Sevenfold Sword: Champion

by Jonathan Moeller

  The momentum of the battle changed. The men of Owyllain shouted and threw themselves into the fighting, their enchanted swords tearing apart the wraiths. Calliande felt the thrum through the web of power as her magic attacked the wraiths. She slowed her breathing, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper, the entirety of her concentration on the spell.

  She had no power or concentration left with which to defend herself, but that was all right because Ridmark was up to the task.

  The wraiths converged on Calliande, perhaps realizing that she was the greatest threat to them, but Ridmark planted himself before her. He used the sword’s power to make himself faster and protect himself from the touch of the wraiths, and every one of his two-handed blows destroyed an undead. Aegeus fought on his left and Rallios on his right. Kalussa stood next to Calliande, flinging bolts of fire. Her elemental fire was not enough to destroy the wraiths, but it did stagger the creatures, allowing Ridmark or Aegeus or Rallios to destroy them.

  All was chaos around Calliande, white fire flashing against the cold blue light of the wraiths, swords rising and falling, men screaming and dying.

  And then the last wraith unraveled, and the fighting was over.

  ###

  An hour later Ridmark stood with Calliande, Kalussa, Tamlin, Rallios, Aegeus, and Parmenio to take stock of the situation.

  “Eleven dead,” said Rallios with a grim shake of his head. “No wounded, at least.”

  “No,” murmured Calliande. There had been no wounded because the wraiths killed with a touch, sucking away the lives of their victims. “It was a painful way to die, but at least it was quick.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. He shook his head and struck his fist against Oathshield’s pommel in frustration. “We should have seen it coming.”

  “To summon a wraith like that requires powerful and complex necromancy,” said Calliande, shaking her head. “I didn’t think that Archaelon had that kind of power.”

  “Lord Ridmark, Lady Calliande,” said Rallios. “If you will forgive my bluntness…if you were not here, we all would have been killed.”

  “Aye,” said Aegeus. “During my first campaign with King Hektor as an Arcanius Knight, we marched against the Necromancer of Trojas. With the Sword of Death, the Necromancer had summoned forth a vast host of undead, including wraiths. We lost many men to those creatures until King Hektor took the field with the Sword of Fire to destroy them.”

  “You never told me that,” said Tamlin.

  “Well, you never told me you were married.”

  Tamlin rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake.”

  “My point,” said Rallios, “is that those wraiths would have wiped us all out if you were not here. Aye, I’ve never seen magic like Lady Calliande’s before.” He looked at Ridmark. “And that sword is the equal of one of the Seven, I’m sure of it. One of the Seven could dispatch a wraith with a single blow, but the only other way I know to fight them is with teams of Arcanii.”

  Parmenio nodded. “I was sure we would all be wiped out.”

  “I know the Guardian Rhodruthain brought you here against your will,” said Kalussa in a quiet voice, “but I thank God that he did.” Some of her usual confidence had faded, and she looked even more frightened than she had when she had been a prisoner of the orcs. “If you had not, we all would have been killed.”

  Ridmark blinked. He had thought the men of Owyllain would be angry at the losses, that they would blame him for leading them here. Instead, they were astonished that they were still alive, that they had only lost a relative few to the wraiths. Ridmark reminded himself that they had never seen a soulblade before.

  “Well,” said Ridmark, “it seems God has work for us yet. I see no reason to change our plans.”

  “Was the spell to breach the wall damaged at all, Lady Calliande?” said Tamlin, glancing at the whirling cylinder of purple symbols.

  “No,” said Calliande. “The wraiths might have been able to drain the power if they drew close enough, but we dealt with them first. If I resume work at once, we should be ready to breach the wall tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you need to rest first?” said Ridmark.

  She met his gaze, and he was struck by the fire in her eyes. The shadow of grief was still there, but this was the woman who had fought Tymandain Shadowbearer, who had convinced the dwarves and the manetaurs to march to war against the Frostborn, who had returned after two centuries to warn the realm of Andomhaim of its peril.

  “I do not,” said Calliande. “I’m going to tear open that wall like an eggshell and Archaelon and Khurazalin are welcome to try and stop me.”

