Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  “When you do that,” said Kalussa, “when you heal them…does it hurt? You always grimace as you do.”

  “It does,” said Calliande. “To heal them, I have to take the pain of the wounds into myself.”

  “That means,” said Kalussa, “you have to…feel the wounds as if they were your own?”

  Calliande nodded. “The pain does pass.”

  “God and the saints!” said Kalussa. “I don’t know if I could manage that. How many times have you healed wounds like that?”

  Calliande shrugged. “I don’t know. Thousands, likely. I’ve been doing it since before you were born, I think.”

  Centuries before Kalussa had been born, in fact, but that was a tale for another time.

  “What an astonishing thing,” said Kalussa. “Your realm of Andomhaim must be very strong, if your soldiers can be healed of their hurts.”

  “Not all wounds can be healed,” said Calliande in a quiet voice. Nine men had died in the fighting, and eighteen had been wounded. Of them, Calliande had been able to help fourteen. The rest had been too badly hurt for her magic to help and had died of their wounds.

  She thought again of Joanna.

  No, not all wounds could be healed.

  “Come,” said Calliande. “I think we are heading for Castra Chaeldon next.”

  ###

  Kalussa followed Calliande, her emotions unsettled.

  She had been frightened of the older woman at first, and some of the fear was still there. Yet now that emotion was mixed with something else.

  Calliande had awed her.

  So many of those wounded men should have died, but Calliande had saved them.

  Perhaps Calliande would consent to take her as an apprentice. She had magic beyond anything the Order possessed. In time, perhaps Kalussa could become both Ridmark’s concubine and Calliande’s apprentice. Would that not be the best for everyone? She could bear Ridmark’s children as Calliande had, and help the Keeper in her noble work of healing the wounded.

  Kalussa pushed thought out of her head. The battlefield was not the place for such musings, and she knew the fighting was not yet over.

  But as she looked at the hoplites, she was certain of one thing.

  The force had started out under the command of poor Sir Tyromon Amphilus, but after that skirmish, it was now the army of the Shield Knight and the Keeper.

  Chapter 16: Castra Chaeldon

  The hoplites marched for the next four hours.

  Ridmark sent out Sir Parmenio and his hunters again, telling them to trail the fleeing orcish soldiers and to watch for ambushes. Once Archaelon realized that his attack had failed, he might launch another one. Or the surviving orcs, perhaps possessing better tactical skills than their master, might try to prepare an ambush themselves.

  But neither new forces nor ambushes showed themselves. The scouts reported that nothing moved in the hills around the road and that the surviving orcs from the valley were making straight for Castra Chaeldon.

  At the moment, nothing was going wrong.

  That gave Ridmark time to consider all the many things that might go wrong.

  His sons were at the foremost of his thoughts. While Calliande knew they were alive and healthy, any number of other torments might have befallen them. His rebellious mind kept conjuring grisly image after grisly image. Ridmark had seen many, many people die, had come across many dead bodies, and his fears kept applying those memories to his sons.

  For the most part, he succeeded in pushing those thoughts from his mind, but still they came.

  When he wasn’t thinking about Gareth and Joachim, his thoughts turned to the problem of the fortress. Based on what Rallios and Tamlin had told him, Castra Chaeldon was a strong fortress, capable of withstanding a large army. Ridmark didn’t have a large army. He had two hundred and fifty men, a dozen Arcanius Knights, and enough supplies to feed them for a few weeks.

  But he also had the magic of the Keeper on his side, along with Oathshield’s power. No matter how powerful Archaelon had become, Ridmark suspected the traitorous Arcanius Knight wasn’t prepared to face the Keeper of Andomhaim and a Swordbearer. Hopefully, they could give Archaelon some nasty surprises.

  He glanced back to where Calliande walked with Rallios, asking him questions about the practice of medicine in the realm of Owyllain. The seasoned decurion had a surprising store of knowledge on the subject. Perhaps considering the number of battles he had survived, maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. Kalussa walked next to Calliande.

  Ridmark frowned.

