The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  Bronwyn gestured to their right, where a company of Veyrian riders trotted briskly from an encampment of tents and onto the road with clopping hooves. The two infiltrators fell in behind them and followed several paces back, taking advantage of the path the horsemen cleared through the work crews. They continued unobserved.

  Markal pointed out the tent encampments of soldiers whenever he saw them, but Bronwyn touched the hilt of her sword and shook her head. They made swift progress, three or four miles in less than an hour. The work stretched on and on and on. Where the surface itself was done, workers cut drainage ditches on the sides. Watchtowers rose at intervals, some no more than foundations, others mortared nearly to the battlements.

  Wherever a watchtower stood, men were in the heights with long brass trumpets. They blasted short notes, long notes, and sustained songs, seemingly improvised, though Markal knew otherwise. Using the horns for communication, the Veyrian army was able to pass messages long distances in a short period of time, as the songs traveled from one outpost to the next. It was a sophisticated language that contained orders, issued warnings, could even request supplies or reinforcements.

  “It’s a road to last for a thousand years,” he said at last. “And an army to hold it.”

  “No road lasts a thousand years,” Bronwyn said. “In the desert, the wind will cover it with sand. In the mountains, the earth will shake it to pieces. Here, imagine what will happen when the armies retreat, as they will. All armies eventually disband, all kingdoms collapse. The forest will approach, its roots will heave the stones and open fissures for new seedlings.”

  “Not this road, Bronwyn. There’s magic in it. Sorcery. Can’t you feel it?”

  She reached back for the sword hilt. “Yes, I do. What does it mean?”

  “There are runes to protect the stones and powerful incantations that bind the highway to the land. This road will stand.”

  Indeed, it was whispering to him, and there was a sensation like a twisted shadow radiating up through his mount and into his body. There were cries of pain in that whisper. Agony and suffering that were still fresh.

  “It’s the pain of the dying,” he decided at last. “Like the blood I draw from my pores, but taken by the lash from those who have suffered and died building this highway.” He shook his head. “I must tell the master. Why didn’t he know already?”

  “The sorcerer is adept at hiding his work,” she said. “Much like those soldiers are unable to see us, only with sorcery more grand and terrible. This road didn’t appear overnight in the heartland of your kingdom, Markal. Even while your wizard was denying the high king passage, his army was forging ahead. His sorcerer was destroying your sacred groves.”

  “If Memnet didn’t know, how is it that you felt the sorcerer on the other side of the mountains?”

  “We’re very close now.” There was apparently no answer to Markal’s question. Bronwyn pointed ahead. “There. That is where we will find our enemy.” She untied her helmet from the saddle and rested it on her lap.

  Markal studied where she’d gestured. At first glance, it appeared to be another partly built watchtower, but as the two companions left the company of Veyrian horsemen to cut across the road, it became obvious that this would be a larger fortification. The initial stones of both an outer and an inner curtain had been laid, and workers filled the foundation with rubble. There was a partial ditch or moat, and other spots had been excavated for auxiliary fortifications. When finished, a castle would stand on the spot.

  Markal and Bronwyn trotted up a dirt ramp and between what would become a pair of gatehouses, currently marked only by open pits. Two guards stood with pikes, chatting about some nonsense or another, and they didn’t seem to notice the two riders.

  “Your spell holds,” the paladin said in a low voice when they were past. “Well done, Markal.”

  A wooden palisade guarded what would eventually be an inner courtyard, together with a few temporary-looking buildings made of rough logs. Bronwyn slid from the saddle and pointed to the largest of these buildings. Guards stood in front of the doorway, these ones more alert, but they wore the simple black and red of Veyre, and there was nothing gray about their skin or eyes. Mere soldiers, thank the Brothers.

  Bronwyn dismounted and set off without another gesture or word, and Markal dropped from his horse and followed. There was death inside that building. He could feel it in his bones the same way he’d felt the corruption and pain of the king’s highway outside. Something terrible was going to happen inside.

