Sevenfold Sword: Unity

by Jonathan Moeller

  But Tamlin had not let the Sword of Earth make him complacent.

  He retreated before the attacks of a towering muridach, the bronze axe rising and falling in wide, vicious arcs. Tamlin let the muridach’s momentum play out, and then he struck, twisting to the side as he did. The muridach wore that strange red armor, but all armor had joints. The Sword of Earth bit into the back of the muridach’s knee. The Sword passed through the leather backing the armor like it was made of wet cloth, and it did the same to the flesh and bone of the muridach’s right leg. Tamlin yanked the Sword free as the muridach collapsed onto its left knee, and he swept the Sword around, taking off the muridach’s head in a spray of black slime.

  He whirled to face another foe. A second Throne Guard came at him, raising its axe for a massive overhand blow. Tamlin stabbed the Sword of Earth, and the point bit deep into the muridach’s armpit. The Throne Guard came to a sudden halt, black eyes bulging, and Tamlin stepped back and whipped the Sword in a horizontal slash, beheading the muridach.

  He turned, looking for another enemy.

  “Tamlin!” screamed Tamara in warning.

  He turned again and froze in surprise.

  Because the first muridach he had beheaded was getting back up.

  It shocked Tamlin less than he might have expected. Tamlin had fought numerous undead creatures in his life, most recently at Trojas, and he wasn’t entirely surprised when the muridach started to get back up again. His first thought was that the Scythe had used a necromantic spell to raise the slain as undead. Magatai and Tamara had all said that the muridachs preferred to use their dead as dinner, but perhaps the creatures had taken a new tactic.

  Then Tamlin realized two disturbing things.

  First, the muridach wasn’t dead. He had cut off its head and its right leg below the knee, but it was still alive.

  Second, the muridach was growing a new head and leg.

  Tamlin had thought that the muridachs looked ugly, but the new head that had sprouted from the muridach’s neck looked worse than the first one. It was utterly hairless and glistening with slime, the skin a mixture of pink flesh and patches of grayish-black scales. The muridach loosed gurgling howl and charged at Tamlin, the bronze axe rising high.

  He dodged to the side, and the axe missed him by inches, the heavy bronze blade sinking into the earth. Tamlin brought the Sword of Earth hammering down, and he severed both of the muridach’s arms at the elbows, the blade sinking through the leather beneath the crimson plates.

  The Throne Guard roared and stumbled back, black slime spurting from the stumps of its forearms, but already it was growing new arms. How could he kill creatures that could grow new limbs? He had taken off its head, and it had simply grown a new one. A quick glance around the battlefield showed that the others were facing the same difficulty. It jogged a memory in Tamlin’s mind. He had seen something like this before, hadn’t he? He had heard that the hydras in the marshes near Najaris could regenerate lost limbs and even heads. There had been rare creatures in the Ring of Blood who could do the same…

  “Trolls!” shouted Ridmark, his hoarse voice ringing over the battle.

  Tamlin cut off the muridach’s head again. Once again it started to grow back.

  “They’re like trolls!” said Ridmark. “Kalussa, Tamara, Calliande! Wound them and then hit the wounds with fire or acid!”

  “Tamlin!” Tamara’s voice came to his ears, and he risked a glance back and saw her standing with Calliande and Kalussa. “Take its head!”

  Tamlin nodded and cut off the muridach’s head for a third time, and Tamara cast her spell. A sphere of acidic mist appeared over the spurting stump of the muridach’s neck, and the mist sank into the torn flesh. There was a sizzling noise and a hideous stench, and the creature shuddered and collapsed to the ground.

  And this time it did not get up again, and neither did it start growing a new head.

  Tamlin rushed into the battle, targeting another muridach.

  ###

  Third dodged around the slash of a massive axe and attacked, plunging both of her short swords into the neck of a Throne Guard. The creature reeled, and Third chopped off its head with three heavy slashes of her right-hand blade.

