The Red Sword- The Complete Trilogy

by Michael Wallace

  He was getting ready to bandage it when Markal’s companion told him to step aside so she could see to it herself. He obeyed, curious and hopeful. She brought out a small clay flask, from which she removed a dab of brown ointment that smelled first of eucalyptus, and then of something bitter and eye-watering. Gregory gasped in pain when she touched the ointment to his thigh wound, but his gasp became a long sigh of relief.

  “Good,” the woman said. “Now hand me the bandages.”

  Wolfram nodded to a paladin who’d been standing by with linen strips. The young woman took them and began to expertly wrap Gregory’s wound.

  “My name is Sir Wolfram, captain of the Blackshields. I’m glad to have you with us. You have some skill.”

  “I know who you are.” She kept at her work. “You, standing there. Has that knife been cleaned with wine? Good, cut the bandage right here.”

  “And what is your name, wizard?”

  “Nathaliey of Syrmarria, and I am not a wizard, only an apprentice.”

  He studied her more carefully. She seemed young at first glance, and he supposed she’d escaped his grasp in the ambush because the paladins had dismissed her and focused on taking Markal. But now he reconsidered her age. Her face was smooth and unlined, and she was an attractive woman in a strange, eastern way, but her eyes had depth that could not have possibly belonged to a young woman. Her skill in both magic and healing was impressive and spoke to years of training.

  “And Markal? Is he an apprentice, too?”

  Nathaliey glanced at her companion, sprawled and exhausted in the middle of the stone circle. Someone brought him a waterskin, but he waved it off and asked for wine.

  “Markal is a wizard, a master of the order.”

  “But you fought as his equal. During that last magical attack, your light was brighter than his. And the stone you almost dropped on our heads . . . are you sure you’re only an apprentice?”

  Nathaliey rose to her feet. “I need to see the rest of them, starting with the most gravely injured.”

  Wolfram led her to Doran and Liliana. Doran had suffered a brutal cut to the head, and was lying senseless with a gash straight to his brains. Liliana had lost an arm at the elbow and taken stabs to the chest, and she was pale and barely breathing.

  Nathaliey bent over them, and her face fell. “I am sorry, Captain. I can’t help these two. They will die soon. Give them a soporific if you have it, and ease their passing.”

  Wolfram nodded, feeling lightheaded. “I understand. I hope you can help the others, then.”

  “I hope so, too,” she said.

  They found another injured paladin, this one with a painful shoulder wound that might leave him disabled, but wasn’t life-threatening. Nathaliey made hopeful comments as she applied her balm.

  “The light you saw had no power behind it,” she said as she worked. “The marauders have their strengths—they never tire in battle, for one—but they have their weaknesses.”

  “It was only a trick?”

  “We were exhausted, our magic spent. The light? It was only a trick. The marauders fell for it because they don’t tire, and so they forget that others do. Let someone else bind this wound. Who else do you have?”

  Wolfram led her to another injured paladin. “Trick or real magic, it worked.”

  “It was your paladins who won the fight, not us.”

  “It was a costly one.”

  Wolfram looked across the churned-up meadow between the standing stones. Marissa had the paladins dragging the decapitated marauders outside the stone circle while she tossed their severed heads into a pile near the fire. The injured Blackshields gathered in the center, and healthy men and women took position around the edges of the stone circle in case of a fresh enemy assault. The ground was torn, stained with blood, and the smell of charred flesh hung in the air from the man who’d burned alive.

  Markal rose to his feet and made his way over. The wizard nibbled on a piece of hard cheese given to him by one of the paladins, and looked a little stronger.

  “Where is Soultrup?” he asked.

  “I’d hoped you could tell me. I don’t think the marauders got it. She was still trying to get it from me at the end.”

  “It’s still nearby. I can feel it.” Markal’s face turned grim. “We were both wrong, weren’t we?”

  “Yes. Terribly wrong. My sister is both alive and dead at the same time.”

