The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “Ready, boys?” she asked.

  “Give us your magic,” Chantmer said solemnly. “Make us swift.”

  Nathaliey nodded. “Let’s run.”

  Chapter Seven

  Markal roused himself from sleep a few hours after dusk. Mice crawled in the rafters of the small thatch-roof cottage, and outside, an owl hooted in the distance. His ears were not as sensitive as Narud’s, but if he listened carefully, he’d be able to hear a dozen other creatures snuffling through the woods outside, even catch bits of their thin, unfocused thoughts if he were especially attentive. He could smell them, too.

  It was remarkable how his senses had sharpened over the years. That was the first, most noticeable change after Memnet selected him. He’d never considered himself particularly observant, but rather the sort of boy who let the world drift by as he lost himself in daydreams. As the years passed, however, the improved senses made him take notice of all manner of curious things.

  He pulled on a tunic instead of his robe, tied it off with a leather cord, and put on leggings. When he was dressed, he unlatched the door and stepped outside, where a cool breeze prickled his skin. He turned his attention toward Memnet’s cabin a few hundred yards deeper into the woods on the forest path, where Bronwyn of Arvada had installed herself. It was tempting to whisper a spell to the wind and send the barbarian deeper into slumber, but he didn’t trust his magic, worried the spell would wake her instead. She’d battered through every other attempt to turn her aside, after all. Greater magic than his own.

  No, it was better to let nature take its course. Bronwyn had been on the road for many weeks, as evidenced by the state of her horse and provisions. There was no need for magic when a good bed and a supper of roast chicken, potatoes, and carrots served the same purpose.

  Markal followed the path in the opposite direction largely by feel until the trees thinned and the moon glimmered on the forest floor. He picked up the pace and shortly emerged from the woods at the edge of the lake. The moon reflected from its flat, mirrorlike surface and shimmered off the golden pavilion tucked against its shore. It looked so peaceful and beautiful that it was hard to remember the violence that had visited the shrine only a few hours earlier.

  There were still runes in place, symbols carved on flagstone paths and hidden behind vines on the walls. Even tree branches had been carefully pruned into the shape of wards to conceal or protect. To weaken enemies should they penetrate so far into the gardens.

  But the paladin with her red sword had destroyed much of their protection. The end result was like walking through a dilapidated fortress, with walls breached and iron-bound doors broken from their hinges.

  A few minutes later, Markal reached the mound of dirt in the walled garden where he’d been working when Bronwyn found him. Only then did he realize he’d left his spade in the shed next to his cottage. So he hiked his tunic, dropped to his knees, and used his hands to shovel away the dirt. The soil was warm and living against his skin. He shortly found his master’s head and cleared the soil more gently.

  “I have been sitting here thinking,” Memnet said the moment the dirt was clear from around his mouth.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Yes, and it’s quite boring down here. Can’t see a thing, can’t hear, can’t even take a breath—not that I need to breathe, curiously. But when I’m awake, there’s plenty of time to reflect. Not much else to do, to be honest.”

  “I could dig you out, or is it too soon?”

  “Not a wise idea. I’m as limp as an earthworm down here. Not sure I even have bones yet.”

  “How much longer will it be?”

  “Hard to say, this being the first time I’ve ever suffered decapitation. Let’s see. A week? Maybe two?” He lifted his eyes. They gleamed in the moonlight, and there was a familiar mischievous twinkle in them. “Is the Eriscoban gone?”

  “You mean the barbarian? No, she’s still in the gardens.”

  “Have you put her off her misguided attempt to finish the job our other friend very nearly managed?”

  “I think so. For now.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. After the indignity of being caught unaware in the desert, I should at least like the opportunity to defend myself this time. Tell me what you know.”

  Markal explained, starting with the details of Bronwyn’s attack on the gardens, and finishing with how she’d settled into Memnet’s cottage with a warning that other enemies were on their way. Markal thought she was sincere. The only part he didn’t share was how Chantmer had tried to use the master’s orb and lost it.

