Markal expected an angry retort, or even surprise and worry, but her expression didn’t change. She’d apparently wrestled with this question already.
“This is a possibility. And there is error to consider, as well. I thought at first that Memnet was the sorcerer, after all. But I will say this. At least three different times in the mountains, warnings from Soultrup saved my life. Once again when I learned the wights were chasing your friends down the road from Syrmarria. And it led us here. What do you make of that?”
“So you’ll seek out the sorcerer and kill him?” Markal asked. “That is your plan?”
“Yes.”
“And when you plunge your blade into his chest and his soul is bound to Soultrup? What then? You’ll have a necromancer trapped within, someone who has proven powerful enough to mount an assault on Memnet the Great and his gardens. You’ll lose the sword.”
Bronwyn nodded grimly. “It means my death, Markal. Indeed, I am planning on falling on my own sword the moment the task is done.”
“You are? Why?”
But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Once trapped inside, the sorcerer would turn the sword to evil. The sword would fling itself into the hands of an enemy. Only an equally powerful soul could prevent that from happening.
Bronwyn of Arvada intended to carry on her struggle against the sorcerer, and that meant her own death and imprisonment within the red sword.
Chapter Fourteen
The three apprentices were exhausted by morning. They’d passed the night sitting in a circle in the shrine of the Golden Pavilion, heads bowed, reading the archivist’s writing by moonlight. Whenever they parsed out a new line, they spent an hour, sometimes two, chanting it in unison, using their combined efforts to fix it in their memories.
As the first rays of sun crept over the woods to the east and gleamed off the small lake, one of the acolytes scaled the platform. He pulled back the sleeves of his saffron-colored robe, drew the beam suspended on ropes, and let it fall against the massive bell. It let out a deep, sonorous ring that echoed through the still morning air.
Still, the apprentices kept up their labors. It was an unusually slippery incantation, and even after an exhausting night of work, Nathaliey struggled to contain the words. At last, Narud lifted his head.
“I have it.”
“Do you?” Chantmer asked. “Repeat it, then.”
Narud did so. It sounded nearly perfect.
“Good. You will say the spell. Nathaliey and I will lend our strength.” Chantmer stood, rolled the sheet of vellum, and tucked it into his robe. “Come. We must hurry before it is forgotten.”
Nathaliey’s body creaked as she straightened herself. Her joints felt frozen, and her feet tingled when she put weight on them. She stumbled down the stairs to where Chantmer was already slipping on his sandals and did the same. The two of them walked ahead, while Narud brought up the rear, muttering the incantation under his breath.
“It will take our combined power,” Chantmer told her. “And that’s if Narud can hold the incantation.”
“We can manage.” Nathaliey gathered her confidence. The earlier she began to build her will, the better.
“I would even welcome Markal’s contribution,” Chantmer said. “Small as it is. But as he is not here, we must draw strength where we can. From unlikely sources, if you will.”
“You mean the acolytes?”
This brought a dismissive wave of the hand. “They are useless. No, I mean the gift left to us by the master.”
Nathaliey stopped and gave him a sharp look. “The orb again?”
“Shh, keep walking. You will distract Narud.”
“You never should have recovered it from the desert. Should have left it there for the master when he awakened.”
“What if our enemies had found it? It was lying there in the sand. Anyone could have scooped it up.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So simple? You walked up, and there it was, glinting in the sunlight.”
“Well, no. I searched for some time. It didn’t want to be found, I’ll admit. But with a bit of clothing from the master’s cottage and a seeking spell—”
“Something anyone can cast,” she said.
“Go ahead, be sarcastic if you want. But I saw fit to recover it, and I saw fit to study it, learn from it. That’s more initiative than any of the rest of you showed.”
“And what did that gain you? You tried to use it once already, and you failed miserably. You lost the thing to Bronwyn, remember?”
“The barbarian is long gone, and there is no risk now. I have sussed out the secrets of its use, and I’ve even stored a bit of my power in it. Not a lot, but more than Markal would add, were he here.”
