Swordmage

by Richard Baker

  A skeleton carrying a round bronze shield suddenly lurched into his path, its rusted sword ready to strike. Geran swept out his own blade and parried the ancient iron; a jolt of frozen fire ran up his sword arm from the impact, but he circled his point underneath the skeleton’s blade and rammed it home in the creature’s empty eye socket. Shards of bone burst from the back of the skull, and the thing staggered back. Geran wrenched his sword free and rode past. When he glanced over his shoulder, the skeleton was moving away to find another foe to fight, seemingly untroubled by the horrible wound he’d just dealt it. Necromantic magic knitted its dead sinews and yellowed bones together. What was a sword wound to such a creature?

  Geran dodged away from several more encounters with the skeletal warriors. On one occasion he spurred his mount right over a skeleton in front of him. The warhorse knocked the horrid thing to the ground, crushing bones beneath its heavy iron-shod hooves, and that one did not rise again. Then he seemed to break out of the heaviest mist and found himself a few hundred yards west of the Vale Road, a short distance behind the old dike. The supernatural chill of the fog diminished a little, and he could see more of the sky graying overhead—the day would have been clear and cold, though he doubted it would have much power over the fell mists.

  On that end of the line battered Spearmeet companies still held the dike, with a number of Veruna footmen stiffening their lines. More than a few men were gazing nervously toward the middle of the battlefield; Geran glanced back the way he had come and saw that the fog darkened over the center of the field like a stationary storm, weirdly still despite the strong, cold wind that swept the rest of the battlefield. A short distance behind the line on the dike, thirty Veruna horsemen and a handful of Shieldsworn riders formed the left wing’s cavalry reserve. They sat waiting on their mounts. The orc assault seemed to have retreated for now, likely because the Bloody Skulls were waiting to see if the army of Hulburg would still be standing against them once the evil mists lifted. Geran couldn’t fault the orcs’ instincts. If some supernatural horror was cutting its way through your enemy’s ranks, then there was little reason to rush back to close quarters.

  He wheeled his mount around, looking for Sergen—and then he found him. His stepcousin and a quartet of Council Watch guards sat on riding horses under a stand of hemlocks perhaps a hundred yards away, partially hidden by the ragged tatters of mist that streamed by. It was difficult for Geran to tell what the traitor was doing given the distance and the poor visibility, but he could see several Veruna officers in their tabards of green and white speaking with him. As the swordmage watched, the Veruna men turned their mounts and cantered away, heading back toward their troops.

  “What did you tell them, Sergen?” Geran muttered aloud. “Abandon the field? Turn against the Shieldsworn? Or wait and do nothing until the battle is lost?”

  With no firm intentions in mind other than to make sure that Sergen didn’t get away with whatever he hoped to get away with, Geran tapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and broke into a canter, heading for Sergen and his guards. The wet ground and blowing mist muffled the hoofbeats of his mount, and the air grew steadily colder and more still as he drew closer. Sergen wasn’t looking at Geran; he was leaning forward in his saddle, looking out over the battle as scattered bands of desperate soldiers struggled to drive off the deathless warriors of the King in Copper. The fighting was fiercest around the banner of the harmach, where better than a hundred soldiers stood together against a ragged wave of skeletons who rose up out of the ground and attacked just as quickly as they were killed or disabled by the soldiers fighting to protect the ruler of Hulburg. Geran couldn’t see his uncle, not through the chaos and the murk, but he caught a glimpse of Kara on her fine white charger in the thick of the melee.

  Sergen was still unaware of Geran’s approach, and now the swordmage was only thirty yards away. Distantly the swordmage noted that the Veruna officers riding back to their troops had caught sight of him. They wheeled and galloped to intercept him, but a desperate plan finally coalesced in Geran’s mind, and he spurred his mount into a headlong charge. He had little magic left after the furious skirmish at the Vale Road’s cut, but he still had a few words he could call upon. It would have to be enough. He stood up in his stirrups, sword bared in his hand.

  “Lord Sergen!” the Veruna officers shouted. “Behind you!”