  A scowl crossed Memnet’s face when he finished. “No, I don’t like that at all.”

  “Do you mean Bronwyn, or are you worried about these other supposed enemies?”

  “Not that. I mean, yes to both of those things, but that isn’t what I mean.” He flinched. “There’s a blasted mole digging by my—get away from there!” He muttered an incantation, but his scowl only spread. “No good, I can’t—oh, thank the Brothers, it’s going away. You don’t want to know where the nasty thing was headed.”

  “I can guess.”

  “I swear, if he tries, I’m going to squeeze my buttocks together and crush the little blighter.”

  Markal laughed, before remembering why he’d come. “Master, what should I do?”

  “The garden feels weak,” Memnet said. “Can it resist another attack?”

  “It didn’t exactly resist the first one,” Markal pointed out. “Bronwyn strolled right in. The keepers will do what they can to repair our defenses. Narud and Chantmer went to Syrmarria to retrieve Nathaliey. She was in the libraries. When they return, they’ll help me hide the bridge. The barbarian’s crossing has left us vulnerable to discovery.”

  “If you collect all your magic in one place, you’re still not strong enough, the four of you together. Not to deflect a determined attack. It will take more than four apprentices.”

  “Three,” Markal said. “Three apprentices and an archivist.”

  “You are more than an archivist, my friend.”

  “Am I?” he asked. “I’m no better than Jethro, my head stuffed with knowledge and no power to call it forth.”

  “Don’t dismiss Jethro. He is stronger than you know. But anyway, you are. An archivist has no power. He contains the knowledge of the thing, but not the substance. That isn’t you, Markal. The magic flows through you in a great flood. You only need to learn how to control it. That will happen sooner or later.”

  Oh, really? When? Thirty years had passed, three full decades. What did he need, another thirty years? Maybe it would happen when Markal hit a hundred—is that what Memnet thought? And how soul-crushing would it be to reach an age when every non-wizard he’d ever known had died and yet still be an apprentice, still striving, still waiting to come into his strength? Better to abandon his dreams and settle for the role of archivist.

  “Have you been meditating?” the master asked. “Repeating your mantras?”

  “You sound like my mother, asking if I’d prayed to the gods before bedtime. Have I hung the cricket cage by my door so the Harvester won’t gather my soul?”

  “Well, have you? Do you go to the shrine every morning? Do you ring the bell to clear your mind?”

  “Not always,” Markal admitted. “We have no leader, no master.”

  “You are a leader. You are far more than a keeper, you are as knowledgeable as an archivist, and you have more power than a dozen acolytes.”

  “It does little good if the power can’t be controlled.” Markal got up and brushed off the dirt.

  “I can’t lift my head, you know. Come back down where I can stare into your eyes.” When Markal had obeyed, Memnet continued. “You are like a man with a stutter. There is a thought in your head, perfectly lucid, but when it reaches your tongue, it fumbles. The words break apart one on top of the other.”

  “I knew a man with a stutter,” Markal said. “He never lost it. Plagued him until the end of his
days.”

  “And I knew a man with a stutter, too. Me.”

  “You, Master? Do you mean that literally?”

  “Quite literally—I stuttered when I was a boy. Long before you were born. My great-aunt was a famous poet, an orator, and my father sent me to her to rid myself of the stutter. She taught me to master my tongue through concentration and practice until others were unable to sense the difference. That’s why you’ve never heard it.”

  “My lack of control is a stutter? I don’t think so.”

  “Give me a better metaphor, then.”

  Markal thought for a moment. “I’m a man on a swift horse, galloping down the road at breakneck speed. It is night, always night and pitch-black. The horse can’t see, and neither can I. The road is straight and flat and of good repair, but there are occasional holes in the surface. I might ride five minutes, or I might be almost to my destination, but the horse always steps in a hole. Down it goes, crying in pain and its leg shattered, and down I go with it.”

