The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  “So we only have to master the incantation and the master will be healed,” Chantmer said.

  “Oh, is that all?” she said, eyebrows raised. “How simple.”

  “We don’t need an archivist to help us with the words, they’re right here in front of us.”

  It was unclear whether he meant Jethro or if this was a dig at Markal. Either way, it was entirely dismissive of the difficulties in accomplishing the task. It might take them all night to puzzle out the incantation. Already, it was nearly dark, and fireflies were blinking in the nearby trees. By now Nathaliey’s father would be halfway to Syrmarria, and she wondered if she should have told him to send Jethro back to help. No, the remaining apprentices would have to manage alone.

  “Well, then,” Narud said, rising to his feet, “unless we’re expecting Markal sometime soon, I see no point in waiting. Let’s get to work.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bronwyn dismounted from her horse, stepped forward on foot, and let out a groan of disbelief. Curious, and growing alarmed, Markal slid from the saddle and came up behind her. What he saw was so terrible that it took a moment before his mind even registered it at all.

  A black gash cut through the forest, as if someone had taken a giant spoon and scooped it in a straight line, carving a swath of destruction fifty feet wide and stretching as far as he could see. The Sacred Forest had burned; the black was charcoal and ash, the last lingering fires of which still trickled smoke, as if venting the underworld. The coals of dying fires glowed in the gathering gloom of twilight.

  Even the largest trees were gone, their trunks burned to the ground. Dead trees stood outside the center path of complete destruction, their leaves and twigs burned off and their bark blackened, their limbs bare and accusing. Beyond that, a final, scorched layer with withered leaves before the damp forest was finally able to resist the conflagration.

  The whole thing made him think of a hot torch passed through green grass, except this was a forest of towering trees, thick with ancient magic. Markal couldn’t imagine the heat required to accomplish such a thing; some of the trees in this forest must have been hundreds of years old and were a dozen feet wide.

  “Sorcery,” Bronwyn said.

  He could only nod his agreement. “Yes. Yes, it must be.”

  “Now you see.” Her voice crackled with anger. “Now you understand.”

  Markal did. He’d considered the assassins on the Spice Road who’d killed the master, and even the wights on the road, as an aberration, but this was the third leg of a stool that could not be toppled. This was destruction organized on a scale nearly unimaginable. And its purpose was obvious.

  The gash through the forest looked like nothing so much as a road. Not a complete road, of course—the first heavy rain would turn the exposed forest floor to mud—but get an army of peasants with shovels and carts, teams of mules and oxen, engineers and skilled stone workers, and what did you have? A highway more grand and glorious than anything ever built across the face of the world.

  And where did it go? He followed the gash with his eyes to where it abutted the woods they’d just left. It would cut through the village of Agria. From there, straight toward the gardens. That was the western direction. What about the east? Where did it go from here? Toward Temple Vale, then on toward Syrmarria.

  They went back for their horses.

  “Now is your time to choose, Markal,” Bronwyn said. “Either follow me to the source of this destruction, or flee to your gardens. I would welcome your knowledge and whatever magic you can lend to my efforts. But this is my quest to complete, not yours.”

  Markal swung himself into the saddle. “I’m going with you, of course.”

  They continued east through what could only be described as a desolation. The smell of ash coated Markal’s mouth and throat. He couldn’t rinse it from his mouth, and was soon coughing. Bronwyn handed him a rag she used to polish her sword, and he tied it around his face. It smelled of metal, sweat, and clove oil, but kept the worst of the smell out of his nose and mouth.

  It was soon too dark to keep stumbling along, risking one of the horses breaking a leg on the holes left by burned-out stumps or the rocks that thrust from the ground here and there, so they retreated into the woods to make camp. Markal normally would have balked at spending a night in the deep woods, but tonight welcomed the cool green smell that greeted them as they returned to the forest. They found a bubbling stream and used it to wash up.

  Bronwyn soon had a small, cheery fire going, but Markal couldn’t look into the yellow and orange flames without thinking of their awesome destructive capability.

  “It wasn’t any sort of natural fire,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “I know that, and yet . . .” He looked up to see her studying him. “These woods are sacred. The Forest Brother himself planted the seedlings of the oldest trees.”

  “I know what you must be feeling, Markal. Our enemy destroyed many sacred places in my lands, too. This is an evil that must be stopped.”

  They gathered water from a nearby stream and heated it in a small pot, adding turnips, carrots, salted beef, and herbs Markal had taken from the gardens. As the two prepared their supper, he found himself eyeing Bronwyn, sensing that now was the best time to extract the information he’d been digging for over the past few days. But direct questions only seemed to raise her defenses. What might be a better tactic?

  “I was wrong, and you were right,” Markal said. He opened a small clay flask and tapped black grains of pepper into the bubbling liquid. “There is a sorcerer after all.”

  “Aye.” She rose to her feet. “Make sure this doesn’t boil over. I’m going to bring the horses in closer.”

  When Bronwyn settled back down a few minutes later, he pressed on. “We thought you were an assassin. That’s why we resisted you.”

  “And I thought you were servants of evil. Seems we were both wrong. No need for lengthy apologies.”