  Wolfram had removed his torn, bloodstained cloak after the battle, and his hand went to the wool vest he’d put on to fight the evening chill. He pulled out his sister’s moon pendant and rubbed his thumb over the cool silver as a wave of grief threatened to drive him to his knees. When he closed his eyes, the spark of light was still there, showing that Bronwyn was alive, but what a horrible existence it was. The sneer, the hatred in her expression.

  Markal touched his arm, and he opened his eyes to find Markal and Nathaliey studying him with expressions of concern.

  “I misjudged you, friends,” Wolfram said, returning the pendant to his pocket. “And I’m especially sorry, Markal, for mistreating you.”

  “That isn’t really your sister,” Markal said. “It’s something else. Don’t forget that.”

  Wolfram’s anguish was too raw, and he couldn’t speak of it any more, so they set about attending to the rest of the wounded. The two wizards—he continued to think of the woman in those terms, in spite of her statement to the contrary—had a delicate touch, and the ointment from their gardens had special properties. Wounds didn’t magically heal themselves when it was applied, but the ointment eased suffering, slowed bleeding, and closed up even the nastiest gashes.

  Nathaliey and Markal also knew something of broken bones, when they should be handled, and when they should be splinted and left alone. What these people most needed was rest, Markal said when they’d finished their work.

  “Impossible,” Wolfram said. “Every paladin needs to be on his feet by morning. We can’t stay here—you know that.”

  “Understood,” Markal said. “Now, about the sword . . . where did it go?”

  “The marauders didn’t have it,” Wolfram repeated. “My sister was still trying to get it when you chased them off.”

  “Oh,” Nathaliey said, and pointed. “It’s right there!”

  Wolfram looked, incredulous, but she was right. There was Soultrup, only a few feet away and still wrapped in its linens, as if it had never moved. Impossible. Scores of combatants had trampled the meadow, and the grass was bloody and churned up with mud. Not only were the linens relatively clean, but Wolfram must have crossed the stone circle a dozen times since the battle ended. The sword had not been there, he’d swear to it.

  Markal picked it up gingerly. He looked thoughtful.

  “Someone had it,” Wolfram declared. “They took it during the battle and brought it back.”

  The wizards exchanged glances. “What do you think, the hermit?” Nathaliey asked.

  Markal nodded. “He must have taken it for safekeeping during the fight, then returned the weapon now that it’s safe.”

  Wolfram looked between them, confused. “What do you mean, hermit?”

  “He could have helped us, don’t you think?” Nathaliey said. “I don’t know, changed into a bear and torn apart a few of those marauders.”

  “Or called up the magic from the stones,” Markal said. “He’s been here so many years—if anyone knows how, it’s him.”

  “Will someone explain?” Wolfram said, more confused than ever.

  “There’s an old wizard living nearby,” Markal said. “Half crazy. He’s a bear more often than not. That’s how Nathaliey got away from you at first.”

  “Ah, I was wondering. We were right on her tail.”

  “He has a stone keep,” Nathaliey said. “It’s disguised to look like that cliff you were searching. You walked right by without spotting it.”

  That answered one mystery, but opened the door to another. “So why didn’t he help?”
<
br />   “He’s not entirely in his right mind,” she said. “One too many transformations to animal form and back again. I don’t know why he didn’t help more, but he kept your sister from recovering the red sword, and that’s something.”

  Markal held out Soultrup, and Wolfram took it reluctantly. It was heavy, and a whisper passed through his mind, then disappeared.

  “No, take it back. I don’t want it.”

  “It’s yours, though,” Markal said. “It came from Eriscoba, and it needs to go back.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it? I can’t use it.”

  “Not recommended, no.” Markal shook his head. “Leave it wrapped. Take it deep into your country, to whatever wizards you know and trust. And be aware that your sister will follow and try to get it back. You say you have another company of paladins waiting for you with horses? How long until you reach them?”