  The council guard closest to Geran turned at the warning. The guard snapped down his visor and drew his sword, shouting something to the men around him. Even as Sergen looked around and the other guards began to turn their mounts to meet Geran’s attack, the swordmage raced up alongside the first guard’s mount and lashed out with his backsword. Bright steel glittered in the cold mist, shrilly clanging twice as Geran beat his way through the man’s guard. He disabled the fellow with a backhand flick of the point that creased its way through the guard’s visor. The man cried out and crumpled forward in the saddle, holding his hand to his face; Geran’s horse shouldered the guard’s mount out of the way, and he drove at his treacherous cousin.

  “Sergen!” he snarled.

  “To me! To me!” Sergen shouted at his mercenaries. Geran ignored them. Sergen reached awkwardly for the sword at his hip with his unwounded arm, but Geran didn’t give him a chance to draw it. With a wordless roar of anger, he hurled himself out of the saddle and tackled Sergen, carrying his stepcousin to the muddy ground underfoot. The impact knocked Geran’s breath away, but Sergen cried out sharply as his damaged arm hit the ground. Their momentum rolled them over and over, Geran holding his stepcousin with a grip of iron.

  “You fool!” Sergen hissed between his teeth. “You’ve interfered with my business for the last time, Geran! I swear that I’ll see you dead before this is done!”

  “Then you should’ve killed me when you had me helpless in a cell,” Geran answered.

  Sergen reached for a dagger with his good hand, but Geran got on top of him and delivered two sharp punches to the jaw before he had to duck under a sword-swing from one of the council guards. He rolled again to put Sergen on top, using the lord as a shield against his own bodyguards, and then their struggle tumbled them both into the shallow ditch beside the Vale Road.

  Sergen managed to wrench his jacket free and threw himself away from Geran, gaining an armslength of clear space. He rolled to his knees and floundered up out of the ditch. “I won’t make that mistake again,” he snarled at Geran. He motioned for his guards, who rushed to his aid.

  Geran scrambled to his feet and retreated a few steps from the grim mercenaries closing in around him. Then he raised his hand and showed Sergen the amulet of Aesperus, which he’d wrenched away from his cousin during their brief struggle. The old copper amulet glinted in the dim light. “I think you’ve caused enough trouble with this for now, Sergen,” he said.

  Sergen’s hand flew to his chest, and he looked down in horror. When he looked up again, his dark eyes blazed in fury. “Kill him!” he shouted to his guards. “Kill him now!”

  Geran glanced around and summoned up what little magic he had left unspent. “Seiroch!” he shouted. Sergen’s guards thrust their blades through empty air where he’d been standing an instant before, and the teleport spell whisked him a hundred yards away in the blink of an eye.

  He found himself standing close to the harmach’s banner, surrounded by Shieldsworn who fought desperately against the tide of skeletal warriors. Geran thrust his hand into the air, holding the amulet aloft, and shouted, “Warriors of Aesperus, halt! I command you!”

  All around him, skeletons abruptly stopped moving. More than a few Hulburgans smashed their axes and swords into skeletal warriors who now stood still. Some of those fell while others suffered the injuries without response, standing motionless. The humans and dwarves out on the field raised a ragged cheer of astonishment and exultation, amazed to find their attackers immobilized.

  “I’ll be damned,” Geran said softly. “It worked!” He felt the empty eyes of the dead wa
rriors settling on him, and the cold whispers in the air seemed to grow stronger, more sinister. He shuddered. If he was going to command these fell creatures, better to do it now before he lost his nerve. “Warriors of Aesperus, listen to me! You are to attack and destroy the Bloody Skull orcs and their allies—ignore all who are defending Hulburg! Do you understand me?”

  The ranks of skeletal warriors seemed to shiver, and the dead ones backed away from their former adversaries and turned to face north. “Aye, we understand thee,” they answered in their cold, rasping voices. “We go to do thy bidding.” Then they began to march away from the battered bands of humans and dwarves they’d been fighting just a moment ago, old bones clicking like insects, rusted mail squealing and clinking.

  The defenders of Hulburg raised a ragged volley of shouts, cries of relief, and calls for help, hundreds of voices babbling once. Several of the men standing near Geran grinned at him and stepped close to slap his back and seize his hand. Then a signal horn blew twice above the din. Geran turned and saw Kara lowering the horn. “Back to the dike-top!” she shouted. “Reform ranks across the road! We aren’t done yet!”