  Aegeus laughed. “Well-spoken, my lady. Are all the women of Andomhaim so combative?”

  “She is the Keeper of Andomhaim, Sir Aegeus,” said Kalussa, recovering some of her usual hauteur. “Of course she burns with righteous wrath against wielders of dark magic.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “We’ll remain on watch. Oh, and Sir Tamlin. Thank you. You warning was timely. It would have been far worse if those wraiths had been able to take us unawares.”

  Tamlin inclined his head but said nothing.

  “How did you know?” said Kalussa.

  “A…feeling,” said Tamlin. “A bad feeling. I’ve had it before, usually when things are about to go sour.”

  “A warrior should learn to trust his intuitions,” said Rallios.

  “Indeed,” said Ridmark. “Then we will trust to ours and continue the siege. If all goes well, we can bring this to an end.”

  But he knew it would be much harder than that.

  Chapter 19: The Traitor

  Ridmark got some sleep while he could.

  He would have felt guilty to rest while Calliande labored on her spell, but they had both been in enough battles to know better. Her part was to rip down the wall with her magic. His part was to kill Archaelon, Khurazalin, and the Champion with Oathshield, to lead the men of Owyllain through the breach and into battle against Archaelon’s forces.

  The better rested he was, the better his chances were.

  Besides, he had been in enough battles to know that a soldier needed to seize the opportunity for sleep when it came. God only knew when it would come again.

  Ridmark feared that Archaelon would launch another attack before the sun came up, but the castra was quiet all night, and he slept without interruption.

  He awoke the next morning and at walked around their camp, checking on the preparations. Calliande still circled the whirling cylinder of purple fire, casting spell after spell. It stood nearly fifteen feet tall now, and it gave off a low, ominous hum. The sound put Ridmark in mind an overwound crossbow string, trembling with tension and ready to snap.

  Then he walked to the other side of the camp, joining Rallios and Sir Parmenio where they watched the road and the castra.

  “Anything?” said Ridmark.

  “Nothing,” said Rallios. “The orcs on watch changed just before dawn, but the undead haven’t moved, and nothing has come out of the fortress.”

  “The scouts have been keeping watch on the hills,” said Parmenio. “No other soldiers are approaching, either friendly or hostile.”

  Rallios nodded. “Then it seems the fight will be up to us.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Calliande will be ready in another three or four hours.” He pointed at the curtain wall. “She will try to open the breach there. That’s the closest point in the eastern wall to the central keep.”

  “I suggest we give each century of men their own task, Lord Ridmark,” said Rallios. “One group to seize the gatehouse, another to take the keep, and so forth.”

  Ridmark nodded. “You know the men better than I do. Assign them as you think best. I will have my hands full with Archaelon and Khurazalin and the Champion, so you will likely have to direct the battle.”

  “Aye,” said Rallios. “I’ve done it before.”

  “One thing, though,” said Ridmark. “Archaelon is holding several hundred of your
hoplites prisoner somewhere inside the castra. Have a few men try to free them. If they can join the battle on our side, that will give us far better odds.”

  “I agree,” said Parmenio. “And they’ll be itching for a fight. Archaelon betrayed them, and they’ll want to repay him for his treachery.”

  “Then let us give them the chance,” said Ridmark. He looked at the waiting hoplites, many of them still sleeping. “Make sure that everyone is up and has breakfast. There is going to be hard fighting ahead, and I…”

  “Hear me!”

  The voice boomed from the walls. Ridmark turned, reaching for Oathshield’s hilt. It was the voice of the orcish herald who had invited them to a parley earlier.

  He spotted the herald standing on the battlements over the gate.

  “Hear me!” thundered the herald once more. “Lord Archaelon invites Ridmark Arban to a parley!”

  “What the devil?” said Rallios. “Why would he invite us to another parley?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “Let’s find out. Wait here.”

  He walked forward, hand on Oathshield’s hilt. He felt the attention of the orcs on the walls as he approached, heard the hoplites scrambling to their feet behind him. Ridmark paused just out of bowshot of the walls.