  Markal had invented the comparison on the spot, but it sounded right. This was how he felt releasing even the most basic spell. The power was there, he could feel it on his tongue and in the blood rising from his pores, but it always fell apart. A hint of doubt, of worry, of uncertainty. Of disbelief. Then it was gone.

  “Three apprentices or four, it doesn’t matter,” Markal said, not wishing to dwell any longer on his failings. “You say we’re not strong enough to fight.”

  “You would manage fine if they were the usual sorts who have tested us over the years—thieves, those curious sorts who search for the seat of our power, and the like. But the enemies who attacked Nathaliey and me on the road were different.”

  “Is that who we’re facing? These attackers Bronwyn warned me about?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Who are they? Who is sending them?”

  “I wouldn’t speculate.”

  “I know you’re speculating,” Markal said, “at least privately. Could you speculate aloud for a moment?”

  “Speculation wouldn’t help you defeat them, might even put more fear and doubt into your heart.”

  “In other words, you have information and you’re deliberately withholding it because you don’t think I can handle it.”

  “That is why I call you ‘apprentice’ and you call me ‘master.’”

  “And this is a lesson to teach me patience?”

  “Not at all. It’s to keep you from running around in a circle, screaming and waving your hands in the air. But enough of that. Your paladin friend is awake, and she is thinking about you. Soon enough, she’ll come see if you’re still in bed or if you’re up to mischief.”

  “How do you know that? I thought you couldn’t use your magic.”

  “Who said I used magic?” There was a shrug in Memnet’s tone, or maybe it was a wink.

  “So you’re speculating after all.”

  Memnet chuckled. “Very well, I shall indulge a little. Whatever brought Bronwyn of Arvada over the mountains, she’s very determined. And she has magic about her or she wouldn’t still be alive. The gardens would have destroyed her.”

  “I need her out of here before the attackers come,” Markal said. “At the very least, she’s going to distract me when I’m fighting for my life. Worse, she might throw in her lot with whoever appears.”

  “Or, you could ask her to fight by your side.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “It’s amazing how cozy it is, lying here in the dirt,” Memnet said. “The ground is warm and comfortable—it’s only when the vermin dig their way in to take a look that I wish I could move my limbs and shoo them off.”

  “Well?” Markal pressed. “She’s already killed one of the keepers, so she’s no friend of ours. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “If she meant to kill you, she’d have done it. She’d have murdered us all and burned the garden. It seems to be within her power. Talk to her, explain your predicament.”

  “No need to explain—she’s the one who told me. Seemed rather gleeful, if you ask me.”

  “Some people need to be wanted, that’s all. Find out what Bronwyn has come for and convince her you can give it to her.”

  “You mean just ask her straight out? Why would she tell me now?”

  “Until you’ve asked, you’ll never know, will you?” Memnet yawned. “Here it comes. Time to bury me again and let me sleep. And do try to keep the enemies off me for a few more days. It would be very helpful to my own personal goal of not dying.”

  “Wait,” Markal said. “What about Syrmarria? Could we ask Omar for help?”

  “Are you sure it’s not our illustrious khalif who is sending these assassins in the first place? In which case, I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “You really don’t think . . . ?” Markal began, but it was too late. The master’s head had slumped to one side, and he began to snore loudly. “Oh, come on, wake up, will you? Don’t tell me you can’t if you want to. I know you can hear me in there.”

  In response to this, Memnet only snored louder than ever. The master might look like a young man, but Markal hadn’t heard a snore that loud since the final years of his grandfather’s life. The old man could ring a bell from a mile away.

  That was one good thing about covering the master back up, Markal thought as he scooped dirt over Memnet’s head. It would muffle that infernal snoring.