“If Markal were here, we wouldn’t have exhausted ourselves trying to memorize the blasted incantation. That’s worth more than anything we’ll claw out of the orb. It’s the master’s, not ours. We were never taught to use it.”
“Neither were we forbidden.”
“That’s because it never left Memnet’s possession,” she said.
“And I shall return it the instant he awakens.” Chantmer smiled wryly. “Don’t you worry. Meanwhile, can I count on your cooperation not to disrupt matters at an inopportune moment?”
“Hmm.” Nathaliey considered. Would Chantmer successfully use Memnet’s Orb? Probably not, but she didn’t see the harm in it. “What is its secret?”
“Are you thinking to use it yourself?”
“How jealously your mind works. Of course not. I want to be sure there’s no danger, is all.”
“Rest your mind on that score, Nathaliey. The orb is quite simple, like a wine flask that can be filled and emptied, only the wine in this case is magical power. It’s the strength we draw from our pores. You fill the orb at your leisure and drain it when you need its strength.”
“I know all of this,” she said, growing impatient. They’d almost reached the inner gardens and Memnet’s buried head, and hopefully the rest of him, too. “But how do you fill and empty it?”
“There is a gate that opens both ways. A sluice to an irrigation canal.”
“I thought you said it was a wine bottle. Do wine bottles typically have gates?”
“Very well, it’s a cork,” Chantmer said. “When I take the orb in my hand, I can feel the cork with my mind. It takes some effort to open and close the orb, but once you do, you can fill it or drain it as you wish.”
This was all rather vague, but she guessed Chantmer was speaking in metaphorical terms for a reason. If there was one thing that fed his insecurity, it was jealousy of Markal’s command of the arcanum of their craft. In spite of Chantmer’s digs about Markal’s frailties—an accurate criticism, sadly—there was nothing Chantmer knew that Markal didn’t understand more profoundly.
Until now. Learning the orb’s secrets gave him an advantage over not only Markal, but Nathaliey and Narud, as well. Chantmer wouldn’t be pleased to surrender it to the master when the time came.
A keeper was manuring the flowerbeds when Nathaliey and her companions arrived, and the air was pungent with the scent. The old man leaned on his spade to watch as the three encircled the mound of dirt where Memnet was buried. Chantmer handed Nathaliey the sheet of vellum.
She glanced at the keeper, not wanting to have an audience in case they failed. “I am sorry to disturb your work, friend, but could you give us privacy? We have difficult magic to attempt and need full concentration.”
The keeper glanced at the mound of dirt, and his eyes widened. He gave a curt nod, gathered his spade and cart, and left the apprentices alone in the walled garden. Nathaliey turned her full attention to the vellum.
Even after a night of study, the words were swimming across the page, and it took intense concentration to bring them into focus. She read them, listened to Narud repeat the incantation, and helped Chantmer correct his pronunciation. It took a few minutes before they jointly agreed that it was time. Nathaliey dropped to her
knees and scooped away the thick black earth from around the master’s head.
Memnet was moving even before she got the soil away from his lips and nose. He spit out dirt and lifted his eyes to take in the scene.
“Where is Markal?”
“He’s not here,” she said. “He rode off with the barbarian.”
“And you’ve come to raise me anyway? That is what you’re here for, is it not? What makes you think you can manage without him?”
“One of the archivists sent instructions, Master,” Chantmer said. “A spell from the Secret Vault. We have to try.”
“Which one?”
Chantmer opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again. “Um, it’s . . .”
“Animach na regram,” Nathaliey said. She suppressed a smile.
“Ah, yes. To raise the dead. Of course. But I mean, which archivist? And how can you be sure you’ve got it correct?”
“It was Jethro, Master,” she said. “We have been practicing all night. Narud will attempt it.”
“Hmm, yes. Perhaps. I assume there is good reason for doing so rather than letting the garden bring me back in its own time.”
