Sevenfold Sword_Warlord

by Jonathan Moeller

  He raised the Sword to finish off Tamlin, and white fire flashed before his eyes.

  Ridmark Arban ran towards him, Oathshield burning in his hand. The dark-armored woman ran next to him, swords of dark elven steel in either hand. She ran with a surprising amount of grace despite the heaving ground. Justin called the Sword’s power and threw a sphere of green light at her, but the woman dodged, a patch of ground turning to solid stone behind her.

  “Do you really think you and your strange friend can stop me?” said Justin.

  Ridmark paused a dozen paces away, Oathshield throwing harsh shadows over his face. Justin wondered how the devil a warrior like him had gotten the brand of a broken sword on the left side of his face. “Her name’s Third.”

  “Third?” Justin frowned. “Third of what?”

  “Does it matter?” said Third.

  “Not really,” said Justin, and he charged.

  ###

  Ridmark and Third battled Justin Cyros.

  He held most of the King’s attention, Oathshield and the Sword of Earth crossing again and again. Third’s short swords of dark elven steel could not block the Sword, nor would her armor, and so she circled around the duel, striking whenever she could find an opening.

  Yet Justin had the advantage. He kept his footing thanks to the Sword of Earth, and again and again, Ridmark stumbled as the ground rippled beneath his boots. Any one of those stumbles might have been fatal, and he barely stayed ahead of the Sword in Justin’s hands. Third, for all her speed and agility, dared not close with him.

  They were stalemated. Whoever weakened first would lose.

  Or whoever’s allies arrived first.

  They were alone on the field, but Ridmark knew that would not last. The Mholorasti orcs and Warlord Obhalzak were circling around the chasm that Justin had created. The battle was raging to the south, and if Hektor’s hoplites or the baptized jotunmiri broke through, they would come to Ridmark’s aid against Justin.

  He parried two more strokes, stumbled, and almost lost his balance.

  Justin stalked after him, the Sword of Earth rising for another swing.

  Then a look of incredulity came over his face.

  ###

  Justin’s confidence returned.

  The Shield Knight was formidable, even without that magical armor, but the man was already exhausted. Third was also tiring, and while she was fluid and deadly, she was too smart to close with Justin and risk a killing blow from the Sword of Earth. Justin would kill Ridmark, and then he would deal with Third, and he would finish off Tamlin and Calem.

  The Sword of Air would be in his control, and the Sword of Fire soon after when he killed Hektor.

  Justin parried another blow from Ridmark, shoved, and sent the Shield Knight stumbling back. Not much longer now, he thought. Just a few more blows, and he would get through Ridmark’s guard…

  And then, as Ridmark backed away and Third circled to the south, Justin saw something so bizarre he could not make sense of it for a moment.

  His army was retreating.

  More than that, his army was collapsing in a rout.

  But that didn’t make any sense at all. They were winning! Hektor’s hoplites had been about to break. Why fall back? Had that idiot Brasidas panicked?

  Then Justin saw the trisalians.

  Dozens of trisalians rampaged through his hoplites, shattering their lines and crushing them underfoot. A glint of bronze armor came to his eye. Were Arcanius Knights riding the trisalians? How could they possibly control the beasts? Because they were obviously controlling the beasts, methodically stampeding them back and forth through the collapsing lines of hoplites.

  How? How had they done that?

  Justin realized that the time had come to retreat.

  He lifted the Sword of Earth, intending to raise a wall of earth to block off Ridmark and Third and prevent them from following him.

  ###

  Tamlin’s eyes flicked open.

  He felt terrible.

  His head felt as if someone had driven a spike through it, and his wounds burned. The hilt-shard of his dark elven sword was still clenched in his right hand. Ahead of him, he saw Ridmark and Third battling Justin, Oathshield’s fire crackling against the Sword of Earth’s green glow.

  Justin had forgotten all about Tamlin. Just as he had likely forgotten all about Cathala, just as he had never realized that Tamlin had even existed…

  Tamlin’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. He tasted blood upon his tongue.