  Geran looked back at the stand of trees where he’d met Sergen, just visible through the mists. His cousin climbed up into the saddle of his black destrier and glared in Geran’s direction, though the swordmage doubted that Sergen could actually pick him out in the middle of the warriors around the harmach’s banner. Then Sergen spurred his horse and galloped away to the south, fleeing back toward Hulburg with his guards following. A moment later, the House Veruna soldiers on the left side of the line stepped back from the dike, turned toward the south, and began to march away as well, leaving the battle behind. Geran was sorely tempted to call back some of Aesperus’s skeletons in order to send them after Sergen and the Verunas, but he had no idea how strong a hold he really had over the undead warriors or how much they could hurt the Bloody Skulls.

  “Let them go for now, Geran.” Harmach Grigor limped up and set a hand on Geran’s shoulder, following Geran’s gaze with his own. The old lord looked pale and haggard, but a spark of defiance animated his features. “At the moment I’d just as soon let a potential adversary leave the field if he has a mind to. We must concentrate on repelling the Bloody Skulls before we pick another fight.” Grigor watched the Verunas leave and sighed. “Whatever else happens today, Sergen and House Veruna are finished in Hulburg.”

  “I know it, Uncle,” Geran answered. “But I’m afraid of the mischief Sergen might do before he knows it too.”

  Grigor nodded. “I am as well, but as Kara said—we aren’t done yet here. How did you gain control over the lich king’s warriors?”

  Geran showed him the amulet. “I took this from Sergen. It’s the amulet Aesperus gave to the Verunas in payment for the book he sought.” The mist around him was noticeably lightening now, though he could still hear echoing through the fog the roars of orc warriors, the shrill ring of steel on steel, and the fearful bellows of dimwitted ogres. “I don’t know how many warriors it summons or how long they’ll remain.”

  “I suppose we’ll find out.” The old lord smiled. “Well done, Geran.”

  The swordmage gripped his uncle’s shoulder then stepped clear. He held out his empty hand and half-closed his eyes, groping through his mind for the arcane symbols he needed for the spell of returning. “Cuilledyrr,” he whispered, and a moment later his Myth Drannan blade came hurtling through the unnatural mist to meet his hand. He’d dropped it when he threw Sergen off his horse, and it was far too valuable a weapon to leave on the battlefield. With his sword in one hand and the amulet in the other, Geran hurried to the old dike and scrambled to the top to see what was going on in the orc ranks.

  The cacophony of battle was tremendous, an awful mix of hundreds of savage voices, fell magic, roaring monsters, and more. The eerie fog was too dense for him to see well, but he caught glimpses of fighting a bowshot north of the overgrown dike. The orcs were fierce and brave fighters, but even their most bloodthirsty berserkers had little stomach for a battle against an enemy who shrugged off all but the most powerful of blows and simply climbed back to his feet when he was struck to the ground. All around him the surviving Shieldsworn and Ironhammers peered into the mists, trying to judge for themselves how the fighting went, with a curious mix of relief that they were out of it for the moment and dread of the allies that had turned to their side.

  Geran watched for what seemed a long time in the bitter cold. Then he noticed that the amulet in his hand was growing warm. He looked down in surprise and saw that a bright orange gleam had appeared on the ancient copper. “What in the world?” he murmured. The gray mists cloaking the battlefield took on an orange hue and began to thin. The clash of arms from the orc lines faded sharply—and suddenly the morning was full of the Orcish shouts of triumph. As the sun finally climbed above the ragged hills fencing the Winterspear Vale, the ancient amulet quietly crumbled into dust, and the skeletal warriors sank back into the ground.

  “Geran! The skeletons!” Kara called.

  He looked over at her helplessly. “It’s sunrise,” he told her. “Aesperus must’ve promised them for only one night.”

  She nodded once, and her azure eyes flashed in the morning light. “Stand to your arms!” she ordered the Shieldsworn. Then she lowered her helm’s visor, slid down from Dancer’s back, and sent the horse toward the rear with a slap to its rump, taking up her position at the head of the footmen guarding the open spot where the Vale Road pierced the dike. “Stand to!”

