The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  “We can hope,” Chantmer said. He didn’t sound convinced in the slightest, but neither had Nathaliey.

  “The majority will reach the meadow,” the master said. “Every battle, every struggle to this point has weakened them. But it hasn’t stopped the inevitable.” His eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the wind. “Indeed, here they come.”

  One of the acolytes working below heard this, and news passed through the defenders in whispers and mutters. Soon, even the palace guards were tense and watching. The keepers at the trench tossed aside spades and took up position by the guards.

  For a long time Markal didn’t see anything, and he wondered if the master was wrong, but then movement caught his eye. Several soldiers staggered out of the woods opposite the meadow, followed by a handful more. Soon there were at least thirty men, and still they kept coming. From a few dozen, they soon had at least a hundred, and then there were two hundred, then three hundred. Still, they kept coming.

  “By the Brothers,” Nathaliey said. “How many are there?”

  “An army, it would seem,” Markal said.

  The Veyrians had come just far enough into the meadow to put space between themselves and the woods, and now they formed into rows, each under a banner: a red star, a yellow crescent, a red shield on a white background. One man was on a horse. He rode back and forth in front of the footmen, tightening their ranks, organizing fresh companies whenever enough newcomers had emerged from the forest.

  “Look around the lake,” Chantmer warned.

  All attention had been turned to the forest, and heads turned to see what he was pointing at. A solid line of men marched swiftly up the lake path that followed the water’s edge. They crossed a wooden bridge over a stream, passed beneath drooping willows, and traipsed onto a path of boards and stones that crossed a marshy stretch populated by cattails and reeds. A man at the lead shouted, and their pace quickened.

  Here, the lakeside Veyrians met their first opposition. They’d apparently been trying to cross the causeway and take up position on a grassy rise on the opposite side. From there, it would be a quick run downhill to the pavilion. But as they reached the middle part of the swampy stretch, they stumbled from the boardwalk and tripped on stones that were flat and meant for easy walking—easy for those who were welcome in the gardens, of course.

  The men who fell from the path sank to their knees in the mud. The more they flailed, the more it engulfed them. At the same time, clouds of black flies rose from the reeds and descended upon the soldiers in a giant, choking mass.

  “First bears, now flies,” Nathaliey said. “Where do these things live when they are not needed?”

  “They are not real flies,” Markal said. “Watch.”

  Men flailed at the biting, stinging creatures, and more stumbled into the mud, where they went down with the rest. Dozens were now fighting in the bog. The cloud of flies dissipated, and not in the way of insects flying off in all directions, but like a black fog evaporating in the sun. The whole thing was an illusion to drive men from the path and into the mud.

  “Was the bear an illusion, too?” Nathaliey asked.

  Narud turned his head. “Big black bear in the woods, brown muzzle? Oh, no, that’s Wilford. I’ve known him since he was a cub.”

  There were shortly so many men floundering in the bog that newcomers who stumbled off could step on the heads and shoulders of their drowning fellows and get back onto the path. A handful began to reach safety on the far side, with more joining them as the magical defenses exhausted themselves. There were hundreds more behind them, a long, continuing stream of Veyrian soldiers. The bulk of them would make it across, that much was clear.

  Meanwhile, the enemies emerging from the forest had not been idle. They’d been straightening their lines and forming companies of spearmen, men to form a shield wall, and others with swords, pikes, or maces. Several more horsemen had made it through, too, and these wore the now-familiar gray cloaks. Hard to tell how many other marauders were on foot, but it was safe to assume there were several.

  “Blood of the Path, there are a lot of soldiers,” Nathliey said. “There must be a thousand.”

  No, Markal thought with dismay. Far more. Even as hundreds marched forward, their lines straightening, their commanders barking orders, more Veyrian troops kept pouring out of the woods. How many lay broken on the paths and woodland trails between them and the north gate? Many. Perhaps even most of the king’s army. Yet the force that remained was formidable enough.

  “They are fools to attack us here and now,” Nathaliey said.