  If they lived through this, he suspected he was going to have a problem with Kalussa.

  He wasn’t going to take her as his concubine. It didn’t matter if Kalussa was insistent, it didn’t matter if it was the custom of the men of Owyllain, and it didn’t matter if Ridmark hadn’t slept with Calliande for months. A man should have one wife before God, and that was that. Ridmark had sworn before God, Brother Caius, and witnesses (well, just Third, but the principle stood) to be faithful to Calliande until death, and he intended to keep that oath.

  He had not expected for Calliande to react with resigned sadness when he told her of Kalussa’s offer. She should have reacted with either anger or amusement, or maybe both. But resigned sadness…did she expect Ridmark to accept Kalussa’s offer?

  He was surprised how much her resignation hurt.

  And that led to another set of problems.

  Specifically, that Ridmark and his family might be stuck in Owyllain for a long time.

  What would they do then?

  If they were successful and they liberated Castra Chaeldon and freed the prisoners, the logical thing to do then would be to accompany Tamlin and the others back to Aenesium. Among the orcish nations that practiced polygamy and concubinage, it was common for headmen and kings to exchange daughters (and occasionally unwanted sisters) as wives to secure friendships. Suppose King Hektor wanted to make a friend of the powerful stranger who had come to his land and offered Kalussa as a concubine? It was what the girl clearly wanted anyway, and no doubt she would contrive to have her father make the offer.

  When Ridmark refused, he might make a very dangerous enemy in Hektor Pendragon.

  The logical thing to do was to find Kalussa a husband, especially she had flat-out told Ridmark she wanted one. Someone much younger than Ridmark, preferably. Sir Tamlin seemed like a womanizer, but neither he and Kalussa appeared to like each other very much. Sometimes hostility could mask attraction, but between the two of them, Ridmark suspected, the hostility only masked more hostility.

  He laughed a little at the absurdity of his own thoughts. He was a knight and a Swordbearer, not a matchmaker. Ridmark had far more immediate problems.

  Such as how to get his sons out of Castra Chaeldon.

  And how to do it without getting the hoplites killed.

  Ridmark looked at the rows of marching bronze-armored hoplites. They were good soldiers – well-drilled, calm in battle, experienced with their duties. The decurions had only to give an order once for it to be carried out. By rights, a lord or knight of Owyllain ought to have been commanding them, but instead, it had fallen to Ridmark.

  But if he had to choose between their lives and the lives of his sons…

  Ridmark prayed to God he would not face a choice like that. He would not be strong enough for such a trial. A man had to know his weaknesses, and that would be one of his.

  Boots crunched against the road, and he turned to see Calliande, Rallios, Tamlin, Kalussa, and Parmenio approaching. Ridmark wanted to talk to Calliande alone, to tell her that he would not take Kalussa or any other woman as a concubine regardless of the circumstances, but that would have to wait.

  He had to save Gareth and Joachim first. Everything else could wait until that had been accomplished.

  “I reckon we are about a half mile from Castra Chaeldon, Lord Ridmark,” said Rallios. He nodded towards the hills to the north. “Any moment now we should see the top of the keep.�
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  “Any sign of raiders?” said Ridmark.

  “None,” said Parmenio. “It looks as if Archaelon has pulled all his forces into the castra.”

  “He might not know that we are coming,” said Tamlin. “We followed the surviving orcs so quickly. Archaelon will have learned of the battle by now, but he might not realize that we are marching right on their heels.”

  “Maybe,” said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. “Or he’s planning a magical attack.”

  “If he is, I don’t see it yet,” said Calliande, her voice distant as she drew on the Sight. “Nothing has changed. But the necromancy around Castra Chaeldon is powerful. I am certain Archaelon is preparing a powerful spell. And it will likely be finished in six days when the moons are in the proper configuration.”

  “Perhaps we could rush the fortress and seize the gates before the enemy responds,” said Tamlin.

  Parmenio shook his head. “Likely not, Sir Tamlin. The scouts saw watchers on the walls, and the gates were closed.”