“Jethro found something in an old scroll that says it’s necessary to complete your rebirth.”
“Really? He said that?” Memnet yawned. “I would need to read the scroll in question.”
Nathaliey took the sheet of vellum from Chantmer and held it out for Memnet to read, but the wizard only yawned again and shook his head.
“No, my apprentice, I cannot read that now.” His eyes drooped shut, then opened again. “Why now? I am so sleepy. Can’t this wait a few weeks?”
Nathaliey started to explain about the wights, and how the paladin claimed that there was a sorcerer commanding them. But before she could get far, Memnet’s eyes closed again, and he could not be roused.
“Oh, come,” Chantmer said in a peevish tone. “Can’t he stay awake for five minutes?”
“We could wait,” she said.
“No, we cannot. Narud? You have it?”
They ran through the spell again, and this time Narud found the words more quickly. The three apprentices placed their hands palms down. Chantmer took a step back, putting himself at Narud’s shoulder. He held the orb in one hand.
Nathaliey suppressed a frown when she saw the orb. She gathered her will, and Narud began the chant. This time, there was magic to it.
#
Markal and Bronwyn saddled their horses and set off at first light. It had rained during the night, driving the smell of charred forest from the air, as well as putting out the last smoldering fires, but also turning the burned gash into a slurry of mud and wet ash. They slogged through the muck on the edge of the gash as it tore through the heart of the Sacred Forest.
About an hour later, Markal spotted movement ahead. He got Bronwyn’s attention, and they urged their horses among the trees for cover.
The paladin touched her sword hilt and shook her head. “Nothing from Soultrup. What do you see?”
“Some men on the highway,” Markal said. They’d taken to speaking of the destruction as if it were already a road and not merely a burned-out swath of forest. “Milling about. I see a spear or pike. I’ll wager they’re sentinels or scouts.”
“We’ll have to get past them, but I don’t want to waste more time in the forest. It’s too thick on either side. Be a lot quicker to go straight forward.”
Markal squinted and waited for movement from the men on the road so he could count them. “There are only three. Can you manage?”
“By ‘manage,’ you mean, can I kill them? Of course. It’s not a question of managing.”
“I don’t like killing either, but we might not have a choice.”
Bronwyn’s horse tossed its head impatiently, and she put a gloved hand against its neck until it calmed. “That is not what I mean. I don’t delight in the shedding of blood, but what I mean is that I don’t want Soultrup to do the killing. The last thing I need is to bind more souls to it.”
“You hacked up those wights easily enough.”
“They were the wandering dead, no more likely to be evil than good. The ones I destroyed had been forced to serve the sorcerer against their will.”
“I would say the same about whoever is guarding the road.”
“And the wights were peasants and foot soldiers,” she continued. “Weak-willed—they didn’t change the balance of power within the sword. Only the strong matter. These guards might be conscripts, or they might be something else. I’d rather not find out.”
Bronwyn reached over her shoulder and touched the sword hilt as she spoke, and Markal found himself wondering how many souls were trapped inside. A dozen? Hundreds?
“If that’s the way you feel, why is Soultrup your only weapon? And I don’t count that dagger you use as a fork. Why not carry another sword, an extra weapon for light duty?”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Markal, if you had a magical sword, what would you do? Would you pull out some other blade and risk your life? No, Soultrup is not going to stay in its bloody scabbard. What I try to do is avoid the fight in the first place. When I cannot, I fight to win.”
“And the sorcerer?”
“Oh, I’ll fight him. He is going to die.”
“And what makes you think he’s unguarded? Are you telling me you can’t kill any of his scouts, soldiers, and personal guards to get to him?”
“Why don’t you prove yourself worthwhile instead of standing there babbling? You clear the guards from the road. I assume your master has been teaching you something—put it to use, why don’t you?”
“You mean a flash of lightning, an earthquake, a fireball—that kind of thing?”
