The Sworn fkc-1

by Gail Z. Martin

Screams rent the darkness. They came from the shapes in the forest, and rose high and frenzied above the panicked shouts of the two captives. The screams were followed by a deep, rumbling laughter that was cold and menacing.

  “Hold your place!” Alin shouted. “They’re not dimonns. They’re ghosts.”

  A hail of rocks came from the shadows that slipped among the trees. They struck men and horses with force, and bounced against Jair’s shield hard enough to send a shock through his shield arm.

  Behind him, Jair could hear the sounds of battle as the foot soldiers engaged the Black Robes. But as much as he wanted to take part in the fight, exposing their flank and their mages to the darkness from the forest seemed a bad idea, especially now that their disembodied attackers proved themselves able to draw blood.

  In the moonlight, Jair saw shapes among the shadows. The oppressive sense that something awful was about to happen grew stronger, as did the primal urge to flee. The wailing from the shadowed shapes became louder. In a rush of cold wind, the shadows became blade-thin, rushing at them from the forest to streak among them and through them.

  Jair cried out as a dead coldness passed through his body, making his heart seize as if it would stop altogether. For an instant, Jair could not breathe and his terror was complete. Then the coldness vanished, but not before Jair’s horse reared in utter panic, nearly bucking Jair from his saddle.

  The dark shapes circled them, and the soldiers positioned themselves in a line, facing outward, creating a barrier between the forest and the battle. The shapes grew more solid, stalking them now from the shadows. Whatever the shapes were now, they had the form of men, though their eyes burned like fire. Some had features, and others were like a starless night cut in the shape of a man. The shapes stretched and contorted as if to prove that they were not bound by the constraints on living men. One of the shadow shapes stretched out its arm toward Jair, and the clawed hand moved toward him, though the arm grew impossibly long. The entire shape slowly elongated, growing gaunt and huge, menacing in its reach.

  By the cries of the men around him, Jair knew he was not the only one to be terrified by the apparitions. He struggled to keep control of his frightened horse. Maneuvering as best he could to evade the outstretched hand, Jair was mindful not to expose his back.

  The shadows seemed to grow thicker and more solid. This time, the shapes that passed among them felt cold and firm. One of the warriors screamed as he was abruptly pulled from his saddle and flung to the ground. Alin, sword already swinging, charged toward the shadows. Solid as they had seemed as they passed him, his blade made no contact, though it disappeared into blackness. Unseen hands shoved Alin backward. Jair charged forward on horseback, only to have his horse rear, eyes wide with panic. Shadows swarmed over the soldier on the ground, and it looked to Jair as if they slipped into his mouth and nose, slipped underneath his skin. The downed soldier gave a terrified shriek.

  Darkness poured like blood from the soldier’s eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, and when the darkness cleared, the man lay unmoving on the ground.

  Alin had regained his feet and was advancing slowly, stelian upraised. “What the hell are we fighting?”

  Before Jair could answer, more of the shrieking shapes swooped from the forest. There was nowhere to run, and Jair had no intention of abandoning their line and opening their companions to a second enemy. Anger filled him, and Jair shouted a battle cry with all his might. He ran at the blackness, leaping over the body of his fallen comrade, and he realized something as he hit the ground.

  The dead soldier was not wearing Talwyn’s charm.

  Shapes rushed him, and utter coldness filled his body as the darkness slipped beneath his skin. Cold hands touched him, grabbing at his arms and legs. It was hard to breathe. His lungs felt as if he had gulped frozen air, and there was a weight on his chest. Jair staggered and fell to his knees. Spirits slipped against and through his skin like hundreds of blades. Jair reached beneath his tunic and touched the talisman as the darkness closed around him. The talisman flared with a blue light. As the glow grew brighter, the darkness drew back, rushing away from him. He gasped for breath, clutching the amulet, which was now almost too bright to see.

  “Use your amulet!” Jair shouted.

  Suddenly, the glade was filled with light. Blue-white light streamed from the amulets of the soldiers, which they held out in front of them to drive back the darkness. Jair realized all of the men were now on foot. They closed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, holding the amulets out in front of them. One step at a time, in unison, they advanced on the darkness, forcing it back into the forest.