  “We’ll need to have a look before we can make any decisions,” said Ridmark. In the distance, he saw battlements rising over the horizon. “And I think that time has come.”

  He walked ahead of the main column, the others following him, and took his first look at Castra Chaeldon.

  Ridmark had entertained the faint hope that the fortress would not be as strong as Tamlin and Kalussa and the others had said. The men of Owyllain no longer had the knowledge to forge iron and steel, thanks to the lack of iron in this new land. Perhaps their knowledge of stonework and engineering had declined as well, and Castra Chaeldon would not be a match for the fortresses of Tarlion.

  Unfortunately, it seemed as if the engineers of Owyllain were equal to those of Andomhaim.

  A large hill rose before them, the road climbing to its peak. The castra occupied most of the hilltop, the road running alongside its eastern wall before it continued its northward path to King Justin’s city of Cytheria. The wall itself stood twenty feet high, topped with battlements, and Ridmark saw orcish warriors standing guard. He also saw undead creatures patrolling the walls. The courtyard was large, and at its far end rose a massive octagonal tower, nearly a hundred and fifty feet tall and twice as wide. It was a strong fortress, and a small force could hold it against nearly ten times its number. Ridmark would not have wanted to attack it with anything less than five thousand men.

  He had two hundred and fifty.

  But he did not think that Archaelon had that many living warriors.

  “There seem to be more undead creatures than living orcs upon the walls,” said Tamlin.

  “You’re right,” said Calliande. “There are…about twice as many undead as living men.” She shuddered. “And far more within the courtyard and the keep itself.”

  “That works to our advantage,” said Ridmark. “We’ll have a better chance against minor undead than we will against the Confessor’s orcs.” Though that did not consider the Champion. “How many orcs ambushed you?”

  “About five or six hundred, I would reckon,” said Rallios.

  “In the last two days, we might have killed half of them,” said Aegeus.

  Kalussa frowned. “Aye, we did. That still means they might have more warriors than we do.”

  “And undead,” said Parmenio.

  “And the walls,” said Aegeus.

  Ridmark resisted the urge to thank them for pointing out the obvious. “Is there an escape tunnel? Castras like these are often built with a secret exit so the lord can escape a siege.”

  “There is,” said Rallios, pointing at the octagonal keep. “On the western face of the hill. A long flight of stairs climbs to the dungeons below the keep. Unfortunately, every commander of Castra Chaeldon knows about the secret tunnel. Archaelon will have placed guards there, and might even have had time to construct traps.”

  “If he’s smart, he will have blocked it off entirely,” said Ridmark, thinking. “All right. This is what we’re going to do. Decurion Rallios, draw up the men on the road. Make sure they stay out of bowshot of the walls. I want to have a closer look at the castra before we decide what to do.”

  “And what are we going to do?” said Tamlin. “We have no siege engines. We have no wood to construct scaling ladders. Even if we did, we could not storm the castra. They have more men than we do.”

  Before Ridmark could answer, Calliande smiled.

  “There’s more than one way to break a wall, Tamlin Thunderbolt,” she said. “And I know a few of them.”

  Tamlin opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. Perhaps he was thinking of the spells that Calliande had used in battle, how she had made the ground ripple and fold. Maybe he had realized what such a spell might do to a stone wall that was in its path.

  Rallios turned and started shouting orders to the hoplites, who drew themselves up on the road. At least the sun was sliding away to the west and would soon be blocked by the hills. Ridmark watched the castra as the hoplites moved. The orcs had seen the new arrivals, but they had not responded. He knew that would not last. The only question was how Archaelon would react. Would he launch a sortie from the gate? Or try to attack with magic?

  Or would he sit inside the walls and wait out the clock? That was what Ridmark would have done in his place.

  Especially if Archaelon’s spell in six days would make him unconquerable.

  Ridmark waited as Rallios got the men lined up and in place. His sons were in there, somewhere. He felt the overwhelming urge to draw Oathshield, unleash the power of the Shield Knight, and smash his way into the castra. For a moment he considered doing it but dismissed the thought with reluctance. Charging in like that was foolish. Oathshield could give him tremendous power, but the power of the Shield Knight carried a sharp price, and even then, it would not guarantee victory.