  He heaved himself to his feet, the ground wobbling beneath him. The rippling earth made him feel as if he was drunk, though being drunk was far more enjoyable than this. Tamlin staggered forward one step, and another, the shard of his sword clutched in his hand.

  To save your sword, you must break it…

  He sprinted forward and raised the broken sword high to stab.

  At the last minute, Justin realized something was wrong and turned. The stab that Tamlin had aimed for his father’s neck instead plunged into his left leg just above the knee. Justin screamed and swung his arm, and his fist impacted Tamlin’s face.

  He fell again, his head swimming, and the Sword of Earth came up for the kill.

  ###

  Tamlin fell, blood flying from his mouth and nose behind his helmet, and Justin turned towards his son.

  Ridmark charged at the King of Cytheria, calling on Oathshield for strength and speed.

  Justin whirled at the last minute, and Ridmark went on a furious attack, hammering again and again at the Sword of Earth. The ground still rippled and shifted beneath his boots, but this time it didn’t matter. Tamlin’s stab had wounded Justin’s leg, and the King kept stumbling as he tried to find his footing.

  Then he stumbled too far.

  He recovered at once, but it was too late.

  Ridmark drove Oathshield forward with all his strength and with all the sword’s power fueling his blow, and the soulblade punched through Justin’s fine bronze armor and sank into his chest. Justin grimaced, his face tightening with pain, his gray eyes bulging with rage.

  The ground went still. The sudden lack of motion was almost shocking.

  Justin let out a long groan and fell to one knee, breathing hard, the Sword of Earth’s hilt still clutched in his right hand.

  “You…you should have joined me,” rasped Justin. “I would have stopped…I would have stopped the New God…”

  His eyes shifted to Tamlin.

  “Your mother,” he spat. “The infant…”

  “Infant?” said Tamlin.

  But Justin said no more.

  Ridmark wrenched his sword free, and the King of Cytheria collapsed dead to the ground.

  He let out a long breath, rolled his aching shoulders, and looked around. To the south, Justin’s army was in the process of collapsing. The pagan jotunmiri were fleeing, and the hoplites themselves were surrendering. They were surrendering because Calliande’s mob of trisalians had smashed through their formations, and Hektor’s men had begun advancing in good order.

  To the north, he saw the Mholorasti orcs. They had finally circled around the huge chasm that Justin had opened and hastened towards the banner of Cytheria.

  “It seems that Lady Calliande’s stratagem was successful,” said Third.

  “It was,” said Ridmark. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at Tamlin, who stared at his father’s corpse. “Take the Sword.”

  Tamlin looked at him, blinking. “What?”

  “Take the Sword of Earth,” said Ridmark.

  Tamlin scowled. “I don’t want the damned thing.”

  “You’re Swordborn,” said Ridmark. “You can’t use the Sword’s powers, but you can wield the blade without it affecting you. If you don’t claim it, Warlord Obhalzak and King Aristotle and the others are going to fight over it. Say it’s yours by right of conquest. I’m going to go see if Oathshield can heal Sir Calem. Take the Sword, or else another battle might start right here i
n another ten minutes.”

  Tamlin hesitated and then nodded with a grimace.

  “To save your sword,” he murmured, “you must first break it.”

  “What does that mean?” said Ridmark, puzzled.

  “I wish I knew,” said Tamlin.

  He knelt and took the Sword of Earth from his father’s dead hand.

  Chapter 23: Bearers of the Seven

  Two mornings later, Calliande Arban awoke to the smell of smoke.

  The Arcanius Knights were burning the dead.

  She blinked her eyes open and sat up, her head throbbing, a weariness settled in her bones. As was her usual practice after a battle, she had devoted her magic and strength to healing. Calliande was the only one in Hektor’s army capable of healing with magic, and so she had needed to ration her power, focusing her attention on the men who would have died without her intervention.

  There had been so many.

