Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  Though perhaps it was just as well. Given how often Andomhaim had fallen into civil war, if Owyllain had been any closer perhaps the two rival High Kings would have made endless bloody war upon each other.

  “Do you know of Rhodruthain?” said Calliande.

  Tamlin grimaced. “All too well. He is the Guardian of Cathair Animus, a ruin of the gray elves some distance southeast of Urd Maelwyn. He had a left a strong mark on our history, both for good and for ill.”

  “Gray elves?” said Calliande. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  Tamlin shrugged. “That is what we call them, for they always dress in cloaks of gray. They are not dark elves, but I suspect they are not high elves, either. Once they ruled most of this land, and their ruins can be found in many places. But the Sovereign warred against their kings for millennia, and in the end, he crushed them utterly. They were driven into the jungles of Illicaeryn, and only rarely come forth.”

  “The Sovereign?” said Calliande.

  “You do not yet know who he is?” said Tamlin.

  “I have heard him mentioned,” said Calliande, “along with something called the Seven, but I don’t know what they are.”

  “Then I will tell you, Lady Calliande,” said Tamlin, “as I fear they are relevant to your present difficulties. The Sovereign was a dark elven lord who ruled most of this land when Connmar Pendragon arrived, and in time, the realm of Owyllain warred against him. We would have been destroyed, but Rhodruthain came to the High King and founded the Order of the Arcanii.”

  “I am surprised your High King allowed it,” said Calliande. “All magic is forbidden in Andomhaim, save for that of the Keeper, her apprentice, and the Magistri.”

  “I believe my ancestors were desperate at the time,” said Tamlin in a dry voice. “And Rhodruthain did not teach us any dark magic. Only the magic of the four elements – earth, fire, air, and water. So long as we did not try to contact demons, use necromancy, or employ any form of dark magic, the Church of Owyllain decreed that we would not violate the scriptures’ ban on sorcery.”

  “I hope not, anyway,” said Calliande. “On Old Earth, save for the Keepers, the only source of magical power was through trafficking with demons. It seems the laws of nature function differently in our world. But you were speaking of the Sovereign?”

  “The High King of Owyllain fought the Sovereign for centuries,” said Tamlin. “About twenty years ago, High King Kothlaric assembled a great host of men, gray elves, orcs, xiatami, and halflings, and slew the Sovereign below the gates of his citadel of Urd Maelwyn. Within Urd Maelwyn, High King Kothlaric found seven ancient swords of the dark elves, swords of terrible magical power.”

  Calliande sighed. “I can guess what happened. There was dissension about what to do with the Seven Swords. Kothlaric and his allies fell out, and they killed him and took the Swords.”

  “More or less,” said Tamlin. “Kothlaric, in his wisdom, realized that the Seven were too powerful for mortal hands to wield. He decided to go to Cathair Animus and seek the help of Rhodruthain to destroy them. And there he was betrayed. Rhodruthain and the Master of the Arcanii, a woman named Talitha, murdered Kothlaric and claimed the Seven. In the resultant fight, Talitha was killed, Rhodruthain escaped with one of the Seven, and when the dust settled five of the remaining six Swords fell into different hands – Kothlaric’s brother King Hektor, King Justin Cyros of Cytheria, the Necromancer of Trojas, one of the Sovereign’s lieutenants called the Confessor, and the Masked One of Xenorium. They have fought each other for the rule of Owyllain and the shards of the Sovereign’s empire ever since.”

  “Which Sword did Rhodruthain take?” said Calliande. “He had a peculiar golden sword when I saw him.”

  “Either the Sword of Life or the Sword of Air,” said Tamlin. “King Hektor has the Sword of Fire, King Justin the Sword of Earth, the Necromancer the Sword of Death, the Masked One the Sword of Shadows, and the Confessor the Sword of Water. Rhodruthain took one of the Swords, and one of them vanished. So, by the process of elimination…”

  “He either has the Sword of Life or the Sword of Air,” said Calliande. “I assume the Swords derive their names from their powers?”

  “You are correct, my lady,” said Tamlin. “King Hektor can call a firestorm on the battlefield, King Justin can open chasms to swallow his foes, and the Necromancer can summon armies of the dead. The powers of the Swords are too evenly matched, and so they have been stalemated for twenty years of war.”