  No. Ridmark had to proceed carefully. Too much was at stake.

  Ridmark looked back at the hoplites. Once they were in position, he would take a few of the others and take a walk around the perimeter of the castra, examining the defenses. Perhaps a course of action would suggest itself.

  “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “I think something’s happening.”

  He looked at her, expecting to see her using the Sight, but her eyes were focused on the ramparts over the gate. The orcs were moving, and Ridmark saw an orcish warrior in bronze armor leap upon the battlements.

  “Men of Owyllain!”

  The orc’s voice boomed over the road, echoing off the hills as he spoke in Latin.

  “Hear me!” roared the orc. “Lord Archaelon invites the commander of your host to a parley!”

  “What the devil?” said Tamlin.

  “Why would Archaelon want to parley?” said Kalussa. “He knows full well that he is a traitor and that his life is forfeit should he fall into our hands.”

  “Perhaps he thinks to beg for mercy,” said Aegeus.

  “I rather doubt that,” said Ridmark. The answer came to him. “No. It’s curiosity.”

  “About what?” said Parmenio.

  Kalussa let out a quiet laugh. “About why we’re still alive.”

  “And about Lady Calliande, I fear,” said Ridmark.

  The orcish herald on the wall repeated his invitation.

  “Archaelon probably expected his orcs and his undead to wipe you out,” said Ridmark. “Instead, we’re at his gates. He must be wondering what went wrong. The survivors from the battle would have told him about Calliande’s magic and my sword. He’s facing unknown foes, and he needs to learn more about them.” He rubbed his chin. “The less he knows about us, the better. If he doesn’t understand our capabilities, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”

  The orcish herald repeated his request a third time.

  “Then you will refuse him?” said Kalussa.

  “Of course not,” said Ridmark. “This is our chance to learn more about him.” Calliande had the Sight, and if she could take a good look at Archaelon with it, she might be
able to learn a great deal about their enemy. “The more we know about his powers, the better chance we have.” He looked at Calliande. “Can you make my voice louder?”

  She nodded and stepped closer, casting a spell. The air in front of Ridmark rippled a moment.

  “Lord Archaelon invites the commander of your host to a parley!” roared the orcish herald. The warrior had to have lungs like the bellows of a blacksmith.

  “Hear me!” said Ridmark. Calliande’s magic amplified his voice, sending it booming like a thunderclap over the castra. The orcish herald and the other warriors looked in his direction. “I command this host! I am willing to meet for this parley. What are the terms of parley?”

  “Lord Archaelon shall send an emissary to meet with you,” said the herald. “The emissary shall await you halfway between the walls and your host, and he shall pledge not to harm you or kill you. Three guards shall come with the emissary.”

  “Three shall accompany me as well,” said Ridmark, his mind racing. Calliande would need to come, obviously. Even if Archaelon was not coming forth himself, she still might be able to learn something useful. As for the other two, Ridmark decided on Sir Tamlin and Kalussa. Tamlin was the best fighter among the men of Owyllain, and his lightning spell would be useful if Archaelon attempted treachery. And if Archaelon decided to throw undead at them, Kalussa’s fire magic would prove useful.

  “So be it,” said the herald. “Approach, and the emissary shall meet you halfway between your host and the gate of Castra Chaeldon.”

  The herald disappeared back below the battlements.

  “Decurion,” said Ridmark to Rallios, “you’re in charge until I get back. Calliande, Tamlin, Kalussa, come with me.”

  Kalussa frowned. “And if it is a trap?”

  Tamlin grinned at her. “Then we shall make them regret their treachery.”

  Kalussa scowled at him but nodded.

  “Come,” said Ridmark. He tapped his bamboo staff against the ground a few times. Better to take that weapon and be underestimated rather than marching up to the gates with Oathshield blazing away in his fists. Tamlin gave him an askance look, which only confirmed Ridmark’s judgment.