Sevenfold Sword: Shadow
Page 31
“Hear me, shattered one,” said Amruthyr, gazing at Tamara. “You sundered yourself into seven lives. The Maledicti and the Scythe have slain six of those lives, and you are all that remains. You must not fail. For if you fail, all hope is lost, and the Kratomachar shall rise to devour us all.”
“Do you know who I am?” said Tamara. “Who I was, I mean? Why did I do this to myself?”
“Because you saw the danger,” said Amruthyr. “Hearken! The Seven Swords are not ancient artifacts of power. They are a trick, a cunning trap, the instruments for the rise of the New God.” He shuddered, groaned, and kept speaking, the web of veins trembling around him. “You saw the danger. So did the Guardian Rhodruthain. Rhodruthain, forgive me!” Amruthyr closed his eyes and shuddered again. “Of all the Liberated, Rhodruthain has been the truest and the most faithful. He alone has remained faithful to his duty. He alone kept the Sovereign from enslaving the world and the New God from rising in malefic power on the day Kothlaric was betrayed. He has endured calumny and slander, but he has remained faithful to his duty. How I wish I had heeded his wisdom!” The emotion drained from Amruthyr’s voice, and his gaze returned to Tamara. “You asked Rhodruthain to do this to you, to split you into seven to defeat the New God, and he granted your request. That is all I know.”
Third listened with half an ear, focusing on the maze of veins around Amruthyr. Just a little more, she thought, and she could understand the pattern and travel into it.
“When you go from this place, shattered one,” said Amruthyr, “take up my staff. It will aid you in your mission. You, young man.” He turned his gaze to Kyralion. “What is your name?”
“Kyralion of the Illicaeryn Jungle, Lord Amruthyr,” said Kyralion.
“The Augurs have lied to you,” said Amruthyr.
Third wanted to look at Kyralion, but she dared not take her gaze from the glowing veins. She had almost unraveled the pattern, and every second counted.
“What?” said Kyralion. “They did not see a vision of Third? But Kolmyrion saw the same vision, as did you…”
“They spoke the truth of their vision,” said Amruthyr, “but not all the truth. Your Augurs are fools. They hold you in disdain, for you are not part of their precious Unity, but the Unity was a grave error. Without the Unity, our people would not have been vulnerable to the plague curse of the Maledictus of Death. Hearken to me! The woman of blue flame shall decide the fate of our kindred…but you must stand at her side when she does. The Augurs, in their pride, did not tell you that part of their vision. But you must protect the woman of the blue flame, Kyralion of the Illicaeryn Jungle. For together you will reach the moment of doom for our people, and together you shall decide their fate.”
“I shall,” said Kyralion.
“You who were an urdhracos, you who escaped the tyranny of your father, hear me,” said Amruthyr.
Third’s eyes met his, and despite the intensity and pain in his gaze, she also saw the desperate pleading.
“When you reach the hour of decision,” said Amruthyr, “when you hold the destiny of the Liberated in your hands, I beg you to have mercy upon us. We do not deserve mercy, for our folly laid the path the Sovereign and the New God now walk, and only Rhodruthain was wise enough to stand strong in his duty. But have mercy upon us, if you can find such a thing in your heart after all that you have suffered.”
Third stared at him. She didn’t know what to say.
“I see the pattern,” said Third. “I can end it now for you.”
“Thank you,” said Amruthyr. “Remember this when the hour of decision comes for you both. Remember this day. Remember, and I beg you to have mercy.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if exposing his throat to her. “I am ready.”
Third drew on the fiery song in her blood and traveled.
It was difficult, as difficult as covering a hundred yards in a single jump. Third felt the power around the circle try to hold her back, but she had seen the pattern of the veins, and her will carried her through them. Third reappeared inside the circle, standing before Lord Amruthyr, and she drove her left-hand sword between his ribs and used her right-hand sword to open his throat.