  Get on your horse. Ride for your life. Escape into the forest. There’s nothing more to be done here.

  But something compelled him forward. He was several paces behind Bronwyn when she reached the two soldiers blocking the door. She drew her sword with a cool, deadly grace. It whipped around from her shoulder.

  The first guard hadn’t hit the ground before she’d cut down the second. The first fell with a groan, and the second didn’t manage even that before he was dead. It was a stunning, merciless attack.

  Bronwyn pushed open the door and stepped inside. Markal came in behind her. She pulled up short and looked about.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “He’s not here at all. I don’t feel him.”

  But that didn’t mean the room was empty. There were two men standing inside. Bronwyn had spoken in a loud, clear voice, and the pair noticed the newcomers. One was dressed in red and black, a gold gorget at his neck, indicating a high rank. The other wore a tunic, rings on his fingers, and a chain with a pendant of green stone.

  “By the Brothers, how have I been deceived?” Bronwyn said. “I felt him here. Didn’t you feel something? Where is he now?”

  Markal grabbed her arm and gestured to the door, signaling that they should make their escape, even as he cast a look at the two men they’d startled on their entrance. The military man drew a long sword with a slight curve at the end. Bronwyn still held Soultrup, and no doubt could hack the man down with little effort. But Markal was only thinking of how to slip away without further bloodshed or notice.

  And then Markal took a closer look at the pair and recognized them both.

  The first was Pasha Malik, the high king’s general in the Western Khalifates. During the past year, when the khalif of Aristonia had buckled under pressure from the east, it was Malik who was the king’s emissary. He had risen from the rank of captain during Veyre’s wars with Sebiana and Delitha and had a reputation for cruelty.

  But it was the second man who made Markal start. He had curly hair and skin the color of wheat, with a sharp nose like an Aristonian, though he appeared much younger than the last time Markal had seen him. For the briefest of moments, Markal thought he was looking at Memnet the Great.

  The sorcerer might not be here in this building, but they’d found someone nearly as important. Markal was staring at the grand architect of the great highway slashing itself from one end of the world to the next.

  It was the high king of Veyre himself. King Toth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The three apprentices poured their magic into Memnet the Great. The master had been buried in the rich, magical soil of the garden for nearly a month now, until the miraculous had occurred: an entire body had regrown from the wizard’s severed head. But it would take a terrific effort to ultimately bind Memnet’s soul to the new body and bring the entirety of it to life.

  Just when it seemed the thing would be accomplished, Nathaliey felt Chantmer faltering to her right. He held the orb in his hand, and blood was dripping off it as he drew his strength to join with what he’d stored earlier. Then suddenly, doubt seeped out from him, something that might have come from Markal, but was uncharacteristic of Chantmer. What had happened?

  Then she felt it herself. The magic was reversing. It was flowing from the three apprentices not toward Memnet, but into the orb. The blasted thing was going to drain all of their power and leave them nothing.

  Chantmer, you fool.

  Anger bo
iled up in her, and she was about to break away and preserve what she could, when suddenly, it all rushed out of the orb in a single wave of power. Chantmer staggered back. The spell was finished.

  “What was that?” Nathaliey demanded.

  “I—I don’t know. I couldn’t control the gate.”

  “You mean the direction of the power?”

  “Yes, it wanted to flow downhill, like water. Into the orb, not out of it. I couldn’t stop it.”

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  Chantmer shook his head. “I really can’t say. The flow of magic flipped about again, and it went out again. I—I don’t know.”

  She was angry now, not just with Chantmer, but with herself. He’d given a glib explanation for how the master’s orb worked. Like a wine bottle stopped up with a cork, as if it could be that easy. Take the cork out, put it back in. Fill and pour. Hardly.

  Chantmer obviously hadn’t mastered its use, and why would she have expected him to? He was no wizard, only an apprentice. Nathaliey should have balked, should have demanded that he hand it over for safekeeping.