  “Markal, listen to me,” Wolfram said. “I told you already, we don’t have wizards. So far as I know, there are none of your kind in the free kingdoms.”

  “Someone must know how to deal with the sword.”

  “Someone does,” Wolfram said. “You do.” He tried to hand back the sword.

  Markal spread his hands. “Oh, no. The master told us to carry it over the mountains and give it to you. We were fortunate enough to find you on this side of the mountains, so here you go. Now we’re going back to the gardens to rejoin the order.”

  Nathaliey cleared her throat. “Um, Markal? That isn’t precisely what Memnet said. He told us to find Bronwyn’s order of paladins, give them the sword, and make sure they knew its lore.”

  “And that’s just what we’ve done.”

  “But he didn’t say we were supposed to come back when we finished.”

  “What else were we supposed to do?” Markal asked.

  “Near as I can tell, Memnet wanted us to join forces with the paladins.”

  “He never said that.”

  “It was implied. Memnet would know that Bronwyn’s people don’t have wizards of their own. That’s why he sent us.”

  “The Harvester take me,” Markal said with a scowl. “But I don’t want to cross the mountains, I want to go back to the gardens and help the master.”

  “We can’t leave Wolfram while he’s still facing his sister, Markal. I’m sorry, we can’t go back yet, not while Bronwyn is still trying to regain the sword.”

  Wolfram looked between the pair. “I thought Markal was the wizard and Nathaliey the apprentice.”

  Markal sighed. “Yes, supposedly.”

  “My friend suffers a lack of confidence,” she said, “and sometimes I have to take over.”

  Wolfram tucked Soultrup under one arm and pulled out the moon pendant. “Here, Markal. I think you need this more than I do. It’s just the sort of thing for a lack of confidence.”

  Markal eyed it skeptically. “I suppose.” He slipped the chain around his neck and tucked the silver crescent moon into his shirt. “Unless you want it,” he told Nathaliey.

  “Not unless that confidence thing works in reverse. I’ll do a little spell in front of the master, and he’ll think I know what I’m doing.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tip the stone on the marauders instead of calling it up to fight paladins,” Markal said. “That would have earned his respect for sure. Such a waste.”

  “I was trying to save your life!”

  Markal gave a mischievous smile. “I’ve got an idea. The hermit can vouch for you. You can bribe him with honey from the gardens.”

  Nathaliey scowled, but there was no anger in it. It seemed these two had a long history, and he found himself instinctively liking them both. And they were allies, something in short supply these days. He’d be glad to have them by his side, even if only for a few days or weeks.

  Wolfram’s thoughts turned dark again. Nine paladins dead, two more unlikely to survive the night. And his sister, Sir Bronwyn of Arvada, neither alive nor dead, but something in between.

  “What is your plan from here?” Markal asked him. “Ride to the king’s highway? Return to the encampment where you stashed your horses? Cross the mountains on the old road to raise the defenses of Eriscoba?”

  “Eventually, Eriscoba, but first I’m going to find my sister. She was the fiercest warrior in all of the free kingdoms, and if she is in command of the gray marauders, the only possible result is disaster.” A cold feeling settled into Wolfram’s belly. “We have to find Bronwyn, force her into a fight, and kill her. This time for good.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days after his confrontation with the dark acolytes, Chantmer was in the library vault with a book of arcane knowledge, laboriously copying an incantation while trying to fix it in his memory, when he sensed a strange presence. A change, a scent on the air.

  The library was drenched in magic already—runes and wards and the minor charms of archivists, all mixed with the deep, knot-like magic protecting the books and scrolls themselves—and if he hadn’t placed a special ward at the doorway against intruders, he might have missed it. The smell was like lemon. Tangy, distinctive. The ward had released it to his senses when it detected an unknown presence entering. Whoever it was carried magic with him, rich with power, and Chantmer sensed danger.