  The unnatural mists cleared just as quickly as they had come, dissipating like dark dreams forgotten in the morning light. The day brightened swiftly, as if the supernatural fog had never been. Now Geran finally got a good look at the orc horde that faced Hulburg. He could see hundreds of orcs lying dead in the disordered battle lines left behind by the skeletons’ attack; the ancient warriors had dealt a heavy blow to the Bloody Skulls, but hadn’t defeated them. The orcs looked around as well and saw that their supernatural foes were gone, but that the dike was still held against them—and they began to surge forward in wrath, perhaps mistakenly believing that it was some ploy of the harmach’s that had sent the skeletons of the fallen at them.

  “Stand your ground!” Kara shouted, and dozens of captains and sergeants took up the cry and relayed it down the lines. Grim-faced and determined, the defenders of Hulburg set spears in the ground and held blades and bows at the ready. Then, with a wild chorus of roars, battle cries, curses, and shrill war screams, the warriors of Thar hurled themselves upon Hulburg’s defenders once again.

  “Mages and archers—fire at will!” Kara shouted. In answer, shrieking missiles of wizard’s fire, dark flights of arrows, and brilliant bolts of lightning burned awful swaths of devastation through the onrushing warriors. Geran saw that Kara had gathered most of the merchant company wands-for-hire at her command around the gap of the Vale Road, and the mercenary mages took a heavy toll of the attacking orcs and ogres. But other spells flew as well: dripping spheres of acid that arced from the back ranks of the orc lines to splatter against the old earthen dike, and black clouds full of whirling red cinders that seared and scoured anything they touched.

  Geran shielded himself from a fierce cinder-storm with a word of warding, throwing his arm over his eyes and slashing his sword back and forth to drive away the burning sparks. Searing pinpricks announced places where the burning embers had found their way through his defenses. He hissed and brushed one from his shoulder, nostrils burning with the hot, acrid stink. “Where in the Nine Hells did the orcs find wizards to aid them?” he demanded. No one nearby heard him, for they were swearing or praying or shouting in anger or pain at the same time.

  The Bloody Skull horde smashed into the failing line of Hulburg’s defenders like a mighty black-armored fist. Geran fought in a bright frenzy, determined to stand his ground, but the rush was irresistible. He was swept back twenty yards in twenty heartbeats, simply carried along in the orc cha
rge even as he slashed at the warriors streaming toward him. Then the whole roaring wave of savages seemed to shudder and slam to a stop. Across the breach the Ironhammer dwarves and Kara’s Shieldsworn linked their shields together in a fortress of steel and determination, refusing to give any more ground. The Bloody Skull charge became a furious melee that roiled and surged within the breach, a storm tide hammering into a battered coast. Rage though they might, for the moment the orcs and ogres were contained, funneled into the narrow space of the road and its gap.

  In the crowded field, human mages and orc shamans did terrible work. Furnace blasts of yellow-glowing sparks and seething clouds of green, poisonous vapor washed back and forth among the combatants. A brilliant sphere of crimson light hurtled at Geran and exploded nearby, sending stabbing bolts of red lightning through a band of Ironhammers and Shieldsworn struggling to hold the gap. The swordmage deflected the vicious spell with his enchanted blade, but dwarves and humans all around him fell writhing to the ground. He whirled from side to side, wildly searching for some glimpse of the enemy spellcasters amid the chaos and confusion of the fight—and then he spotted a tall human in black armor, wearing a horned black helm.

  “A Warlock Knight,” Geran said softly. That explained much. Orcs had little talent for sorcery, but the masters of Vaasa were formidable magic-users. Did they incite the Bloody Skulls against us? the swordmage wondered. Or did they come in answer to the Bloody Skulls’ promises of loot? Either way, the Vaasan mage was a dangerous enemy, shielding the Bloody Skulls from the spells of Hulburg’s defenders and burning down soldier after soldier with cold, inhuman efficiency. Several black-armored Vaasan soldiers stood near their master, guarding him against the fray. Geran frowned—the soldiers would be skillful swordsmen, handpicked as bodyguards. He’d have a hard time getting to the Warlock Knight as long as the swordsmen were on their guard, and he simply didn’t have any more spells or arcane words left to him that could overwhelm them quickly.