  “Perhaps,” Chantmer said. “But they are fools with an army, which makes them dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as they could be,” she said.

  Markal glanced at the master, but Memnet was staring fixedly at the approaching enemy, so he asked Nathaliey instead. “How do you mean?”

  “We won’t be facing wights—daylight scattered them. Reaching this point left the enemy weakened. If they’d waited, they could have pulled down walls, come in slowly while we were trapped. Or sent wights in when night falls.”

  “That’s the entire point,” Chantmer said. “The enemy’s reach exceeds his grasp. This garden will break him once and for all.”

  “I wouldn’t be so confident,” Markal warned. “You didn’t see the fire that burned through the sacred forest. Those woods were old and powerful. And damp.”

  “We’ve got the lake at our back,” Chantmer said. “It will quench any fire, right Master?”

  “Here they come,” Narud warned.

  The lead forces across the meadow were only a couple of hundred yards distant now, and they broke into a trot. But before they could work up much speed, the front ranks staggered to a halt, and the ones behind crashed into them, creating a mass of confusion. The whole army was suddenly staggering about, going nowhere.

  One of the young acolytes at the base of the stairs looked up at the wizards and apprentices. “What’s happening, Masters?”

  Markal had the answer to this. “The pavilion is no longer so close. They started running, thinking they were near, and now we look miles away.”

  “But that’s an illusion, right?” the acolyte asked. “You and Nathaliey crossed it easily enough.” He looked at Memnet. “I don’t understand, Master.”

  “If an illusion is powerful enough, it becomes reality,” Memnet said. “Watch and see. Narud, keep an eye on the men at the lake. An opportunity presents itself.”

  The enemy at the lake had continued pressing forward, until the bulk of them were across the causeway that led through the swamp. The survivors were panting and staggering, and several dozen broke from the army while waiting for the rest to cross the causeway. They went to the lake to splash water on their faces and drink.

  Narud strode across the platform to face the lake. He exposed his hands, and his voice rose in a low chant. Memnet called up a pair of keepers to join him. Their three voices became a rhythmic, harmonious chant.

  The magic awakened ancient protective wards submerged offshore. A spout of water erupted in the middle of the lake and formed a wave that rolled outward. Small at first, a foot or two high, it gathered strength as it rushed toward shore. A crest formed.

  The Veyrians noticed too late. They scrambled back from the shore, but couldn’t avoid the reach of the giant wave, which swept them from their feet and carried them inland. The water rolled over the causeway and threw dozens more into the mud. When the wave retreated, it dragged men into the lake. The survivors were thrown into chaos.

  Shouts from the palace guard in front of the pavilion alerted Markal to their faltering defenses in the meadow. The illusion should have kept the enemy army struggling indefinitely, but it was already dissolving. A dozen or more marauders had broken clear, and they shouted and encouraged the regular soldiers, who were slogging forward one sluggish step after another, reforming ranks as they marched.

  “It’s the cloaks,” Markal said to Memnet, who watched thi
s with a frown. “They deflect our spells. There’s magic in them that helped the marauders over the walls and through the gate.”

  “It isn’t the cloaks,” Memnet said. “Or rather, not solely the cloaks. Something else is strengthening them. Or someone.”

  Markal’s mouth felt dry. Was that so? Was it possible?

  The Veyrian army in the meadow parted to allow a mounted figure through. He was small at this distance, but the man drew Markal’s attention like none of the thousands of others whose feet were tramping toward the pavilion. The light seemed to bend around him. A wind caught his cloak from behind and sent it swirling around his shoulders. When the wind reached the pavilion moments later, it was warm and foul smelling.

  “Markal,” the master said. His voice was tight and stiff. “Ring the bell. Thus begins the final defense.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Markal grabbed the rope on the stout wooden beam and swung it hard. The beam hit the bell with a heavy, booming gong. A deep, sonorous ring penetrated to Markal’s bones as it rolled out from the shrine. A dark, evil magic had saturated the air, emanating from the dark wizard riding across the meadow toward them, but the ringing bell drove it out. Markal rang the bell a second time, then a third.

