The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  In spite of Memnet’s words, it wasn’t easy to stay hidden on the Spice Road, not with so many eyes watching. For the next two days after facing the Kratians, Memnet and Nathaliey cloaked themselves in magic as they traveled through the most isolated stretches, normally traversed only by large, heavily armed caravans. The only caravanserai were walled compounds, small fortresses, really, that charged dearly for the privilege of watering at their wells and sleeping unmolested.

  Beyond that was the true wasteland, the empty quarter of sand and stone. The ground belched smoke, and it was said that a dragon slumbered in a subterranean cave. There was a sleeping dragon, Memnet confirmed, but that wasn’t the origin of the smoke. The surface of the world was thin there, and giant pools of molten rock lay beneath its skin, inhabited by fire salamanders and other creatures of the fiery deep.

  After that came the country of dry grass and desert lions, whose roars awakened them at night. The lions and other beasts were attracted by the camel, and had to be driven off with fire and magic.

  In all this time they had only met with a single southbound caravan, and Nathaliey had grown sleepy in her vigilance. Her feet ached, and she longed for her stone cottage along the forest path of the gardens. She missed the other apprentices, especially Markal: his self-deprecating wit and his frank conversations about the order, magic, and life in general.

  And she also missed trips to the libraries of Syrmarria, missed fruit from the gardens’ trees and vines, and bread from the ovens. Missed her morning meditations in the Golden Pavilion. Even missed the bleating of sheep on the far side of the stone bridge that marked the border between the mundane world and the magical realm where they lived.

  “We’re being followed again,” Memnet said unexpectedly at the end of a long day. “Two men in gray cloaks.”

  Nathaliey looked around, confused. She didn’t immediately spot the pursuers. “For how long?”

  “Five, six hours. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

  “I wasn’t looking,” she admitted. “I thought we were safe now that we’d entered the wasteland. Go ahead. I’ll send them off and catch up with you.” She stopped and placed her hands palm down.

  “No, not yet. These ones are . . . different. Keep moving, we’re safer together.”

  She soon understood what he meant. The road was flanked by tan, lichen-streaked boulders, the route of packed sand twisting to get through them to the point where caravans had to thread single file. It was a place for ambush, and Nathaliey sensed lurking magic. These were no ordinary bandits.

  “Straight ahead, Master. A snare.”

  “Keep going.”

  “The camel will break its leg.”

  “No, it’s a trick on top of a trick,” Memnet said. “We were meant to find it.”

  He waved his hand and said a word. The landscape suddenly became more clear.

  Ah, there it was. The first snare was meant to be discovered so as to conceal the second. Avoid the obvious trap and they’d fall into loose sand, which would bury them up to . . . well, completely. They’d suffocate. How was that? The strength of the trap rivaled the defenses of their own garden.

  Memnet’s incantation had also revealed two figures lurking on the edge of her awareness, one to the right, the other straight ahead and at a distance. They were still dim, hard to sense. Cloaked. That’s how it seemed. It was how the wizard and apprentice must have seemed, had anyone been looking for them. And apparently, someone was.

  The master fed Nathaliey the words to neutralize the smaller trap so they could step over it. She did so, and they were shortly past.

  “Who are they?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I still don’t know.”

  “How could you not know? They’re mages or wizards of some kind. Don’t you know them all?”

  “I don’t.”

  That seemed strange, but Memnet didn’t speak much of the magic outside the Order of the Crimson Path. The other magic wielders Nathaliey had met were simple sorts like midwives and fortune-tellers. Those who made love charms and dabbled in alchemy. Those who read entrails and claimed to speak to the dead, but made sure that crickets hung in cages at every doorway to ward against wights. But there was sorcery in the world, and ancient knowledge that even Memnet the Great had not yet recovered.

  The mysterious figures followed them for the rest of the day, and while Nathaliey set up camp, Memnet disappeared into the darkness to lay down defenses. He looked tired when he came back. He must have placed some potent snares.

  “There’s evil magic about them,” he said. “Possibly necromancy.”