  Chapter Eight

  It was around midnight when Nathaliey felt the first stirring of exhaustion in her limbs. The three apprentices had been running for hours. They had crossed the orchards outside Syrmarria, climbed a gently rising plain to the wheat fields of the Narpine Valley, and run through Temple Vale, with its shrines and monasteries nothing but silent shadows at this time of night.

  A full moon guided their path, and their sharp eyesight revealed ruts, dips in the road, and even a broken and abandoned wagon wheel to be dodged and sidestepped. Nathaliey’s spell had strengthened their muscles, fortified their hearts and lungs, and toughened their bare feet against the constant pounding of the road. With her magic, they traveled faster than any horse could have managed in the darkness.

  But the spell wouldn’t last forever. Not even the four hours she figured it would take to run the thirty miles from Syrmarria to the master’s gardens. The last stretch they would have to travel on their own strength, even as the cost of her spell began to take its toll in aching muscles and burning lungs.

  By her estimation, they were still five miles from home, as they had not yet reached the hills leading to the bridge over Blossom Creek and the final descent to the gardens. The bridge was safety. Before the barbarian’s arrival, no enemy had ever crossed it. It was a hidden doorway, a drawbridge, and a battlement, all in one. But after running twenty-five miles over rutted, uneven roads, how could they manage another five without magic to aid them?

  Chantmer was the first to pull up. Here, the River Nye spread across several square miles of flat, marshy ground, and during the rainy season, the road above its bank was often flooded and impassable. The river wasn’t carrying as much water these days, and the marshes had subsided, leaving clumps of dry, dead grass. Ghost lights danced in the distance.

  Nathaliey came to a stop by Chantmer’s side, bent, and took deep, gulping breaths. The air was damp and smelled of rotting vegetation.

  Narud trotted to a stop. “We have to keep going,” he said.

  Chantmer wheezed and shook his head. “First, rest.”

  Nathaliey straightened her back. “Are we still being pursued?”

  This was to Narud, but rather than answering straightaway, he cocked his head, sniffed at the air, and peered at the road behind them. He looked undecided.

  “We have to assume we are,” Nathaliey said. “Keep going until we reach the bridge. We’re not safe here.”

  Chantmer shook his head. “We’re not safe until we’re inside the garden walls, and perhaps not even then.” He stopped talking to gasp for more
air. “But I can’t keep running.”

  On this, they were agreed, and so they set off walking. Nathaliey’s legs burned and her heart was hammering away. Narud kept looking behind and sniffing the air, but when pressed, admitted he didn’t detect pursuit. Chantmer, after a brief period where it seemed like he’d sit in the middle of the road like a balky mule, picked up the pace, and they were soon striding along at a near trot.

  “I can’t go on much longer, either,” Nathaliey confessed. “I feel faint, and my stomach is churning like I’m going to vomit.”

  “I’ve recovered some of my magical strength,” Chantmer said. “I might be able to cast that spell again, if you can help me recall the words. It will be weaker the second time around, but it might be enough. Could you lend me what you have?”

  “I have nothing to lend. I’m still spent from the first time I cast it. Narud, what about you?”

  “We’ll need our magic to fight the enemy, not to run faster,” Narud said. He glanced behind. “Our pursuers draw near.”

  “I thought we’d lost them,” Nathaliey said.

  “I never said that. I didn’t detect them before. Now I do. Look.”

  The road behind was a silky black ribbon through the marshes, illuminated by the full moon and the flickering swamp lights. Two of the lights were larger than the others, and growing. No, not growing. Coming closer.

  “Blood of the Path, what is that?” Chantmer asked.

  Nathaliey only knew one thing that looked like swamp lights. “That can’t be. They look like . . .”

  “Wights,” Narud said.

  She saw them now, two glowing blue figures coming up the road toward them. Two figures on horses. Undead spirits riding on undead horses.

  “Wights don’t hunt the living,” Chantmer said.

  “All the same, we’ll be in trouble if they reach us,” she pointed out.

  “What is the spell for chasing off wights?” he asked.