“Exactly. Or what about those hammers your tall friend sent flying my way? Knock in a few skulls and we’re done. Soultrup stays sheathed.”
“No, I won’t do that.”
“What kind of apprentice wizard are you?”
“When given a choice, you keep your sword sheathed, and I do the same with my magic. We each have our own reasons.”
“So you can’t. That’s what you’re saying. You are incapable of throwing hammers at our enemies. Well, then. How fortunate that you’ve joined me on the road. I’d hate to have one of your friends by my side with all of their useful spells.”
Markal bristled. Nevertheless, she’d set him to thinking. There might be something he could manage. He didn’t need to kill these soldiers, after all. There were lesser spells to call forth, ones that only required the trickle of magic he could control. But which spell?
Bronwyn studied his face. “Ah, yes. So you can manage. I thought so. You only needed the proper encouragement to stiffen your spine.”
That wasn’t it at all, but he was too busy turning over the words of the incantation to argue. Could he cast it from this distance? Probably not. He needed to get closer.
Markal slipped from the saddle and dropped to the ground. “Stay here.”
“What is it? What should I prepare for?”
“An opportunity to get past, that’s all. I can’t throw hammers, but I can make our enemies drop their trousers, so to speak. I’ll wave to you when it’s time. Bring my horse—we’ll only have a few minutes.”
He moved along the edge of the burned gash, where the charred trunks stood in skeletal lines. As he moved, he whispered a small spell to deepen the shadows around him. He seemed almost a part of them as he moved.
You managed that easily enough, didn’t you?
Sure, but that’s because it didn’t matter. It was a little thing, a trifle that had cost a single drop of blood. So minor that if the guards were unusually alert, they’d spot him all the same. But what about in a few moments, when the time came to work some serious magic?
He had to summon his confidence. Otherwise, the whole thing would fizzle, and he’d only alert the enemy to his presence. Meanwhile, Bronwyn was well behind and unable to help should he find himself in trouble.
As Markal drew closer, he caught bits of the Veyrian conversation. They weren’t just milling about on the road, they were discussing where to build a palisade to guard an encampment of soldiers and their supply wagons. The taller one, who wore a gray cloak instead of the scarlet and black of the other two, wanted a watchtower, as well. The other two didn’t seem to think it worth the effort. They were deep in the forest and had several hundred soldiers; no bandits would attack them here.
The conversation was intense enough that Markal came to a position on the edge of the gash directly opposite without any of the three glancing in his direction. He was tempted to sit and listen to see what he could learn, but the shadows around him had begun to soften under the sun’s penetrating rays, and he would soon be revealed.
Markal rolled back his sleeves and closed his eyes to concentrate. Self-doubt roiled to the surface. To focus, he whispered one of the master’s favorite mantras, about an immovable mountain. He resisted opening his eyes to check if he’d been spotted, knowing it would break his concentration.
I am not an archivist or a keeper. I follow the Crimson Path. My pain gives me strength.
Power rose in his pores like a thousand pricks from a knife, and blood rolled down his forearms to his downturned palms. He spoke the incantation in the old tongue.
Let your limbs turn weary. May sleep cloud your mind.
For a moment, one solitary instant, the doubt vanished. And then his old curse returned. Much of his power fell away, but enough remained that it left him tingling as it departed, a prickle on his skin like standing in the open sky beneath a dry thunderstorm. This was it, this was what the others felt.
Markal opened his eyes to see the first two of the soldiers going down. One fell so hard it was as if the bones had been dissolved from his body. The other leaned against his spear like it was a staff and tried to hold himself upright as his legs buckled. He collapsed in a heap against the other one, the spear head clanking off his helmet. Already, the two men in red and black were down and rendered senseless.
The tall man in the gray cloak put up the biggest fight. He staggered, tried to catch himself, and then fell to his knees. He grabbed for the sword at his side as he went down, but collapsed with the others before he could draw it.
The Red Sword (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 1) Page 15