  “But what about Eliana? You killed her.”

  “Only in defense, Markal. She was raising the garden against me. Don’t be naive—you know what that would have done to me.” Bronwyn took the spoon and tasted. “It’s ready.”

  She went for her saddlebags, which she’d propped against the base of a tree, and returned with two small wooden bowls. Markal retrieved forks.

  Bronwyn eyed hers doubtfully. “What’s this?”

  “A fork. Use it to spear the larger pieces of meat and vegetable.”

  “I know what it’s for, it seems unnecessary, is all. I have perfectly good fingers and a dagger I can use if need be.”

  “That is why your people are known as barbarians. That and your lack of acquaintance with soap.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I thought barbarian meant ‘unbeatable in battle.’ As for soap, it’s rather hard to come by on the road. I’d have gladly bathed at the gardens if your people had been more hospitable.”

  “Hospitality is a lot to demand of someone you’re hacking at with your sword.”

  “Are you talking about the old woman again? I told you already, she’s not truly dead. For one, nothing truly dies. We are merely ground into dust and returned to the soil to be reborn again. Fear of death is no more rational than fearing a sleepless dream. Every soul will be reborn in some form or other.”

  Markal had spent years reading ancient wisdom in the library of Syrmarria. “If you think you can educate me on the matter, go right ahead.”

  “A fine boast. Yet you think Eliana’s soul is lost, and I’m telling you she’s still alive.”

  “How do you mean? The sword?” He nodded at the weapon where she’d slung it over a low branch, along with her boots, breastplate, and helmet, all strung together with her belt.

  “Tell me, what does this rune mean?” She set down her bowl and laid a few sticks together in a three-pointed star.

  “Why won’t you answer my question?”

  “Tell me, first. This is the one that caused me
the most trouble at the gardens. It almost turned me away. Is it better to ignore it, to confront it, or to attack it with magic?”

  “Why would I tell you that?”

  Bronwyn scattered the sticks. “Precisely. You have your secrets, and I have mine.”

  “The Harvester take you,” he grumbled. “I’ll go home and leave you to be killed.”

  “I never asked you to follow.”

  “Didn’t you? The moment you stopped trying to kill the master and destroy us all, haven’t you been enlisting us in your struggles? If not, why didn’t you just leave at once and follow your own whims?” He drained the last of his soup in a noisy slurp, then used the fork to shovel the last few bites into his mouth. “The only thing you’ve done so far is put us in even more danger than we already were in.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You killed a keeper, you destroyed runes and scratched out protective wards. Our defenses are weaker than they’ve ever been.”

  “Don’t forget the fight at the bridge. I saved your lives.”

  “Doubtful. More likely, you put them at risk.”

  “Ha.”

  “The wights only arrived after you did,” Markal said. “I’ll bet you drew them. That makes you more to blame than to be thanked.”

  “I didn’t draw them.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’ve told you many times. A sorcerer sent them.” She set down her bowl. “As for the keeper of your garden, I was in error. Is that what you want, my admission? Very well, the mistake was mine. Three weeks on the road, fighting bandits, hiding from griffins in the mountains, and then riding through a strange and hostile land in search of my enemy. I was exhausted and anxious to do my duty and return home. I thought I’d found the sorcerer.”

  “Why have you come over the mountains to find him?”

  “Wights chased your friends down the road. The souls of the dead are mindless things in my land and yours. They do not come together in armies to torment and assault the living. Only a sorcerer, a necromancer, could manage such a thing. I came to find this sorcerer and kill him.”

  “Why you?”

  “Why not me?”

  Markal’s eyes fell on her weapon. “Because of the red sword. That is why, isn’t it?”

  The paladin thrust out her chin. “Its name is Soultrup. It gathers the souls of those it kills. There, they are safe from the dark god and his bag of souls. Your friend Eliana is within my sword. That is what I mean when I say she is not truly dead—I can speak to her, if I wish. I’ve done it, in fact.”

  Bronwyn held his gaze, a defiant expression on her face, as if she expected disbelief. But this was the least implausible part of the story, now that Markal had heard it. He knew of such things, and he remembered the voices when he’d touched the weapon.

  “It must be a sort of sheol,” he said. “The sultan of Marrabat has a pendant that can do the same thing. His grandfather’s soul resides inside and whispers advice.”

  “Sheol? I don’t know that word,” Bronwyn said. “And I have never heard of Marrabat or its sultan.”

  “Sheol is place of refuge or punishment, depending on the nature of the thing. The souls of the dead retain their consciousness, and they can’t be gathered by the Harvester.”

  “Then, yes. That is exactly what Soultrup is.”

  “This is how you know things, isn’t it? The voices tell you. I heard them when I touched the weapon, but I didn’t trust them. It was an entirely evil thing that happened to me.”

  “You were listening to the wrong voices,” Bronwyn said. “Anyway, you don’t have to touch the sword to hear them.”

  “Then why are you always reaching for the hilt?”

  She smiled. “That is one way, and the easiest. But believe me, if the sword wants your attention, it can get it whether you’re touching it or not. The voices can call into your dreams.”