  She had fought trolls numerous times before and knew how to deal with the creatures. For those without magic, the only way to kill a troll and to make sure it stayed dead was to chop it into pieces and burn the pieces to ashes.

  For those with magic, the process was rather simpler.

  The muridach fell to its knees as its head rolled away, and one of Kalussa’s spheres of elemental flame slammed into the stump of its neck. Kalussa’s magic charred the flesh, and the Throne Guard fell to its back, the smoke rising from between its shoulders.

  Third took a step back, raising her swords, and a scream filled her ears.

  “You!”

  She looked up just in time to see the Scythe fall towards her like a storm, her blue sword flashing. Third leaped back, and she dodged the blow aimed at her heart, but the Scythe’s right wing caught her across the face. Third stumbled back, lost her balance, and fell hard.

  The Scythe sprang after her with a shriek of rage, her sword stabbing forward.

  Third slashed her right-hand sword, deflecting the Scythe’s stab, and kicked with her left boot. Her boot hit the Scythe’s right knee, and the urdhracos stumbled back. Third leaped back to her feet and went on the attack, her blue swords a whirlwind around her. But the Scythe was ready to meet the danger, her longsword and her clawed gauntlet weaving a wall of steel before her.

  The urdhracos fought with icy, cool precision, but her face was a mask of insane fury, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl, her void-filled eyes wide and glaring.

  “You!” said the Scythe. “You came back! How did you survive?” Third parried, ducked under another swing, and slashed, but the Scythe danced around the blow. “You should have died in the Tower. You should have died!”

  “You should have tried harder to kill me, then!” said Third.

  “I hate you!” screamed the Scythe. “Why are you free? Why? Why? Why? I hate you! I hate you! Die with me. Die with me!”

  Her attack redoubled, but the skill did not lessen. Third had centuries of experience with sword work, but the Scythe was her match, and it took all of Third’s skill to keep the Scythe’s sword and talons from finding her flesh.

  “Die with me!” screamed the Scythe. “Die and…”

  She staggered back, astonishment going over her face as an arrow sprouted from her side. Third risked a glance back and saw that Kyralion was running towards them. It was difficult to draw and release a bow of that size while running, but Kyralion did it, and a second arrow sprouted from the Scythe’s stomach.

  The urdhracos snarled in rage and leaped into the air, black wings beating, and Third looked around.

  The battle was almost over. Once the weakness of the Throne Guards had been revealed, Ridmark and the others had gone about their work with methodical efficiency, cutting apart the muridachs and letting Calliande and Kalussa and Tamara strike with elemental magic to prevent the ratmen from regenerating their wounds. Only a few of the Throne Guards were still on their feet, and even as Third looked, Calem, Krastikon, and Tamlin drove them back, working in harmony to cut apart the creatures.

  Ridmark ran towards Third, Oathshield burning in his fists, his eyes on the Scythe. Kyralion jogged to Third’s side and loosed another arrow. This time the Scythe saw it coming, and she snapped her blue sword up, deflecting the shaft.

  “Later, Shield Knight!” hissed the Scythe, her face twisted with hate. The arrows in her torso seemed to do no more than annoy her. “And you, false urdhracos!” Her eyes glared at Third. “We shall finish our business later!”

  She started to turn, and then a strange, twisting spasm went over her face.

  “Ridmark!” she said. “Go south! It is the only way you will survive! Go south!”

  “What?” said Ridmark.

/>   The urdhracos blinked. For an instant, she looked confused. Then Scythe banked, swooped over the trampled grass, and soared away to the north.

  Where, Third supposed, she would report to her masters in the muridach host.

  “Are you all right?” said Kyralion.

  The last Throne Guard fell with a howl of pain, Tamara’s acidic mist washing over it.

  “I am well,” said Third, though she was troubled. “Bruised and nothing more.”

  “Good,” said Kyralion, and a flicker of emotion went over his face. “When you fell, I feared that you had been slain.”