  Nathaliey voiced the concern that had continued to plague her. “Surely you know who they are by now.”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I wasn’t being coy.”

  “You must have some idea, Master. Who is capable of such a thing?”

  “There are mages in the sultanates. Some live as monks or hermits in the wilderness. Others practice their arcane arts in secret, more alchemists than wizards. But there are no other great orders left in the world. This reeks of necromancy, and there are two enemies.” He shrugged. “I have no more answers than that.”

  This was not comforting, and it sapped Nathaliey’s confidence as she settled in next to the campfire to meditate. Memnet sat cross-legged to one side, his orb cradled in his hands, and she felt magic flowing from him and into it, and that comforted her somewhat. A reminder of the master’s power. But she determined not to sleep. Instead, she would keep her attention on the surrounding desert.

  Nevertheless, she was drifting on the edge of consciousness several hours later, head nodding against her chest, when the master woke her. He did this with a thought placed into her mind, nothing spoken.

  The fire had died to glowing embers. A great swath of stars spread overhead, glittering in the thin desert air. The master taught that the world was a speck of dust hurtling through a vast, eternal universe, something that had struck her as implausible, but now felt real. The stars seemed so close that she felt as though she were clinging to the skin of the world. Insects buzzed in the night, and a desert owl hooted in the distance.

  There was magic hanging around her, something cast by the master. A seeking eye. Memnet had given it to her to search their surroundings. Nathaliey closed her eyes and groped for the seeker until she made contact. She sent it into the desert, floating above the sand and rock.

  The first man was easy to find; one of Memnet’s wards had trapped him. While he’d been squeezing between two boulders, they had shifted and pinned one of his feet. He grimaced in pain, pushing at the rocks in a vain attempt to free himself. Each of the stones was the size of an ox cart, and there was no way he’d be able to move them.

  At first, she thought he was alone, that the other man had fled. After searching for several minutes in a series of expanding circles from their camp, she came in close for a final look. There he was! Only thirty feet away from the campfire, back pressed against a boulder. His cloak blended into the rock, and he’d somehow evaded several traps and charms that shimmered behind him. He drew a weapon that was somewhere between a long knife and a short sword and shifted into motion.

  Memnet’s voice whispered in Nathaliey’s mind.

  This task is yours. Use your skills.

  Yes, but which incantation? The intruder carried magic about him, and she was unsure what could penetrate his defenses. Yet it was comforting that Memnet didn’t think it necessary to intervene. He must believe his apprentice could manage on her own.

  Nathaliey put her hands out, palms down, and cleared her mind. She found the spell, made sure she could hold the words in her mind, and waited until the man came around the final boulder with his dagger in hand. She spoke the incantation slowly, deliberately, enunciating each word as she raised blood to her pores.

  Muros hos instauraretis ignis ardebit aspiciet inimica mea.

  The smoldering embers of the campfire flared to life. Soon, it was as though someone had
dumped in a flask of oil, and flames roared up. They coalesced into a ball of fire that reflected off the surrounding rock and cast the master’s face in red and orange. The heat crisped the tiny hairs on the back of Nathaliey’s hands. The camel had been slumbering with its legs tucked beneath it, but now bellowed and struggled to its feet.

  The ball of fire roared toward the man now stepping into the camp. He swung his cloak up as it hit. It struck him full on. A pressing weakness struck Nathaliey in the aftermath of her incantation, but she held her head up, determined to see the man engulfed in flames.

  That didn’t happen. Instead, the fire seemed to turn to burning water and rolled dripping off the man’s cloak, then dissolved into smoke as it hit the sand. The intruder was still upright, unburned and still armed. He ignored Nathaliey and came at the master.

  Memnet sighed and held out one of his own hands. Words danced across his lips, so quickly and fluidly that Nathaliey couldn’t quite catch what he’d said, let alone grab the incantation to study later. The already-dry air suddenly felt oven-hot, every drop of moisture baked from it.