  “Forget the voices, it was the damn sword itself. I almost killed Nathaliey when it took hold of me. I don’t know what the cursed thing wants, but it’s nothing good. How do you know it isn’t trying to help the sorcerer?”

  “You don’t understand. You couldn’t.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Bronwyn’s face darkened, and she stared into the fire. Markal was about to throw his hands up in exasperation, frustrated about butting his head against her stubbornness yet again, when she cleared her throat.

  “You know of Eriscoba?” she asked.

  “The kingdom on the other side of the mountains?”

  “Not a kingdom, not as you would use the word. There are hundreds of tiny realms, each with its own ruler. Some call themselves kings, others barons or earls. Some are the lord of a hundred villagers, no more. They are proud, independent people, as one would expect. They are the descendants and heirs of the True People.”

  “As opposed to the false people, like us?” Markal said.

  “I don’t mean that,” Bronwyn said. “There were True People living across the surface of the world, and all of us are their children. But their last refuge was in the west, that is all I mean, before the end of the Golden Age of Men.”

  “I’ve never heard this, but it sounds like myth. Don’t you follow the Brother Gods?”

  “Of course we do,” she said testily. “Would you like to hear the story, or no?”

  “Go on.”

  “About twenty years ago, a disturbance in the frozen lands of the north sent down giants and mammoths, flocks of griffin riders and their mounts, and strange tribes of hairy men. They rampaged through the hill country, destroyed several weaker kingdoms, and raided all the way to Arvada. They cut down our sacred groves and burned our temples.

  “My father founded an order of holy warriors to fight this threat. My uncle was the captain, and later, my oldest brother after my uncle was too old and broken to fight. I was my father’s only daughter, and didn’t fancy a marriage to some fool of a baron or prince to secure a political alliance. I convinced my father to release me to the paladins.

  “We defeated the invading tribes. We killed the largest and most aggressive of the giants and drove the rest off. The cold retreated, and the mammoths returned north. Griffin riders stopped raiding so far into the lowlands and settled into aeries in the peaks.

  “But a new threat appeared about three years ago. Strange, gray-faced warriors that rode down from the mountain passes on swift horses. Never more than a score at a time, yet the small baronies and kingdoms of Eriscoba were unable to stop them. We called them the gray marauders. Magic lay about them, sorcery that turned aside spear points and sword thrusts, warned them of traps, and raised them seemingly from the dead after they’d taken terrific blows.”

  Bronwyn went for her sword and a whetstone. She removed the blade from its scabbard and went to work on the edge.

  “You were saying,” Markal prodded.

  She worked at a small nick and continued without looking up. “My brother Randall led a band of thirty paladins hunting these enemies. For six weeks we followed a trail of destruction through Alsance and Vilsylvan, until relentless pursuit pinned them at the end of a box canyon, where we’d earlier found a cave they were using to store their provisions. When the marauders entered the cave to take refuge, we piled brush and flasks of oil at the mouth of the cave and set it ablaze.

  “Most of them burned alive, but four made it out. The four ravaged their way through our company. Understand that we were a highly trained group of warriors, imbued with confidence and the glorious knowledge that we fought for holiness and truth. Yet eight of our number fell to the enemy in that battle. Their captain killed my brother and turned on me.

  “He was a large man, with a savage smile and a face stained with soot and blood. I still remember his taunting grin. He wielded a massive two-handed sword caked with blood and gore. My brother’s blood and gore.”

  “The red sword,” Markal said.

  “The what?” She looked down. “Ah, yes, Soultrup. You understand it now?
”

  “Not at all. Go on.”

  “I knew I would die. I was a skilled fighter, but not as strong as my brother, and he had fallen already. The enemy captain knocked aside my blows and drove me relentlessly backward. Every man and woman in the company was already locked in combat, and there was nobody to come to my aid.

  “But my opponent had lost command of his weapon. During the fight with Randall, it had seemed an extension of his arm. But in the seconds after my brother’s death, it took on a life of its own. When the enemy swung his killing blow, the blade turned aside and only grazed me. Soon, he was cursing and struggling to hold it. At last, he raised it over his head, muscles straining, the veins bulging on his neck, and brought it down with a scream. I lifted my sword to parry the blow.

  “Soultrup—yes, that was his weapon—smashed through my own blade and drove me to my knees. But when the enemy lifted it again, it squirted from his hands. I’d feebly lifted my shattered weapon to ward against the killing blow, when suddenly the enemy’s sword threw itself at my feet.”

  Bronwyn licked her lips, and her expression was distant. “I have no memory of lifting Soultrup, only remember staggering to my feet and swinging it. It was light in my hands, and there was strength and energy in my limbs that had not been there moments before. One blow, and the enemy lay dead at my feet. I felt his soul in that moment—I saw it! It was draining from his body into the sword.”

  Markal nodded. “The red sword bound his soul.”

  “That night I wrestled with Soultrup for the first time. Inside the sword, another fight was taking place, you see. And it still hasn’t been settled.”

  She wiped the edge of the blade with a rag, then turned it over, letting it reflect in the firelight.

  “It was the death of your brother that did it,” Markal said after a moment of consideration. “Followed by the death of the enemy captain.”