  “And where did our power go after it left the orb?” she asked. “Did it flow into the master, or did you bungle that, too?”

  Narud pointed at the ground. “Perhaps we should ask the master?”

  She’d been exhausted by the night of preparation and the summoning of the spell, and frustrated and angry about how it had all played out, and hadn’t even thought to check to see if it had worked. Perhaps she’d never really believed that it would, had suffered her own loss of confidence at the end.

  But Memnet the Great’s eyes were open. He looked up at them from the ground, eyebrows raised.

  “I am struck,” he said, “by how ridiculous this situation must appear. There’s a head poking out of the ground, and three people are standing around it arguing.”

  “You’re awake!” Nathaliey said.

  “And look at you, muttering strange incantations, bleeding from your hands. And then bickering like children. Truly ridiculous. Yes, I am awake. I might have slept a while longer to some advantage.”

  “But did it work?” Chantmer said. “I mean, are you all there now?”

  Memnet frowned in concentration. After a few seconds, his expression relaxed. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “You see!” Chantmer told the other two apprentices. “I knew it would work.”

  “If you are referring to my orb, let me caution against exuberance,” the wizard said. “You very nearly drained my entire soul into it at the end. You do realize that, right?”

  Nathaliey couldn’t help her laugh. Chantmer flushed and scowled at her, then turned back to Memnet with a more contrite expression.

  “I didn’t think it would be so difficult, Master.”

  “You thought you’d learn the orb’s secrets in a few weeks of tinkering, did you? But never mind that. There will be time enough to master it in the future.”

  Chantmer nodded sagely. “Yes, of course. I will continue to study and learn.”

  “By future, I mean ten or twenty years from now. You won’t be touching it again any time soon.” Memnet swiveled his eyes from one apprentice to the other. “Well? Are you going to leave me here with my head sticking out of the ground all day?”

  “You want us to cover you up again?” Nathaliey asked.

  “Good heavens, no. I want you to dig me out!”

  The apprentices hiked their robes, dropped to their knees, and began to shovel with their hands as fast as they could until they looked like three badgers pushing dirt between their legs. Someone suggested fetching a spade, but these weren’t potatoes they were digging up, and nobody wanted to be the one to spear the master.

  The efforts attracted attention, and soon the apprentices had two keepers and an acolyte laboring with them. Memnet’s flesh was white and his muscles almost nonexistent as he emerged slowly from the ground. He struggled until he’d free his shoulders and arms, but the effort seemed to exhaust him, and he closed his eyes while the others continued to work. When the diggers reached his waist and legs, Chantmer ordered them to try to wrench the master the rest of the way out. That failed, so they set back to digging.

  At last, only the lower part of Memnet’s legs remained buried in the soil. It was hard to get down that deep, so they grabbed his arms and shoulders and waist and pulled. He came loose with a final tug, popped out of the dark soil like an extracted tooth.

  The wizard lay on his side for several minutes, gasping for air, while the others stood back and waited, recovering their own strength. At last, he lifted to a semi-sitting position and looked himself over.

  “I’m grateful for the dirt. Otherwise I’d look as pale as a grub and dead as a half-rotten corpse.”

  “How do you feel, Master?” Nathaliey asked.

  “More like the corpse than the grub, but a little bit of both, I should think.” He prodded tentatively at his legs and feet. “It all seems to be here, minus the fingernails and toenails, but I suppose those will grow back in time. Lift me up, will you?”

  They all rushed to help him stand, but he couldn’t support himself. In the end, he stood with one arm draped over Narud’s shoulder and the other over Nathaliey’s. His legs trembled, and there was no strength in his arms, either.

  “On second thought,” Memnet said, “the dirt wasn’t so uncomfortable after all. Go ahead and put me back now.” They all stared, uncertain whether or not he was joking, until a deep chuckle rose in his chest. “Look at you all, gaping. Well, then. I suppose it’s time to get to work.”