  She had saved many of them…but many more had died.

  Ridmark had helped her, using Oathshield’s limited ability to heal, but the brunt of the healing work had fallen to Calliande. In the end, her usual pattern had asserted itself. She had healed wounded men until her strength had failed, and she had passed out, and Ridmark had carried her to bed.

  Calliande let out a long breath and sat up. Once, she supposed, she would have berated herself for not healing more men, for not saving more wounded hoplites. But she knew now that she could not heal everyone. She could not save everyone.

  Calliande had forgiven herself for not saving her daughter. If she could do that, she could forgive herself for lacking the strength to heal soldiers she had only met moments before.

  She still wished she could have saved more of them, though.

  Calliande pushed her hair away from her face and reached for the Sight. At once she felt the presence of her sons so far away in Aenesium. To judge from what the Sight showed her, they were both sleeping yet. Well, it was still early, and it was good to know that Michael and Father Clement were not working them too hard.

  She looked around the tent she shared with Ridmark. He had brought her there after her strength had failed and she had passed out. Hektor’s camp had come through the battle intact since Justin’s army had been forced to surrender before they had come anywhere near the encampment. At least, the hoplites had surrendered. The Vhalorasti orcs had fled in disarray, as had the pagan jotunmiri. King Brasidas had bent the knee and offered his sword to King Hektor, and King Atreus had been all but hysterical as he surrendered. Calliande wondered who Hektor would appoint to rule Cytheria now that Justin was dead. Nearly all the Ironcoats had been slain in the fighting, including Justin’s designated heir.

  Perhaps Hektor would make Tamlin the new King of Cytheria.

  Calliande hoped not. She liked Tamlin too much to wish such a fate on him.

  The smell of smoke filled her nostrils, and Calliande winced. Nearly two thousand of Hektor’s hoplites had fallen in the battle, and over three thousand of Justin’s. The Arcanius Knights with command of fire magic had been burning the dead. The men of Owyllain had always burned their dead due to the Sovereign’s and the Confessor’s mastery of necromancy. Given that the Necromancer of Trojas or the Confessor might use a battlefield to raise a few thousand undead, better to burn the fallen.

  Calliande regretted that so many women and children back in Aenesium and the other cities would never have the chance to bury their husbands and brothers and sons and fathers.

  She sighed once more and reminded herself of the bitterest lesson of all. Not even the Keeper of Andomhaim could save everyone.

  And Calliande wouldn’t be nearly as effective if she didn’t take care of herself.

  She needed to visit King Hektor. A bath first, though. Fortunately, her skill with elemental magic would make that easy. Then some food, and before she did anything else, she wanted to find Ridmark…

  The tent flap stirred, and as if her thoughts had summoned him, Ridmark stepped inside.

  She smiled when she saw him. He looked weary and grim, as he often did, though the weariness was more pronounced now. Yet the grimness faded when he saw her, and he sat next to her and kissed her.

  “I brought breakfast,” he said, handing her two pieces of the flatbread the men of Owyllain preferred, along with several strips of jerky.

  “That is the best news I’ve heard in the last two days,” said Calliande, taking the bread. “It’s even still hot.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “The saurtyri are good cooks. So are half the women who accompanied the army.” He scratched his chin. He needed to shave, but Calliande had always thought the graying stubble made him look dashing. A pity she had never been able to persuade him to grow a beard. A beard would suit him, but he would never cover the brand on his left cheek. “I admit I was dubious when the saurtyri and the concubines accompanied us from Aenesium. Still am, if I’m honest. But they make a lot of things easier – logistics and cooking and sanitation and the like.”

  “And gathering the dead,” said Calliande in a quiet voice.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark.

  She ate in silence until the sharp pang of hunger in her stomach had faded.

  “Who did you get to make me fresh bread?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark smiled a little. “Anyone I asked would have done it.”

  Calliande frowned. “Why is that?”

  “You did win the battle,” said Ridmark.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Calliande. “I just…took a gamble, and it paid off.”