  “We can hold them back, but for how long?” Alin shouted. “It’s a standoff.”

  Just then, a golden glow like sudden dawn flared between them and the shadows. A clear, bell-like chime seemed to sound from everywhere and nowhere. Screams rose from the darkness, but where the shadows had shrieked before to terrify their victims, now the cries that came from the darkness sounded of pain and terror.

  The shadows fled into the tree line. Alin, Jair, and the others did not take their eyes from the edge of the forest until they were certain the shadows were gone. Only then did Jair turn to see Talwyn behind them, her arms upraised, face turned toward the sky, lips moving in a chant. Another blast of the golden glow streamed along the floor of the forest, beneath the lowest branches. It illuminated the forest floor like daylight, showing it to be clear of threat.

  Talwyn lowered her arms and fell silent. Jair wondered if the others could see how much it drained Talwyn to work her magic. He could see the strain in her eyes, though he said nothing.

  “Thank you,” Alin said, and his voice was not entirely steady. “What were those things?”

  Talwyn’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “The restless dead. The blood magic of the Black Robes calls many things to its power. Restless and malicious spirits are hungry for warmth. And while they don’t have the power of dimonns, you see that they’re dangerous, nonetheless.”

  “Gather the wounded,” Alin ordered. Out of the soldiers who had ridden with them, three had been injured during the encounter with the spirits. Several needed to bind up gashes before they would be ready to ride, and the healers came forward to tend them. More than one man cast wary glances toward the forest, expecting the spirits to return, as the healers bent to their work.

  “You did well to hold the spirits here,” Talwyn said. “The Black Robes put up quite a fight. Their mage was more powerful than I expected, and it kept Mihei and me busy, so it’s good that we didn’t have the malicious dead to worry about as well.” She looked back toward the barrows.

  “We took some casualties until we were able to strike down their mage. No one’s dead, but our healers will be busy for a while.”

  “And the Black Robes?” Jair asked.

  Talwyn sighed. “One died in the battle. That was their mage. Seven died fighting. We took the other four for judgment. They had already killed the man they took prisoner. The woman will need a mind healer. And from the preparations they’d made for the ritual, they’d obviously killed some other people. We had more body parts than bodies,” she said with a grimace.

  “You’re certain they’re Durim? Were they trying to open the barrow?” Alin pressed.

  Talwyn looked tired, and Jair could hear the fatigue in her voice. “Yes, they’re definitely Durim. We collected enough of their trappings to tell that they’re part of the cult of Shanthadura. And from everything we found, we’re betting they thought their power was stronger now because it’s the eve of the Moon Feast.”

  They were walking within the area that had been inside the red dome. Jair could see scorch marks on the ground where the powers had clashed. The pyre still burned, and the air was heavy with the stench of burning flesh. The three cornstalk wheels had burned to cinders. Jair’s boot kicked something, and he looked down, bending for a better view. A human figure made from corn husks lay near his boot, and as Jair looked around the area, he s
aw others like it. Some were painted with symbols, while others had been dyed in colors. Many of the figures had been maimed, missing limbs or heads, or pierced through with nails. The wind shifted, carrying away the noxious odor of the pyre, and Jair caught the strong smell of camphor, rosemary, and thyme.

  “Talwyn, have a look.” Jair motioned for her to see. Talwyn knelt next to the pile of figures Jair had made.

  She let her hands hover above the poppets for a moment, and Jair knew she was sensing for magic. Then she opened her eyes and began to gingerly handle the figures, turning them and frowning as she looked at the symbols.

  “This gives me a whole new perspective on those spirits you fought,” Talwyn said, sitting back on her haunches. “We assumed the Durim called them to attack you. But I don’t think that’s what happened. This is going to sound really strange, but I think you actually saved those spirits.”

  Jair looked at her in utter confusion. “How do you figure?”