He didn’t cry out, didn’t struggle, only slumped forward as the blood stained his ornate robe.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and then he died.
The golden veins flashed once more and winked out of existence. Amruthyr’s body fell to its knees and collapsed to the floor. As it did, his body crumbled into dust, just as Kolmyrion’s had done, and soon even the dust vanished, leaving only his robes and staff upon the floor. The twisted spell had kept him alive long beyond the natural span of his years, but with the curse removed, time had collected its due.
“Tamara,” said Third, stepping back and looking at her swords. The blood upon the blades had crumbled into dust. “He gave you his staff. You should probably take it.”
Tamara hesitated and then nodded. “As you say, Lady Third.” She crossed into the circle of menhirs, stooped, and picked up the staff of golden metal. “I…it carries a spell, a potent one…”
“We can examine it later,” said Third. “Come! Ridmark will need our aid against the Maledicti.”
If he was even still alive.
Third sprinted for the door to the throne room, the others following.
###
The Warden, Mhazhama, and the Scythe all unleashed their magical attacks at once.
Lightning leaped from Mhazhama’s fist, and both the Warden and the Scythe threw bolts of shadow mingled with blue fire. Likely those would be the most dangerous of the attacks. Ridmark called on Oathshield’s power to resist dark magic, and slashed the sword, deflecting the Warden’s deadly strike, and then the Scythe’s less powerful attack.
He mostly managed to block Mhazhama’s lightning. Yet some of the power of her magic bled through Oathshield’s protections, and Ridmark jerked back, the lightning burning through him. Every muscle in his body contracted at once, and Ridmark stumbled.
The pain ended, and he staggered to a halt, barely keeping his balance.
The Warden, Mhazhama, and the Scythe all began casting new spells. Ridmark did not think he could deflect another salvo like the first one, and there was no way he could reach any of the wizards before they finished their spells.
“You always knew it would end like this,” said the Warden, the blue fire brightening around his fingers. “You knew that one day you would face me again, and on that day, you would die. It was…”
The golden veins covering the walls and ceiling blazed brighter, shining with the intensity of the sun.
Then the crystal affixed to the apex of the dome exploded.
The noise was colossal, and shards of burning crystal rained in all directions. A gale of hot air screamed through the chamber and knocked Ridmark from his feet, and he slammed hard against the side of one of the stone tiers. He flung his right arm over his face to shield his head, and he felt shards of crystal bounce off his armor and bite into the unprotected areas of his right arm and leg.
Before the noise had even died away, Ridmark heaved himself to his feet, lifting Oathshield. The explosion had knocked Mhazhama and the Maledictus of Shadows flat and thrown the Scythe from the air. The Warden stood where he had been, but even as Ridmark looked, the dark elven archmage dissolved into mist, and the mist itself vanished.
Third and the others had done it. They had broken the spell.
Ridmark sprinted down the stairs, forcing his exhausted muscles onward, calling on Oathshield for every bit of strength and speed the soulblade could grant him.
Mhazhama rose first, floating off the altar, lightning glowing around her fingers, and Ridmark leaped, stabbing Oathshield before him. He landed before the Maledictus of Air and the soulblade plunged into her chest. Mhazhama shrieked, and the white fire exploded from Oathshield, spreading into the undead flesh.
“Impossible,” whispered Mhazhama, the blue fire in her empty eyes flickering.
Ridmark hurried forward as the Maledictus of Shadows rose, already casting a spell with frantic, hurried motions. He lunged, and the Maledictus glided backward, becoming a wraith of mist and hazy gray light. As the other Maledicti had done in previous battles, the Maledictus of Shadows whirled and fled, his immaterial form passing through the walls of the temple.
A dark shadow caught his eye, and Ridmark whirled, raising Oathshield in guard. The Scythe hovered over the altar, her face battered and bruised from the explosion, her void-filled eyes fixed on him.
Ridmark released one hand from Oathshield’s hilt and beckoned.