  “Which won the battle,” said Ridmark.

  “You killed King Justin,” said Calliande.

  “With help,” said Ridmark.

  “And I had help, too,” said Calliande. “I just had an idea. It turned out to be a good one, didn’t it? We both thought it might. But I had help. I had lots of help.” She took another bite and swallowed. “Besides, it’s King Hektor’s victory. We just happened to help him. Owyllain needs only one High King.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Else some of the hoplites might think to make you the new Queen of Cytheria.”

  “God forbid,” said Calliande with a laugh. “If they offer, Ridmark, let’s take our sons and run.” She sighed. “It’s what I really want to do, anyway.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark.

  They lapsed into silence as she finished breakfast.

  “But I think we’ve changed warfare in Owyllain forever,” said Ridmark.

  “I feared we might have,” said Calliande, licking the last crumbs from her fingers. A battlefield camp was no place to worry about dining etiquette.

  “King Aristotle is already talking to his Arcanii about binding trisalians for the greater glory of his city of Echion,” said Ridmark. “Master Nicion is insisting that any bound trisalians should be under the control of the Order of the Arcanii. But they’ll need the trisalians if the Confessor or the Necromancer attack Hektor next.”

  Calliande nodded. “In Andomhaim, the armies of the High King are built around the mounted knight and his warhorse. Maybe in Owyllain, Hektor’s successors will raise armies around the Arcanius Knights and their trisalian mounts.” She let out a long breath. “I still don’t like animals with scales, you know.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark, and then he grinned.

  “What?” said Calliande, smiling in response.

  “But I don’t think anyone who saw that will ever forget it,” said Ridmark. “The Keeper of Andomhaim riding a trisalian to battle. And that battle brought seven of the Nine Cities of Owyllain back under Hektor’s control, gathered three of the Seven Swords in one place, and changed the nature of warfare in Owyllain forever. Not the sort of day one forgets.”

  “No,” said Calliande.

  “Maybe they’ll even call you the Warlord of Owyllain now,” said Ridmark.

  “Oh, God, don’t even joke about that,” she said, but she grinned.

  “No doubt Aristotle would find a way to take the credit anyw
ay,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande leaned her head against his shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I just wanted to go home to our sons again.”

  Ridmark put her arm around her, and they sat like that for a while.

  “Has Hektor decided what he’s going to do next?” said Calliande.

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “He has a thousand things to decide. A regent for Cytheria, rewards for the valiant, and so on. He sent scouts towards Cytheria and the plains to the northeast. I think he and the other kings were surprised that the Necromancer and the Confessor haven’t taken advantage of the fighting. But if they do, any trouble from the Necromancer will come from the road to Cytheria, and the Confessor’s armies would come from the plains to the northeast.”

  “Perhaps we can return to Aenesium,” said Calliande. She dearly wanted to see Gareth and Joachim again. “And I need to use the bracelet to contact Antenora. Perhaps she might have learned something useful about the Sovereign or the Seven Swords…”

  “Lord Ridmark?” said a voice from outside the tent.

  “Aye?” said Ridmark. Calliande thought about straightening up and raising her head from Ridmark’s shoulder but decided she didn’t care.

  One of Hektor’s squires poked his head through the tent flap. “Lord Ridmark and…ah, Lady Calliande?”

  “Yes?” said Ridmark. “What is it?”

  “King Hektor asks that you attend to him,” said the squire. “There is news, and he wishes you to hear it.”

  “What news is that?” said Ridmark, lifting his arm from Calliande’s shoulder. She got to her feet and stretched, relieved that she had slept in her clothes. The poor flustered squire might have gotten an eyeful otherwise.

  “There is a report of the Necromancer’s forces moving, my lord,” said the squire. “And…I think Prince Krastikon is warning King Hektor about something.” Krastikon had survived the battle, the only Ironcoat not fled or killed. Hektor had taken him as a prisoner.