  The intruder lifted his hands to his throat. He gasped and bent over, coughing. Sand and dust swept from the ground and into his lungs with every breath. His eyes bulged, and he gagged. Within moments, he lay on the ground, wheezing, even as sand flowed into his mouth to fill his throat. His death came seconds later.

  Nathaliey looked away. Her palms were slick with her own blood, and she wiped them on the towel at her belt. A shudder of exhaustion worked through her limbs.

  “I’m sorry, Master. I thought the fire would work.”

  “There was nothing wrong with your spell. He was a strong enemy, and he countered.” Memnet sounded as weary as Nathaliey felt. “Well, then. What now? We can’t leave the other poor devil trapped between the stones.”

  “It would serve him right. Let him cut off his own foot if he wants to escape. He came here to kill us—why should we show him any mercy?”

  “We don’t know who sent these men or why. For all we know, an enemy threatened to slaughter their wives and children if they didn’t make the attempt. Or perhaps these men were under some enchantment.”

  This stopped her anger. When she looked back at the gruesome figure of the dead man, with sand clogging his mouth and nostrils, whatever was left of it dried up and blew away. Killing was ugly business, and she’d been wrong to relish it, even for a moment.

  The seeking eye was still active, albeit fading, and Nathaliey sent it out again to confirm that the remaining enemy was still trapped. He was, and so she and the master set off to find him. She still didn’t know what Memnet intended to do, let the man go? Kill him to save him greater torment later? Could she do that if he ordered her to? Yes, she thought she could. Not to get pleasure from it, but to take the necessary hard measures.

  The seeker remained above the trapped man as they made their way to him, but when Nathaliey came around the corner, leading Memnet, she came to a halt. There was nobody there. The seeker had put a clear image of the man in her mind as he struggled to get his pinned foot free from the boulders. Yet he was gone, if he’d ever been there in the first place. They’d been tricked.

  “Master?”

  “Careful!” Memnet said sharply.

  He reached into his robe and out came his orb. Power swelled in it. Nathaliey exposed her hands, though it was an empty gesture. She had no magic left to draw.

  All this happened in an instant, and at that same moment, she caught movement in the corner of her eye. She looked up as a blurred shadow dropped from the top of the boulder in front of her. It wasn’t until he’d struck the master and knocked him to the ground, sending the orb spilling uselessly away, that the illusion broke. The shadow became a man in a gray cloak, armed with a long, gleaming knife. He grabbed Memnet’s hair and jerked his head back to expose the man’s throat.

  “No!” Nathaliey cried. She threw herself at the enemy.

  The cloak came up, and when she hit it, it was like stone. She flew backward, stunned. The master—Memnet the Great, an ancient wizard who was the head of the Order of the Crimson Path—let out a terrible, animal-like scream. There was pain in that cry, and surprise as well.

  The scream only lasted a moment, and was followed by a shout of triumph. Nathaliey lifted her gaze to see the horrifying sight of the master’s head cut loose from his body and hoisted in the air, blood and gore dripping from the end. The killer’s eyes were wild, and an insane cackle came out.

  Yet killing the master was not enough. A wizard was not so easily separated from his soul. Get Memnet back to the gardens and Nathaliey had a chance. The apprentices could put head and body together and bring the master back to life. He was scarcely dead, and already a wild hope rose in Nathaliey’s breast.

  Yet the assassin seemed to know this as well. He tossed aside the head and grabbed Memnet’s body, which he hoisted with abnormal strength. Magic rolled off him, and a message meant for other ears reached Nathaliey’s mind: To me! Now!

  A horse stomped into sight. It tossed its head and snorted, but didn’t balk when the killer threw the master’s body over its haunches. Blood drained from the master’s severed neck in horrific quantities. The assassin hauled himself into the saddle, kicked at the horse’s haunches, and disappeared into the darkness with the body of Memnet the Great.

  Ten minutes later, Nathaliey was riding her camel north at all speed. The gardens were still two days’ ride away, but all hope was not yet extinguished. She had collected Memnet’s head.