  He didn’t seem self-conscious about his nakedness, but he was so covered in clods of dirt that it didn’t really matter. Still, it bothered Nathaliey that they hadn’t thought to bring a robe, a flask of wine, or even so much as water for the master to wash his face.

  The apprentices were themselves exhausted from their ordeal, but they weren’t about to turn his care over to others. The gardens had a bathhouse built above a natural hot spring, but it was on the far side of the lake. It took nearly an hour, with frequent rests, for the three to bring Memnet there.

  The climate was mild enough in Aristonia that there was no need to enclose the building against the winter chill, not with the heat continually rising from the pool, and the building was nothing more than an open pavilion with a roof over a single large cedar basin. Steaming water poured in through bamboo pipes, flowed about thirty feet across the basin, and drained through a small channel lined with clay tiles on the opposite side. Memnet took a seat on a large stone above the channel and bent over nearly double. The others filled buckets with hot water and poured them over him. The water ran black as it carried away the dirt.

  When he was at least mostly clean, he made his way into the bath. He eased himself into the water and sat on the bench, letting out a groan that turned into a sigh as the water washed over his shoulders.

  “Ah, this is much better. By the Brothers, that feels good.” Memnet glanced at them. “Go ahead then, you must be exhausted, too. We have much to discuss, and this is as good a place as any.”

  Soon, the three apprentices had joined their master in the large basin. The heat drew away Nathaliey’s tension, and her mind returned to a calmer, more tranquil place. There was nothing strange for Nathaliey in being the only woman present. It was the custom in Aristonia for families to bathe together, and these three men were like father and brothers to her.

  “Chantmer, where is the orb?” Memnet asked. “In your robes?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good. I will be taking it back, of course.”

  There was a hint of reproval in his tone, and no doubt he would have additional words with Chantmer about the matter. But before Nathaliey could feel too smug, Memnet turned his attention to her.

  “This is a spell you should have called, Nathaliey. The substance of the matter is within your realm of power.”

  “We had only the night to learn it, and Narud held the words better.
It would have been clumsy if I’d done it, the words inarticulate. I’m afraid we’d have failed.”

  “Good that you recognize your weakness, but I wonder at the cause. Failure of concentration, or something else? Give it some thought, and we shall discuss it later.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “As for you, Narud. Well done.”

  Narud blinked. “Well done? That is all?”

  “Yes, well done.”

  “But I struggled, Master.”

  “Of course you did. This spell was not within your realm of power. It had nothing to do with the natural world, nor the creatures who live on its surface. But you executed it well, nonetheless. The mark of a wizard is his ability to work fluently beyond his realm.”

  “Thank you,” Narud said.

  “Yes, indeed. It might be time to reconsider your position in the gardens. You cannot remain an apprentice forever, after all.”

  Narud bowed his head modestly, but the other two apprentices exchanged displeased glances. A hot coal of jealousy burned in Nathaliey’s breast. No, jealousy wasn’t quite right. She didn’t envy Narud, so much as criticize her own failure.

  She’d spent hours reading and chanting the incantation Jethro sent from the library. Now, only a couple of hours after she’d stopped repeating it, she couldn’t remember the first word of the blasted thing.

  Why couldn’t she hold the incantations in her head? By the Brothers, she’d tried hard enough last night, thrown every bit of concentration and effort into it. Yet, she had failed.

  Markal would have managed effortlessly, that was the irony. He might already know the spell by heart. Probably read it a couple of times and there it was, ready to recall at a moment’s notice. But its execution would have been another matter. Her friend would have failed as surely as if he’d attempted to take a heap of bones, wagon wheels, and old boards, throw some mud on them, and make them fly like a dragon.

  “Now let me consider my own failures,” Memnet said. “And my present weakened condition.”

  Some color had come into his face, but when he lifted his thin arms from the water to rest on the edge of the basin, they were the color of the belly of a fish. Almost gray, in fact, like the assassins who’d attacked them in the desert.