  Talwyn held up the corn husk figure in her hand. It was a reddish brown, and Jair bet the coloring came from blood. The figure had been struck through with a wooden nail. “The Durim weren’t content with the people and animals they killed. They were trying to raise real power here, and they wanted more sacrifices. These dolls are symbolic sacrifices. That’s why they’ve been ‘killed’ in effigy.” She looked around the battlefield in horror. “By the Dark Lady! It’s true what the old stories say about Shanthadura’s followers. Their appetite for blood is never sated.”

  “Where did the spirits come in?”

  Talwyn looked toward the now-quiet forest. “They would have become sacrifices, too. It’s the Moon Feast tomorrow. We celebrate the harvest from the crops in the fields. But there are old stories about another harvest that used to be held, long ago, before the ways of the Sacred Lady came to these lands.” She looked to Jair and met his eyes. “They called it the ‘soul harvest.’ ”

  “What’s a ‘soul harvest’?”

  Talwyn’s eyes took on a faraway look. “The stories say that the Shanthadura priests-the Black Robes-would cull the herds, taking out the sick, the old, and the lame. Those animals would be eaten, or offered as sacrifices. But they would do the same among the people, reducing the number of mouths to be fed over the winter. Those people became sacrifices, too. There would be bonfires, and sometimes, a huge effigy of Shanthadura, made of cornstalks and branches, and in its belly, some of the people would be burned alive.” She swallowed, then went on. “The Black Robes used that blood magic to bind the spirits of the dead. They called it a ‘soul harvest.’ They drew on the power of the souls to feed their own power, destroying the souls and robbing them of their rest. The weak souls they destroyed, but the stronger souls escaped them. Those they caught and couldn’t destroy they ‘hollowed.’ They left them like disembodied ashtenerath, wandering, mindless, out of control. They became like minor dimonns, tortured things that preyed on the living.” She shivered, and Jair put his arm around her shoulders.

  “So those spirits we fought were actually being called to their destruction? The Black Robes would have hollowed them?”

  Talwyn nodded. “That’s my guess.”

  Jair looked around the battlefield. Emil and Alin’s men had carried away the Sworn’s wounded and had stacked the bodies of the dead Shanthadura priests in a row. The survivors were bound and hobbled and thrown over their horses. Talwyn looked up sharply.

  “Don’t burn the Black Robes or the corn figures!” Talwyn rose and strode over to where Alin froze, midmotion, just about to throw the body he had hefted onto the pyre.

  “But Cheira Talwyn-”

  Talwyn shook her head. “The pyre’s been spelled. If we add bodies, we feed the sacrifice. Send two men to bring lye from the soap maker. Go to the village if you must. These were blood mages, so we’d best also assure that they don’t rise with the new moon.”

  “M’lady, they’re dead.”

  Talwyn met Alin’s eyes. “Some blood mages have the ability to bind or project their souls so that something of them exists, even after death. It’s not a full summoner’s power, thank the Lady, but I don’t want to meet these particular Black Robes again.”

  “What do you want us to do, Cheira Talwyn?”

  “Remove the head, breastbone, and right hand. Cover those with lye and let the lye eat them,” Talwyn directed. “What remains of the bodies, we’ll use to placate the spirits of the barrow. If anything remains of the Black Robes after that, I’ll leave it to the Dread to deal with them.”

  “What about the captives?” Jair asked with a nod toward the sullen Durim priests who were bound and kneeling.

  Talwyn’s eyes grew cold. “We will take them for judgment before the Consort Spirits. They chose this night because the spirit world is closer. They’re about to find out just how close it is.”

  Only a few candlemarks remained before dawn by the time the Sworn warriors returned to camp. Talwyn, Pevre, and Jair knew the night’s work was still not over. Jair oversaw hurried preparation to bring the four captive Durim priests to judgment as Talwyn and Pevre readied for the working.

  Though the bells of a distant village sounded the third candlemark of the morning, all but the children of the Sworn filed silently into the common tent. A fire burned in the center, and incense smelled of sandalwood and juniper. At the four quarters of the compass, gemstones hung from the roof supports, flickering in the firelight with the colors of orange chalcedony, jade-blue aventurine, green peridot, and yellow citrine, one for each of the Light Aspects of the Sacred Lady. At the cross quarters hung bloodstone, garnet, iron, and salt-tribute and wardings for the Dark Aspects.