  “Which brings us to the present, I believe,” said Calliande as they reached the top of the next hill. The road snaked away to her right, the rocky hills and the ocean to her left, but she saw no sign of orcs, muridachs, or anyone else.

  “Yes,” said Tamlin. “King Justin is preparing to attack Aenesium with a great force, both his own men and orcish mercenaries from the armies of the orcish Warlords to the east. Castra Chaeldon guards the main road from Cytheria to Aenesium, and King Hektor gave it into the keeping of Archaelon, a knight of my order.”

  “Who then betrayed you and sided with the Confessor,” said Calliande.

  Tamlin scowled, but not at her. “Yes. He threw the Confessor’s orcs at us, and we were overwhelmed. Even then, we might have held, if not for Archaelon’s Champion.”

  “Champion?” said Calliande.

  “An abomination,” said Tamlin. “Archaelon has abandoned both the law of God and the covenant of our Order. The creature he calls his ‘Champion’ is an undead monstrosity, a thing twelve feet tall made from corpses. He has grafted bronze plates to its flesh, and it is all but invincible. It tore through our men as if they were paper. If not for the Champion, I think we could have held and repulsed the Confessor’s orcs.” He shook his head. “I think Archaelon has gone mad. The dark magic and the necromancy he wields has corrupted his reason. I fear he hopes to play off King Hektor, King Justin, and the Confessor against each other, and raise an army of the dead as the Necromancer of Trojas did.”

  “Not unless we stop him first,” said Calliande.

  Tamlin’s expression was dubious. “Can you stop him, my lady? The histories of old said the Keepers of Andomhaim wielded great powers, but…”

  “But history is often distorted in the telling,” said Calliande. “But I have fought against wizards like Archaelon, not once but many times. And my husband is a great knight. The sword he wields…”

  “The soulblade, you called it,” said Tamlin.

  “It is a powerful weapon against dark magic,” said Calliande. “One blow can kill an urvaalg.”

  Tamlin laughed. “Nothing can kill an urvaalg in a single blow.”

  “A soulblade can,” said Calliande. She looked up at him. “How do you think Andomhaim survived the wrath of the urdmordar?”

  Tamlin said nothing for a moment. He lifted his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and put it back on. The damned thing had to be excruciating in the sunlight. Calliande reminded herself to summon some water for him to drink.

  “Perhaps I shall see such a weapon yet,” said Tamlin. “What is your plan?”

  “My children are in Castra Chaeldon,” said Calliande. “I’m going to get them back. My husband will find us, and then we’ll have his help.”

  “You seem certain of that,” said Tamlin.

  “Oh, yes,” said Calliande.

  In truth, she wasn’t nearly as confident as she seemed. Ridmark was still alive and well, she could tell that from her spells. But depending on what she saw at Castra Chaeldon, depending on how strong Archaelon’s magic was and the number of his soldiers, she might have to find Ridmark and bring him with her. Or some other evil might befall him before he could find her…

  No. She couldn’t think like that. The fear would paralyze her, and she had to act. Gareth and Joachim needed her to act.

  “I will come with you,” said Tamlin. “It is possible some of our men escaped from the battle and may be wandering around the countryside.” His voice hardened. “And the Confessor�
�s orcs took many captives. I expect Archaelon plans to use them to fuel his necromancy. If I can save them, I will.”

  Archaelon was a necromancer, and Gareth and Joachim were in his hands…

  “Then I shall be glad of your help, Sir Tamlin,” said Calliande. “Which way to Castra Chaeldon?”

  “This way,” said Tamlin. “We won’t get there before dark. Perhaps that’s just as well. It might be easier to approach under cover of darkness.”

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  “Another question,” said Calliande as a thought occurred to her.

  “Ask.”

  “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘the New God is coming?’” said Calliande.

  She expected Tamlin to shrug it off, or to express bafflement.

  Instead, he froze, staring at her in surprise.

  “What?” said Calliande. “What is it?”

  “Where did you hear that?” he said.

