled. It is loathsome and wicked. I will not lie to you, Calem. You would be a tremendous ally, and we could sorely use your help. But I will not compel you. And I will try to find a way to free you regardless of what you choose to do.”

  Calem opened his mouth, closed it again, and bit by bit a look of wonder came over his face.

  “What is your name, Keeper?” he said at last.

  “Calliande Arban,” she said. “I am the Keeper of Andomhaim. This is my husband Ridmark, the Shield Knight of Andomhaim.”

  “Then you are a noble lady, then?” said Calem.

  “I was born a commoner,” said Calliande, “but Lord Ridmark is a son of the House of the Arbanii, so I am a noblewoman by marriage.”

  “Then I wish to swear to you,” said Calem. He lifted the Sword of Air, and Tamlin and Aegeus flinched, but Calem only lifted the Sword, the blade resting on his
palms. “I wish to swear to you as your knight, Lady Keeper. If you can free me and let me bring retribution to my masters…” His green eyes glinted. “The Confessor slew my mother and father in front of me when he made me a slave. I can barely remember it, but I do remember it. I would see them avenged.”

  Calliande showed no sign of surprise but inclined her head.

  Ridmark felt a surge of admiration. She had managed that very neatly. The hard truth was that some of King Hektor’s men, especially Master Nicion and King Aristotle of Echion, might insist upon killing Calem and claiming the Sword of Air. But if Calem had sworn to serve Lady Calliande Arban, Hektor could hardly countenance the killing of one of Calliande’s vassals.

  “Very well,” said Calliande. “There is one condition. You must swear to serve my husband Lord Ridmark as you would serve me. He is the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and in battle, he often has a better idea of what to do than I would.”

  Calem looked at Ridmark. “That is acceptable, my lady.” He tried to smile and didn’t quite manage it. “The Shield Knight beat me fairly at Myllene, though it was close.”

  “It was,” said Ridmark.

  “So be it,” said Calliande, and she led Calem through the oath.

  “Then rise, Sir Calem,” said Calliande, and Calem rose, sheathed the Sword of Air at his side, and looked around.

  “What is your first command, Keeper?” said Calem.

  “I think,” said Ridmark, looking to the north, “we had better speak to King Hektor and introduce our new friends.” He saw a troop of hoplites led by a pair of Arcanii hurrying towards them, no doubt summoned by the panicked cart driver.

  “Aye,” said Tamlin. He laughed a little. “That ought to be an interesting conversation. Here’s a former urdhracos and the bearer of the Sword of Air, and we met them all in the space of a single afternoon.” He smiled at Third. “Would you not say that is an unlikely coincidence, my lady?”

  Despite the ache in his shoulders and his misgivings about Calem, Ridmark stifled a laugh. Perhaps Tamlin had fond hopes of seducing Third. If he did, he was going to be disappointed.