The Scythe let out a wild, reedy giggle. “Not today! Someday my masters will come for you. Perhaps you will free me from the torment of life on that day. But not today!”
She swooped, banked, and shot for the doorway at the top of the tiers, vanishing through it in an eyeblink. Ridmark thought about pursuing her but realized there was no way he could pursue a flying urdhracos while on foot.
Silence fell over the Heart of the Nightmare.
The former Heart of the Nightmare, Ridmark supposed.
A wave of crushing exhaustion rolled through him, and he leaned on Oathshield. The soulblade could augment his speed and strength and stamina, but all mortal flesh had limits, and Ridmark was tottering on the edge of his. Every joint ached and throbbed, his muscles felt like wet paper, and he was bleeding from several cuts left by the shards of flying crystal. There was a sharp pain on the left side of his chest that was likely from a cracked rib, and he suspected that both his torso and his legs would be a solid mass of ugly bruises.
But he was still alive, and the nightmare spell had been broken.
“You are victorious,” said Antenora inside his head, her voice tired. Had she spoken during the fight? If she had, Ridmark hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t have spared a single scrap of concentration. “The oneiromantic spell has collapsed, and the surviving Maledictus has fled.”
“Thank you for your help, Antenora,” said Ridmark. He coughed, forcing moisture into his dry throat. What he would not give for a cup of wine! “I could not have made it this far without your help.”
“I need to rest now,” said Antenora, “and you should as well.”
“Not yet,” said Ridmark. “Not until I know that Calliande and Third and the others are safe.”
“I know,” said Antenora. “God go with you, my friend.”
The bracelet flickered, and Antenora’s voice faded from his mind.
Were Third and the others still alive? And what of the others in Kalimnos?
Ridmark was exhausted and barely able to stand, but there was work to do.
He jogged up the stairs and headed for the door.
###
Tamara ran up the stairs after Third and the others, the golden staff of Lord Amruthyr in her hand.
She had carved her old staff herself, scribing sigils onto it that would focus her earth magic, but she had left it behind in the Chamber of Meditation. For one thing, trying to run while carrying two staffs at once was an invitation to trip and crack her skull. For another, this staff was far superior to her old one. The spells upon it would focus and augment her magic, allowing her to wield spells of far greater power.
And if they were about to go into battle against two of the high priests of the Maledicti, Tamara needed every advantage she could find.
They reached the top of the spiral stairs, the door to the Heart of the Nightmare opening on their left. The pulsing golden glow had faded, and Tamara realized that the thick layer of mist that had covered the floor had vanished as well.
A flicker of motion came to her eye, and she raised her new staff and forced magic into her tired mind.
Ridmark Arban strode through the doorway to the Heart of the Nightmare. He looked terrible, his face pale beneath a coating of sweat, blood dripping from several cuts on his arms and lower legs. Oathshield flickered with white fire in his right hand, and he came to a sudden stop as he saw them.
Third froze as well, and she and Ridmark looked at each other for a second.
And to Tamara’s surprise, Ridmark grinned. The Shield Knight was a grim-looking man, a man who was a veteran warrior and looked the part, but he grinned when he saw them. Third smiled back, her hard face softening, and for a moment the two of them looked like old friends who had stumbled across each other in the agora.
“You’ve got good timing,” said Ridmark. “Another minute and the Maledicti would have had me.”
“By God and all the ancestors,” said Magatai. “You fought two sorcerers of such power and prevailed? A mighty victory!”
Ridmark shook his head. “I struck down Mhazhama. I suppose the Maledicti will put her spirit into a new body at some point, like they did with Khurazalin. The Maledictus of Shadows and the Scythe got away.”
“Still a great victory,” insisted Magatai.
“I wouldn’t have won anything without your help,” said Ridmark, and his eyes shifted to Tamara’s golden staff. “It looks like you have a tale to tell.”
“Later,” said Third. “We should move at once.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. He took a deep breath, wincing as he did. “We need to see how things stand at Kalimnos. Come!”