  “Rhodruthain said it,” said Calliande. “In Tarlion, before he brought us here. He said the New God would arise and kill our children, and that it had to be stopped.”

  “I see,” said Tamlin.

  “You’ve heard it before, I gather,” said Calliande.

  Tamlin took a deep breath and nodded. “You probably saw the scars on my back.”

  “They were somewhat noticeable,” said Calliande.

  “When I was a slave in Urd Maelwyn,” said Tamlin, “someone…important to me died. Her final words to me were that the New God was coming. I…never found out what that meant. She had some magic, many of us did. I thought it might be a prophecy or a foretelling, but I convinced myself it was only the last hallucination of a dying woman. I…”

  He shook his head and fell silent.

  “I don’t know what it means,” said Calliande, “but if I ever see Rhodruthain again, I will force him to tell me.”

  “You seem so confident of that,” said Tamlin.

  “He caught me off guard once,” said Calliande, her voice quiet. “It won't happen a second time. He put my children at risk. I will call him to account for that if he is foolish enough to show himself to me.”

  Tamlin flashed a smile. She could tell he was trying to pull some of his charm over his disquiet. “Are all the women of Andomhaim so fierce?”

  “Some of us,” said Calliande. “And I would like to ask you one more question.”

  Tamlin nodded.

  “That scar on your shoulder,” said Calliande.

  “Ah,” said Tamlin. “I thought you would notice that. It’s not a scar but a birthmark. I’m one of the Swordborn.”

  “Swordborn?” said Calliande, and then she understood. “Your father was one of the holders of the Seven.”

  Tamlin nodded. “The Swordborn are immune to the powers of the Seven, which makes us useful against them. I have some minor talents with earth magic, but my main affinity is for air magic.” He tapped the sword at his belt. “Though frankly, I prefer the sword to spells.”

  “Earth magic?” said Calliande. “Does that mean your father was King Justin Cyros?”

  Tamlin nodded. “That is correct.”

  “If I can ask,” said Calliande, “then why are you fighting for King Hektor instead of King Justin?”

  “Because Hektor Pendragon wishes to restore peace and order,” said Tamlin. “Justin Cyros wants to make himself a tyrant ruling over slaves.” His voice hardened. “And King Justin murdered my mother and sold me into slavery at Urd Maelwyn.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Calliande.

  Tamlin looked away, blinked, and the smile returned. “The distant past, my lady. Now I am on a quest to help the fair Keeper of Andomhaim rescue innocents from a wicked sorcerer. Perhaps the poem they make of our exploits shall be even better known than the Aeneid and the Iliad one day.”

  Calliande didn’t care about poems. All she wanted was her children and her husband back safely. But while Tamlin seemed a troubled young man, he struck her as a capable and deadly one. He would make a valuable ally against Archaelon and his soldiers.

  “Lead on, then, Sir Tamlin,” said Calliande.

  They continued traveling northwest.

  Chapter 9: Oath

  Ridmark had thought he would have a great many questions for his new ally, but it turned out he spent more time answering questions as they headed north.

  For it seemed that the Lady Kalussa Pendragon, Sister of the Order of the Arcanii, liked to talk.

  Noblewoman or not, sorceress or not, she was still a twenty-year-old woman, and with some exceptions, Ridmark had found that twenty-year-old women enjoyed talking. That made him think of Joanna, and the thought saddened him. If Joanna had lived, perhaps in twenty years Ridmark would have been a tired old man sitting in his chair, cheered by the company and conversation of his daughter.

  He pushed away the thought. Calliande and Gareth and Joachim were still among the living, God willing, and they needed his help.

  “Why are you still carrying that bamboo staff?” said Kalussa.

  Ridmark glanced back at her. She was fit enough to keep talking even as they made their way up the steep slope of the hill, the sun shining overhead. Her bronze armor flashed in the sunlight, which might be a problem if anyone decided to pursue them. Perhaps they could find a cloak light enough to cover the armor without causing her to pass out from heatstroke.

  “Just what is bamboo?” said Ridmark. “I’d never heard of it before today. It doesn’t grow in Andomhaim.”