  “Hear me!” thundered the herald yet again. “Lord Archaelon invites Ridmark Arban to a parley!”

  “I am here!” shouted Ridmark. With a chill of fear, he wondered if telling Khurazalin his name had been a mistake. The Maledictus might have been clever enough to question the prisoners, and if he realized that Gareth and Joachim were Ridmark’s sons…

  He had a brief, terrifying vision of Khurazalin holding Gareth and Joachim over the walls, threatening to drop them if Ridmark did not surrender.

  “Lord Ridmark!” said the herald. “Lord Archaelon invites you to a parley.”

  “To what use?” said Ridmark. “I’ve already spoken with Khurazalin. We have nothing to discuss.”

  “Lord Archaelon himself wishes to speak with you,” said the herald.

  “Why?” said Ridmark.

  “To discuss terms to end this siege.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark.

  “Lord Archaelon also has conditions for the parley,” said the herald.

  “Of course he does.”

  “Lord Archaelon wishes to meet you halfway between his gate and your soldiers,” said the herald. “He will be accompanied by three guards. Lord Archaelon wishes three guards to accompany you as well – specifically the Lady Calliande, the Lady Kalussa Pendragon, and the Arcanius Knight Tamlin.”

  Ridmark frowned. “Why?” Why would Archaelon want to see the four of them together? Was it a trick to wipe out the leadership of the hoplites? If so, it was a poor plan. It would be difficult to overcome Calliande and Ridmark together, especially if they had the aid of Kalussa’s fire and Tamlin’s sword.

  “That Lord Archaelon will permit you to have such powerful guards,” said the herald, “is proof that he does not intend treachery. Additionally, Lord Archaelon wishes them to witness his proposal.”

  Refusing Archaelon might cost him nothing. For that matter, taking Calliande away from her preparations would delay the completion of her spell. Yet Ridmark feared that Archaelon had learned of Gareth and Joachim. And letting Calliande look at the traitor of Castra Chaeldon might be useful. Perhaps her Sight could discern his weaknesses.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “I accept these terms.”

  “So be it,” said the herald. “Lord Archaelon will wait until you approach with your companions, and then he shall issue forth and meet you halfway between the gate and your hoplites.”

  Ridmark turned and strode back to Rallios and Parmenio. Calliande, Kalussa, Tamlin, and Aegeus had joined them.

  “Archaelon wants another parley?” said Calliande. She looked tired, but the fire hadn’t faded from her expression.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “With the two of us, and Tamlin and Kalussa as well.”

  Tamlin frowned. “Lady Kalussa and me? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ridmark. “The herald said powerful bodyguards would prove Archaelon didn’t intend treachery, but he must have another reason.”

  “I think I know what it is,” said Calliande.

  “What, Lady Calliande?” said Kalussa.

  “You’re the daughter of the bearer of the Sword of Fire,” said Calliande, “and Sir Tamlin is the son of the bearer of the Sword of Earth. You’re both Swordborn. That’s the only connection between you, and that must be the reason Archaelon wants to see you.”

  Rallios frowned. “I understand little of such magical matters, but would letting the traitor see Sir Tamlin and Lady Kalussa gain him an advantage?”

  “I cannot see how,” said Ridmark.

  “Unless he plans to murder all of you at the parley,” said Aegeus.

  “He would be at a sore disadvantage,” said Parmenio. “Lord Ridmark’s sword and Lady Calliande’s magic turned aside the wraiths.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark, “but we didn’t think Archaelon was strong enough to summon those wraiths, yet he did nonetheless.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to be on our guard.”

  “Perhaps we should refuse the parley,” said Kalussa.

  “We could,” said Ridmark, “but the opportunity to learn something of Archaelon’s weaknesses is too good to pass. And if this is a trap…well, a trap can be sprung early. If Archaelon attempts treachery and we kill him outside the walls, we’ll have won half the battle then and there.” He looked at Rallios. “Decurion, you’re in command until I get back.”