  By the time he turned away, its effects were taking hold of the defenders. The palace guards lifted their weapons and shouted, defiant though their numbers were tiny compared to their enemy’s. Keepers and acolytes stiffened, eyes bright and alert.

  Even on top of the platform, the wizards and apprentices seemed stronger, more resolute. Memnet himself straightened and looked ready to cast aside his staff, as if it were no longer needed. Hope rose momentarily in Markal’s breast, but the master seemed to think better of it, and clutched the stick close to him.

  Meanwhile, the two armies closing against the shrine faltered. The one on the lakeshore came to an abrupt halt, while the larger force across the meadow slowed noticeably. The marauders rode back and forth, shouting at the men to get moving, and the king raised his hand and said something that didn’t reach Markal’s ears. Discipline once more reigned in the Veyrian army, and the entire army was soon moving at a steady pace across the meadow. A battle chant rose into the air. As it carried to the forces on the lakeshore, they resumed their own march.

  Markal’s eyes fell on the sword, which lay on the wooden planks directly beneath the bell. He’d nearly forgotten about it. They’d brought Soultrup here, where it could no longer work its mischief, and there it sat, immobile, looking entirely harmless wrapped in linens, its lethal shape concealed. Certainly, it did not look or feel magical at the moment, but he was not fooled. If this sanctuary fell, there would be nothing to stop King Toth. Memnet and his order would be destroyed, and Soultrup would fall into the enemy’s hands.

  Markal turned around to find Memnet the Great studying him. “Markal, you will lead our defense from here.”

  “Are you sure, Master?” he asked. Uncertainty flickered on the others’ faces, even Nathaliey’s.

  “You must. My thoughts are muddy, my vision still cloudy. I will advise where I can, but you are the one who will direct our efforts.” Memnet laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You are ready. Find your power and wisdom.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Markal considered his options. The force on the meadow was the bigger threat. It was led by the king himself, and several times larger than the one struggling along the lakeshore. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the smaller force.

  “Vizier!” he called down to Nathaliey’s father. Kandibar turned toward him. “Leave a dozen men here. Get them ready for knife work. Direct the rest toward the lake.” When the vizier passed along the orders, Markal turned to his companions. “I’m going to ring the bell again. Nathaliey, shield the lead Veyrians. Let’s say the two companies under the banner of the red star, and the pikemen to their right. I don’t want them hearing the bell.”

  She frowned. “You don’t want them to hear it?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you know the incantation?”

  “Tueri a nocentibus? But why?”

  “You’ll see. Chantmer, if the rest of them break through, you’ll have to use obliviscatur. Turn them around. You know that one?”

  A grim nod from the tall apprentice. “Yes, I can see. Of course I can manage.” He was serious and grim-faced, no arguing now, and Markal thought he’d already grasped the essence of the plan.

  “Narud, prepare the wards in the meadow,” Markal said. He glanced at the approaching enemy. Almost here, another minute, perhaps. “Here we go. Nathaliey, shield them now.”

  She placed her palms down and closed her eyes. Markal made his way back to the bell. He whispered one of the master’s sayings, calming his mind with the mantra as he took up the beam. He swung the rope hard, and the bell boomed.

  A weird echo returned, bounced back from where it struck the men that Nathaliey had shielded. Behind them, the bulk of the army faltered once more, hesitating even as the marauders shouted and cursed for them to keep going. The lead formations, shielded from the effects of the bell, came running forward, swiftly outpacing the bulk of the army behind them. There were three or four hundred in this advance group.

  They were only yards away now. And here they ran into the trench dug by the keepers.

  It was only a few feet wide and a couple of feet deep. Had the army been fresh, the men could have leaped it. Had they seen it for what it was, they could have stomped through without so much as turning an ankle. But to their eyes it suddenly loomed like a vast chasm.