  “It grows in the south, in the hills near the Illicaeryn Jungle,” said Kalussa. “We use it to make bows.” She tapped her own short bow, and Ridmark saw that it had indeed been made partially from bamboo. “But why are you still carrying that staff? Surely with Oathshield, you have no need of a stick.”

  Ridmark laughed a little. “You might be surprised. A staff makes a good weapon.”

  Kalussa frowned. “Not against a sword, surely.”

  “The orcs holding you captive thought that,” said Ridmark.

  Kalussa considered that and then inclined her head to concede the point.

  Ridmark reached the top of the hill and looked around. He wanted to stay off the road, lest they encounter any of Archaelon’s soldiers, and so far, the plan had worked. From here he could see the dusty road, and no one was moving along it, though he did see another wrecked wagon standing there. The sea was visible to the west and the rocky hills to the east. It almost seemed like he and Kalussa were alone in the world.

  He knew better, though. Between the Confessor’s orcs and the scavenging muridachs, sooner or later they were bound to encounter more foes. Best to be ready when they did.

  “Where did you learn to fight with a staff?” said Kalussa. “It is not something that nobles learn here, and I cannot imagine that it is in Andomhaim.”

  “It isn’t,” said Ridmark, frowning down at the wagon. “When I was a boy, I boasted of my skill with the sword. My father didn’t approve and had me duel one of his men-at-arms, my practice sword against his quarterstaff. I didn’t break any bones, but I came away with a lot of bruises.” He pointed at the wagon. “Let’s see if that has any water. Between the two of us, we’ll need more water before we can get to Castra Chaeldon, and the orcs might be clever enough to watch the creeks.”

  “Agreed,” said Kalussa, and they headed towards the road.

  A thought occurred to Ridmark. “Why is your armor bronze?”

  Kalussa blinked. “Why would it not be?”

  “Because bronze is softer than steel or iron,” said Ridmark. “Steel would make for stronger weapons and armor.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Kalussa. “I had forgotten. Iron must be abundant in Andomhaim.”

  “It is.” Ridmark surveyed the wagon. Two more of those dead lizard-things with bony shields over their necks slumped in the traces, but the wagon was otherwise undisturbed.

  “Iron is not abundant here,” said Kalussa. “I believe our ancestors arrived with steel weapons and armor,
but they have worn away long ago. Copper and tin are common, and so all the nations and kindreds here use weapons and armor of bronze.”

  “No horses here, either,” said Ridmark. He walked to the back of the wagon and began searching through it. He found more waterskins and several packs of rations.

  “Horses?” said Kalussa. “What is a horse?”

  “An animal with hooves,” said Ridmark. “Knights ride upon them in battle.”

  “Oh!” said Kalussa. “I remember. The histories speak of them. I think our ancestors’ horses died long ago, and there are none left here. The men of Owyllain fight on foot. So do most of the other nations and kindreds. Well, the halflings of the Takai steppes fight upon the backs of struthian lizards, but the halflings are light enough for the struthians to bear their weight.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark, considering that. In Andomhaim, the knights and men-at-arms who made up the heavy horsemen were the vanguard of any lord’s army. Properly used, a charge of horsemen could break nearly any formation of foot soldiers, and all the laws of Andomhaim reflected that. Knights received benefices of lands from their lords, and from those lands, the knights were required to equip themselves with horse and armor and raise men-at-arms. Without horses, Owyllain’s armies would revolve around foot soldiers, as had the armies of the ancient Romans of Old Earth.

  He wondered what kind of laws and customs the Nine Cities had.

  Well, it was something he could wonder about once his family was safe.

  “Take these,” said Ridmark, handing Kalussa a pack and a pair of waterskins.

  She blinked at him. “Certainly not. I am a Sister of the Arcanii and of royal blood. I do not bear burdens.”

  “Then when we stop to rest, you can watch me eat and drink,” said Ridmark. “I’m not carrying your food and water for you. Take them.”

  Kalussa glared at him, and then she smiled. “A good point. As the lord Ridmark commands.” She took the pack and slung the waterskins over her shoulder. “But we will need to stop to rest at some point. It is still at least eight or nine miles to Castra Chaeldon, and the sun will go down before we can reach the fortress.”