  Calliande walked to his side, and Tamlin and Kalussa followed her. Together they headed towards the gates. As they did, the postern door swung open, and three orcish warriors in bronze armor stepped forth, hands on their sword hilts. Ridmark reached the halfway point between the gate and the hoplites and waited.

  Archaelon emerged from the postern door and walked towards them, his bodyguards following.

  Ridmark had not been sure what to expect. Would Archaelon be a hulking warrior like Sir Aegeus, eager for a fight? Or someone like the Weaver, with politeness and a gentle manner masking a monster? Or someone like Tarrabus Carhaine, arrogant and lordly and certain that power was his destiny?

  Archaelon seemed like none of those men…but neither did he appear healthy.

  Ridmark guessed he was in his middle forties, and like the other Arcanius Knights, he wore armor of overlapping bronze scales on a leather coat, a sword and a dagger at his belt. Despite the harsh sun of Owyllain, his skin was pale, almost milky. His dark eyes looked like holes drilled into his skull, and his head had been shaved bare.

  No, more than that – his head was absolutely hairless. He didn’t even have eyebrows. His expression was strange, also. A man walking out to face an enemy, even in a parley, ought to have had some expression, even if it was just a grim mask of resolution. Archaelon’s face was blank, as if there was nothing behind those black eyes at all.

  Ridmark glanced at Calliande. Her eyes were fixed on Archaelon, her hand tight against her staff.

  “He’s at least as powerful as Khurazalin,” said Calliande in a low voice. “Maybe even stronger. But I don’t think he has Khurazalin’s control. The dark magic’s twisting him, Ridmark. Mutating him. Like what happened to some of the Enlightened during the battle for Tarlion.”

  Ridmark nodded and waited.

  Archaelon halted a half-dozen yards away, watching them with his black eyes. His guards waited behind him, snarls on their tattooed faces.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  “You are Ridmark Arban?” said Archaelon at last. His voice was cold and flat and precise, utterly lacking in any emotion.

  “I am,” said Ridmark. “And I assume you are Archaelon, formerly a Knight of the Order of the Arcanii, now a traitor to the realm of Owyllain.”

  “Ah,” said Archaelon. “Yes. Quite correct. I have violated my oaths to the Order, to King Hektor
, and to God himself. For that matter, I have turned from the prescribed paths of magical study for the Order and delved deep into necromantic lore. With admirable success, I should add. But, yes. I am indeed the traitor you name me to be.”

  “Then you confess your crimes openly?” said Kalussa, her scorn obvious.

  “Why should I not?” said Archaelon. “Do we not say a warrior must know himself as well as his enemies? If a warrior does not understand himself, he is doomed to failure. So why should I not speak openly of what I have done?”

  “And what have you done?” said Ridmark. Some of the Enlightened had enjoyed listening to themselves talk, and he suspected Archaelon might suffer from the same weakness.

  “Is it not obvious?” said Archaelon. “I have betrayed King Hektor and the Order. I have allied myself with the Confessor and brought his orcish soldiers onto the soil of the realm of the Nine Cities. I have studied necromancy from one of the high priests of the Maledicti. I attacked sworn hoplites of King Hektor, and am even now holding hundreds of them captive in Castra Chaeldon. All this is obvious to me, and it ought to be obvious to you. But what is not obvious to me is who you are.”

  “It should be obvious,” said Ridmark. “I’ve told you already. Or Khurazalin told you after our parley.”

  “Yes,” said Archaelon. “You are Ridmark Arban. But who is Ridmark Arban?” The black eyes strayed to the hilt of Oathshield. “After you fought off my undead and the wraiths, I thought you had to be one of the bearers of the Seven. The wielder of the Sword of Air, perhaps. That sword was lost after Kothlaric’s murder and never found. Only one of the Seven Swords would have been powerful enough to defeat my wraiths so handily. But that is not one of the Seven, is it?”

  “No,” said Ridmark.

  “Then what is it?” said Archaelon. “It is a weapon of high elven magic, Khurazalin knows that much. But he was unable to tell me more.” For the first time, he smiled. It was an unnerving expression that had nothing to do with mirth or good humor. “And I suppose you will not tell me its nature.”