  Tonight, it would not be the Aspects that judged the Black Robes. For a high working such as this, the Sworn relied on the four Consort Spirits. A drum beat a solemn rhythm as the people of the Sworn assembled. Jair, Emil, Alin, and one of the other trinnen warriors escorted the captives into the gathering space and forced them to kneel in a line facing the center fire. The four warriors were clad in black, with cloth head wraps of black fabric that covered all but their eyes. Their large stelian blades glimmered silver in the firelight. They were present to keep the peace, but they would not be the agents of the Consorts’ judgment this night.

  When the prisoners were in position, the drum began a different rhythm. The crowd stirred for a first look at the figures entering the round tent. Four beings with the bodies of humans and headdresses like the heads of animals entered silently. Their robes were the colors of the Moon Feast, red, gold, yellow, and orange, honoring both the moon and the harvest. One figure wore the head of a bear. Another wore the head of a stawar, the great dark-furred cat that roamed the Eastmark wilds. The third wore the face of a wolf with glistening black eyes. And the fourth looked like an eagle with a sharp, hooked bill. Talwyn, Pevre, Mihei, and Estan, a senior healer, wore the costumes but something about their manner made Jair wonder how much of each Consort’s powers the ritual participants took on.

  Incense hung heavy in the air, and the firelight danced from the warding stones to cast a shifting pattern of light on the walls. Jair fought the shiver that coursed down his back as the murals painted on the canvas walls seemed to move.

  The four prisoners each wore a silver charm that kept them from wielding their magic. Their black robes had been confiscated, leaving only men in loincloths who looked ordinary and defeated. Outnumbered, bound, and stripped of their power, they awaited the judgments of the Consorts with sullen glares.

  The eagle figure stepped forward. Jair knew it to be Talwyn, but the figure spoke in a voice unlike hers, shrill, like the cry of a raptor. “Black Robes, Durim, priests of the Shrouded Ones, of Shanthadura, you have brought blood magic among us. You desecrated the barrows of the Ancients, and you committed human sacrifice, in fact and effigy. What do you say for yourself, here in the Judgment, that we might hear your plea?”

  The four prisoners remained silent, glaring up at their judges defiantly.

  �
��If you will not speak, then we will let your spirits speak for you,” the Bear Consort rumbled. The figure raised its arms, with palms out and fingers spread. The air seemed to resonate with magic. One of the helpers poured a mixture of herbs into the fire that stretched between the Consort judges and the accused, creating a cloud of smoke that smelled of spice and pine. Four shapes appeared in the smoke, and the crowd murmured as it became plain that the shapes were those of the prisoners’ smoke walkers.

  It was the Stawar Aspect who spoke next, its voice a low growl. “For whom did you sacrifice?”

  The smoke images of the prisoners lacked the defiance of their counterparts. “We serve Shanthadura.”

  “And for what reason did you violate the barrow?”

  “We must awaken the Ancient Dead.”

  “Why do you seek this?”

  “He Who Calls Us ordered it. We are to make ready. His legions will sweep across the land, bathing it in blood and awakening the old ways. Everything will be swept away, and from that chaos, Shanthadura will rise once more, making new.”

  “Who is this who calls you?”

  “He is called many names. We know him as Cataclysm, and he is the right hand of Shanthadura.”

  “Did you call the Restless Dead?”

  “We called them for the soul harvest. We must feed the Ancients.”

  “And did you call the dimonns? What of them?”

  “They have been bound inside the barrows for centuries. They hunger. Shanthadura welcomes their blood offerings. We fear nothing from them.”

  “Have you attacked vyrkin and vayash moru?”

  “Their blood is a potent sacrifice, filled with the Wild Song and the Dark Gift. Our mistress covets their blood.”

  The four Consorts turned toward each other, and though they said nothing, it looked to Jair as if they conferred. Finally, the Eagle being turned back toward the assemblage.

  “You have murdered the living and desecrated the places of the sacred dead. You have made sacrifices of the vyrkin and the vayash moru, who are favored by the Dark Lady. And you have hollowed the souls of the Restless Dead, which is an abomination. For your crimes, you must be destroyed.”