  “Not yet,” said Third, watching the black speck vanish to the north. She had once flown like that, she recalled, the horrible song of her father’s aura filling her mind and soul, intent on venting her rage in killing and nothing more.

  “I am glad,” said Kyralion. He hesitated. “I am surprised the Scythe focused on you. I thought she would desire to avenge her defeat upon Lord Ridmark.”

  She and Ridmark shared a look. No, Ridmark understood. He had been there when Third had been freed, had been there when Mara had defeated the curse of her dark elven blood.

  “The Scythe doesn’t care about me,” said Ridmark. “I’m just another human. If she waits another thirty or forty years, I’ll die of old age anyway, and for an urdhracos, forty years isn’t that long. But Third…” He shook his head. “She used to be an urdhracos.”

  “Imagine that you are dying of thirst,” said Third, her voice quiet. “Imagine that you have been thirsty for so long that you have forgotten everything else, that there is nothing in the world but agony. Then you see a woman who has all the water she could ever want to drink. You would hate her for it and wish to see her dead.”

  “A grim fate,” said Kyralion.

  “Yes,” said Third. “It was.”

  “Why do you think she said to go south?” said Ridmark.

  “I have no idea,” said Third with a shake of her head. “She is insane, that is clear. Perhaps she knows that south is the only clear path open to us, and she wants to keep us alive for the sport of it.”

  “We need to move,” said Ridmark. “None of the Throne Guards got away, but the Scythe did. She’ll tell her masters where we are, and they’ll come for us in force.”

  “And I think we can assume,” said Third, “that one or more of the Maledicti are with the muridach host.”

  “Yes,” said Ridmark.

  The others approached. Third turned a critical eye over them, checking for injuries, but it seemed they had come unscathed through the skirmish against the Throne Guards. Though Calliande had likely healed any wounds they had taken.

  “We will need to move in haste, won’t we?” said Krastikon.

  “We shall,” said Ridmark.

  “If we do, we can reach Cathair Avamyr before sundown,” said Kyralion.

  “Magatai,” said Ridmark. “Can Throne Guards usually regenerate like that?”

  “They cannot, friend Ridmark,” said Magatai. “Magatai has never seen a muridach that could heal itself in such a fashion. He has shot many muridachs through the eyes, but they never get up again.” He spat upon the ground, and Northwind let out a disapproving squawk. “It is cheating. When Magatai kills a man, he should stay dead.”

  “I happen to agree,” said Tamlin.

  “This might solve the mystery,” said Calliande, holding up a leather bottle. “Every single one of the Throne Guards carried one.” She poured it out, and a thick black slime spattered against the ground. A few blades of the tall grass withered and turned black. “It’s an alchemical elixir, but it seems the main ingredient is troll blood. That explains why their fur was falling out, and those scaly patches on their skin. Once the Throne Guards ingested enough of this, the only way to kill them is with fire or acid.”

  “Ratmen that regenerate,” said Magatai. “While Magatai thrives on challenges, this is rather more challenge than he would prefer.”

  “Agreed,” said Ridmark. “Let’s get moving. I would prefer not to be here when the Scythe returns with friends.”

  Third nodded and sheathed her swords, and she glanced again to the north.

  She suspected the Scythe would return sooner than she might wish.

  “I am glad you are not hurt,” said Kyralion, his voice quiet.

  A shiver of emotion went through Third. She presented a calm mask to the world, and after nearly a thousand years of life, her emotions did not come and go quickly. To her, the emotions of someone like Kalussa Pendragon were like weather, come and gone in the blink of an eye. But within Third’s mind, her emotions were like glaciers, huge and vast and implacable. She loved Mara and Ridmark and Calliande and their children, and she would slaughter nations before she let anyone hurt them.

  Something similar shuddered through her ancient mind as she looked at Kyralion.

  But there were no words in any of the languages she knew to describe the emotions.

  “Thank you,” said Third.

  ###

  In the twisted world of the Durance that had once been constructed by the Sovereign, Morigna opened her eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

  Not that she actually needed to breathe. Nor did she actually have a body that required air. But some memories were ingrained into her spirit, and she still took deep breaths when concentrating.