  They stumbled into the trench, flailing and screaming. When they landed in the bottom, they writhed as if broken by a great fall. Men cried out, begging for help. There was no injury any more than there was a chasm; it was all illusion. Soon enough, they would recover if given a chance.

  Palace guards leaped upon them, thrusting with daggers and swords. Again and again as hundreds of Veyrians died, defenseless.

  Markal rushed down from the platform. “Get the bodies out of the trench! We need it clear.”

  Keepers and acolytes dragged the dead out, and Markal hurried to help. He had a body by the leg and was pulling it out of the trench when the Veyrian war cry started up again. The rest of the army was pushing forward once more.

  “Markal!” Chantmer shouted down to him. “I am ready. Tell me what to do.”

  The bell had done its job without requiring obliviscatur, which meant that Chantmer still had his strength. And Nathaliey’s shielding spell hadn’t been very costly, either. It might be worth trying a second time. Two or three more slaughters in the trench and King Toth would have nothing left with which to overrun the shrine.

  Unfortunately, the first of the lakeside enemies had fought their way clear of the bogs, the crashing wave, and the confusion cast by the path, and they surged at Kandibar’s defenders. The Veyrians looked tired and uncertain, having witnessed the slaughter of several hundred of their fellows. But they also outnumbered the small group of Syrmarrians by at least ten to one. The first swords and spears clashed.

  Markal pointed at the developing battle on their flank. “Throw them back,” he told Chantmer.

  “Master,” Chantmer said, turning to Memnet, “I need an overwhelm spell. Do you know the one I mean? I can’t remember the words.”

  Memnet nodded and began to feed his apprentice the spell. Markal turned his attention back to the main fight, where he joined his efforts with the keepers in raising more wards. They slowed the pace of the attackers long enough for the defenders to finish clearing the trench. These bodies they heaped in a grisly pile to one side.

  Two acolytes cast a spell to dry the grass, and Narud set it on fire. It swept back across the meadow, a fierce, quick-burning conflagration that scattered men and made horses rear in terror. King Toth stood apart, watching, and now he cast a spell. It killed the flames.

  Facing the smaller, lakeside force, Chantmer let out a cry of triumph. Blood streamed from his palm
s and his face was drawn. But the attackers from the lakeside were bent double, vomiting. Some sank to their knees, and others dropped their weapons and staggered away. Kandibar’s palace guards sprang at them, slaughtering at will. The guards would have chased the fleeing enemy right back to the lake path if Kandibar hadn’t called them back. He left a handful in place, then brought the rest around to join the main defenses.

  Markal didn’t have a chance to savor this small victory. More magic was brewing in the meadow, a malignant energy gathering around the king, so powerful that even the Syrmarrians could sense it, as evidenced by their drawn faces and wide eyes.

  The air smelled of blood, and the shouts, screams, and clashing weapons mingled with the chant of wizards, keepers, apprentices, and acolytes. Above it all, the king’s power continued to swell.

  Markal raised his voice to be heard over the din of battle. “Beware the sorcerer. Raise our defenses!”

  Nathaliey ran to the bell to ring it. Narud flattened his palms. Memnet stared out, hands buried in his sleeves, expression grim.

  The meadow heaved, the ground splitting open. The soil spit stones into the air, everything from fist-size rocks to small boulders. They climbed high in the sky and swirled about overhead, hundreds in all. The stones came flying toward the Golden Pavilion.

  They rained down from the sky, striking the roof and the ground all around. Falling rocks crashed into defenders and attackers alike. One enormous boulder struck a formation of Veyrians trying to force their way across the trench by running atop the bodies of their fallen companions. It left a dozen men dead or maimed in its path. But another stone, even larger, smashed through the roof of the pavilion. It hit the bell, which gave a terrible screeching gong.

  Defenders and attackers alike were flinching, crying out, throwing themselves clear of the bombardment. A marauder leaped the trench on his horse, heedless of the destruction raining from the sky. He swung his scimitar and cut down a keeper with a brutal slash across the throat, then charged for the stairs to the pavilion. A stone struck his horse, and he went down, pinned beneath the animal.