They hurried towards the exit.
Chapter 21: Clarity
Calliande sat on the bed, her sleeping daughter in her arms.
Joanna’s eyes were closed, her head resting against Calliande’s shoulder, her breathing slow and steady.
Calliande felt contented, at peace, as she had so rarely during her life. She had always felt her best when doing something, but she had never known how pleasant it could be to sit and hold her daughter, to listen to her breathe.
She thought she could do this…
Well, for the rest of her life, really.
Something about that thought scratched at the edge of her mind. Like something important that she had forgotten. Maybe even something vital.
But, no. Everything was all right. Her daughter was with her.
Then a stabbing bolt of pain shot through her skull.
She gasped, one hand going to her forehead, and as she did, Joanna turned translucent.
“Joanna?” said Calliande.
“Mama?” said Joanna, confusion on her face.
Then the pain in Calliande’s head redoubled, and Joanna dissolved into mist and vanished.
“Joanna!” shouted Calliande, looking around in terrified panic.
No, no, it couldn’t be! She had lost her daughter once before. How could she lose her again? She felt tears fill her eyes, and she wanted to collapse sobbing to the bed.
Wait.
Lose her daughter again? That didn’t make any sense. Puzzlement started to override Calliande’s grief. Joanna had barely lived three days before she had died. The girl Calliande had been holding must have been two or three years old.
Her mind snapped back into focus, and she remembered the gray-robed Maledictus standing before her, a wall of mist filling the world.
Understanding came.
“Oh, no,” said Calliande.
She surged to her feet and grabbed her staff from where she had propped it in the corner. How long had she been locked in that waking dream? To judge from the stiffness in her legs, she had been sitting on the bed for at least several hours, maybe even most of the day. She looked at the window and saw that the sun was starting to go down to the west.
It had been morning when the Maledictus had appeared before her.
She had been trapped in that delusion for most of the day. God only knows what kind of havoc the Maledictus could have worked in that time.
Ridmark. Where was Ridmark? Where were the others? Calliande had a thousand things she needed to learn right now.
She took a
step towards the door, and she heard Kalussa shouting.
###
Kalussa lay next to her husband, stroking his chest.
He was sleeping, a faint sheen of sweat on his face from their recent exertions. Kalussa smiled to herself. He needed rest, but once he awoke, Kalussa thought he would be ready to begin again. Certainly, she looked forward to trying.
Then pain exploded through her head, and Kalussa slumped against her bed with a gasp. Calem’s green eyes shot open, and he shot upright, his face tight with pain, his free hand scrabbling for the hilt of the Sword of Air.
The pain faded bit by bit, and Kalussa’s mind came into focus, the lazy contentment vanishing from her mind like a fog.
For an instant, she did not know where she was or what she had been doing.
She was lying naked in her bed at the Javelin Inn, the Staff of Blades propped in a corner, her clothes scattered about the floor as if they had been discarded in haste. Calem sat next to her, blinking in confusion, and Kalussa saw that he wasn’t wearing any clothing. He was so close that she felt the warmth of his left leg against her right.
The memory of the last day swam through her mind, and Kalussa was too overcome with conflicting emotions to speak.
Calem looked at her, and he took a deep breath and started to reach for her hand.
“Kalussa,” he said. “I…”
Her emotions exploded into full-blown panic.
“No, no, no!” she said, kicking her way free of the blankets and scrambling to her feet. The floorboards felt rough and worn beneath her heels. “No, no, don’t touch me.”
His face crumpled. “Kalussa, I…”
“No,” she said, grabbing at her clothes. She realized that she was shouting and was too upset and confused to care. “Oh, God, what did we do?”
“I…I don’t know,” said Calem. “We…you found me, and I thought you were my wife, and…”
“This was a mistake,” said Kalussa, horrified at herself. How could she have had so little self-control? She had thrown herself at Calem like an animal in heat. She had thought herself better than that.