  It would have been amusing, under other circumstances.

  Right now, the circumstances were dire enough.

  Morigna stood in the circle of black standing stones that imprisoned her within the Durance. In all directions stood the mist-choked forest, and in the distance, she saw jagged black mountains. From time to time Morigna glimpsed the creatures that dwelled in the forest, saw their glowing eyes staring at her.

  She felt no fear of them. They couldn’t hurt her.

  Nor could the mad dwarven smith Irizidur who wandered endlessly through the forest, muttering to himself about how it had gone wrong, it all gone so wrong. Sometimes the creatures caught Irizidur and tore him apart, and his screams lasted for days.

  But he always healed. That was the nature of the Durance, to ensure that its prisoners never, ever escaped their torment.

  Morigna would have felt sorry for the wretched dwarf, but it was his pride and folly that had started the War of the Seven Swords, that had laid the path the servants of the New God now walked.

  Well. She felt a little sorry for him. Mercy had never been Morigna’s strong suit, but she was learning.

  Right now, though, her whole attention was upon the Shield Knight and his companions.

  Death was closing around them from all sides. Ridmark had escaped the trap the Maledicti had set for him in Kalimnos, but only barely. Now by ill chance, he and the Keeper and their allies had been drawn into the war between the muridachs and the gray elves.

  That was another plot of the New God and its Maledicti minions, but Ridmark and Calliande might be slain in the impending downfall of the gray elves.

  And if they were defeated, there would be no one to stop the rise of the New God, no one at all.

  The Shield Knight and the Keeper were halfway to the answer. They had figured out some of the truth, had seen through the Masked One’s veil of lies and shadows. They would figure it out in time, Morigna knew.

  But they had to stay alive long enough to discover the truth, and if they died with the gray elves, the New God would rise unopposed to devour the world.

  Morigna stared at the tapestry of fate, watching the shadows the past and the present cast upon the future.

  In nearly every possible future, Ridmark, Calliande, and all their companions perished with the gray elves, and there was nothing Morigna could do to stop it.

  Unless…

  There was a potential future that did not end in defeat, a single path where they did not die.

  Morigna’s first attempt had worked. Even within her prison, she had been able to reach out and touch the mind of the Scythe, and the tormented soul of the
urdhracos had repeated her message.

  Perhaps now Morigna could reach the mind of the woman who stood at the heart of the storm.

  For there was one potential future left where the Shield Knight and the Keeper did not die, and the woman Third was at the heart of that future.

  “Third,” said Morigna. “The hybrid. The lady of war. The former urdhracos.”

  She was the woman of flames the Augurs of the gray elves had seen in their vision, and that vision had terrified them.

  For Third had the power to save the gray elves or to destroy them, and even Morigna did not know how Third would choose.

  And Third was Morigna’s last hope of saving the Shield Knight and the Keeper and stopping the rise of the New God.

  She began the spell to reach beyond the walls of the Durance.

  In the distance, Irizidur started screaming again.

  Chapter 4: Cathair Avamyr

  They pushed hard for the rest of the day, moving south as fast as they could manage.

  Ridmark kept everyone close together. He was tempted to send Magatai and Kyralion and Third to scout, but he dismissed the idea. If another attack came, they had better odds if they were together. For that matter, if parties of muridach scouts were moving through the plains, anyone caught alone would be at risk. Third could hold her own against the Scythe, but Magatai and Kyralion would not. If the urdhracos caught them alone, she would kill them. For that matter, if the Scythe brought more Throne Guards to help her, not even Third could win against so many.

  No, better to stay together.

  And as the sun began to dip towards the horizon to the west, they caught their first sight of the ruins of Cathair Avamyr.

  “Dear God,” said Calliande, her amazement plain.

  Ridmark agreed with the feeling.

  To the south rose a broad, shield-like hill. The hill had been shaped into four terraces, making it look like a shallow step pyramid.