  He didn’t rise from the desk over which he’d hunched. Instead, he slowly set down the quill on its cloth, turned his hands palms down, and brought up a spell. Spectral hammers. They might not destroy the intruder, but they would weaken him long enough for the library’s own defenses to activate. He began to speak the words.

  “Volans maleis again?” came a familiar voice. “Aren’t you tired of that old spell?”

  The half-spoken incantation died on Chantmer’s lips, and he turned. “Oh, it’s only you.”

  Narud opened a satchel and set down a jar of honey, two bottles of wine, and a wheel of cloth-wrapped cheese on the table next to Chantmer’s open book. The former apprentice and freshly ordained wizard raised one bushy black eyebrow, seeming to enjoy looking down on Chantmer for once.

  “And why should I change it?” Chantmer said. “Had you been an enemy, volans maleis would have been effective in this closed space.”

  “Would it? I’m not so sure. The hammers rotate as they fly, and might have smashed apart on the vaults. Anyway, how about radicatus?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Which proves my point. If you didn’t lean so much on volans maleis, you’d have a wider repertoire.”

  Chantmer gritted his teeth at Narud’s tone. It didn’t help that Jethro and Karla were in the library, studying the clay tablets from Marrabat and openly listening in on the conversation.

  “I suppose you’re a wizard now,” Chantmer said, “and that means you can lecture me as you see fit.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a lecture.” Narud shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “The master told me to check on your progress, to see what new spells you’d learned.”

  “Never you mind, I’ve been studying hard.”

  “And who were you expecting just now when you tried to smash my face?”

  “His name is Zartosht of Starnar. There was another, too. They call themselves dark acolytes, and they serve King Toth.”

  Chantmer explained to Narud how he’d been approached in the palace gardens, how Zartosht had bragged about entering the library and defacing the Book of Gods, and how he’d tried to recruit Chantmer to serve the necromancer.

  “What a fool,” Narud said. “As if that could tempt one who follows the Crimson Path, no matter his position in the order.”

  “Indeed,” Chantmer said dryly. “Who wouldn’t prefer to be an apprentice forever if it came right down to it?”

  “Quite right,” Narud said, missing the sarcasm. He pulled up a stool to the table, where he glanced at the open book and then at Chantmer’s copy. “You have an excellent hand. I wish I could form letters so neatly—it would help my memory, I think.”

  The c
ompliment was cheering, and Chantmer’s irritation at being reminded that Narud had been elevated to wizard faded.

  “It doesn’t help enough,” he said. “I copy and copy, and the words don’t stick. But I suppose if they did stick easily, there would be nothing special about being an archivist. Any old fool with no magic and an excess of patience could manage it.”

  Jethro and Karla grumbled from the nearby table where they worked with clay tablets, and Chantmer waved a hand to dismiss their concerns. He obviously meant no offense by it.

  “What brings you to Syrmarria?” he asked Narud. “Surely the master didn’t send you all the way just to check up on me.”

  “Not just to check up on you. I’m here to help you strengthen the library defenses against fire.”

  “Against fire? How much stronger could they possibly be?”

  To illustrate his point, Chantmer took the sheet of parchment he’d been writing on and stuck the end in the candle flame. Not only did the parchment not catch fire, but the flame died in a wisp of smoke.

  “And that’s a loose sheet,” he said. “A book is that much stronger still.”

  “We went to the Sacred Forest a few days ago,” Narud said. “Memnet is improving day by day, and felt strong enough to leave the gardens to see the burned stretch for himself. He thought we might do something with the trees to strengthen them against the enemy’s desecration. It was too late. The Sacred Forest is cut in two, and the road is already built. It’s a long, blackened gash, uglier than you can imagine. And it was all done with fire.”

  “How? How is such a thing possible? Those trees can’t burn any more than . . .” Chantmer’s voice trailed off, and he looked around him. “The enemy would never burn this library, even if he could. He might take the books, yes, but never destroy them.”

  “Strengthen the library against fire. That is the extent of Memnet’s instructions.”

  “Is the highway moving toward the gardens?”