  Only later did she remember that she’d forgotten to retrieve the master’s orb from where it had fallen in the sand.

  #

  Three weeks after the master’s death, in the library deep beneath the palace of Syrmarria, Nathaliey was calmer, her thoughts collected. The assassin had been strong and cunning, and he’d had powerful magic to fight his way past the master. His cloak had proven a match for the greatest wizard of their age. But what about his gray skin?

  “Wait,” she said to the archivist, who was setting scrolls on the table. “Bring me the Book of Gods.” She took a chance as he turned away. “You are very helpful, Jethro.”

  “You remember my name.”

  “You sound surprised,” she said, smiling. “Of course I do.”

  “Thank you! I will get the book at once.”

  Nathaliey cringed to hear the obsequiousness in the old man’s tone. What a blow to fail as an apprentice and be turned to lesser tasks. To study, to copy, to catalog, but with no ability to practice. In his most vulnerable moments, Markal had confessed that this was his great fear, to suffer the same fate.

  But Markal had his own skills that Nathaliey had yet to master, and feared she never would. As she opened the thick tome with its heavy vellum leaves of calfskin and its worn leather cover, her eyes struggled to focus. The letters shifted across the page, and even when she could hold them, changed form, altering their meaning even as she stared.

  It was especially discouraging knowing that the book was best understood here, in this archive, where magic clarified her mind, left her alert. Apart from that, the book couldn’t be removed from this room—it was too valuable to spend one moment away from the layer upon layer of protective spells that guarded the Secret Vault—but if Nathaliey could find the right part of the book, she could copy a few lines and phrases to show to Markal. He could read it and help analyze the meaning.

  An illuminator had decorated the margins of the pages with magical creatures like griffins and fire salamanders, but also with the mundane: dogs, mice, lizards, wine bottles, flowers, daggers. It had been several years since she had opened this book, and the last time, Markal had patiently worked with her as she copied and memorized. The lessons of that period of intense study had fled her mind, but she remembered one image in particular.

  It was a scythe and a heavy satchel with a drawn cord. Those drawings opened a chapter on the eldest of the Brother Gods, known among the common people as the
Dark Gatherer. Those who understood his purpose called him the Huntsman or the Harvester.

  Many of the illustrations in the book used vibrant reds and golds, but the illuminator had used black ink for the scythe and satchel. Her index finger tingled where it touched the ink. When Nathaliey turned the page, the flames of the candelabra danced, and the oil lamps smoked in their sconces as if touched by a hidden breeze.

  Nathaliey began to copy, recognizing a word here and there, but otherwise needing to concentrate simply to render each letter of the old tongue before it slipped away. By the time she finished the first page, the candles had burned down, and Jethro was lighting new ones. She looked up while he did so and rubbed the back of her neck with ink-stained fingers.

  The chapter on the Harvester was the shortest by far in the Book of Gods, but she remembered at least ten more pages, written on each side. This would take days, perhaps weeks. It might be faster for Jethro to send a courier and bring Markal to the library. She guessed he’d be reluctant to leave the master’s head, but perhaps he would come if she explained the importance.

  Nathaliey turned the page, determined to copy a few more lines before she stopped for food and drink and to empty her full bladder. Bright colors on the opposite page drew her eye. A white-headed griffin flew through the clouds, with a fierce, armed rider on its back. No, that was wrong. That was the header for the chapter about the Mountain Brother.

  Where were the rest of the pages about the Harvester? Had she misremembered? She ran her finger down the interior spine. A ridge of carefully cut leaves met her touch.

  “Someone cut this book!”

  Jethro had been standing quietly in the corner, waiting for her command, but now rushed over and peered down.

  “Blood of the Path,” he cursed. “That’s impossible.”

  “Look at it. Don’t you see?”

  “I can see, but . . . it’s impossible. How could this be?”

  Anger and worry warred within her, but she fought to suppress them from her voice. “You tell me, Archivist. You’re the only one with the key to this vault, are you not?”