Evidently, Cathala had figured it out.
Ridmark took a step forward, but the three wraiths hurtled south with terrific speed, vanishing from sight.
“Calem!” shouted Kalussa, running after them. “Krastikon, come on! They’ve got the Sword of Death!”
“No!” said Ridmark. “Stay here!”
But they didn’t listen. It was useless. Kalussa loved Calem, and there was no way she could stop herself from pursuing him. For that matter, Krastikon viewed the Sword of Death as his responsibility, and he would not let it escape from him.
Both Krastikon and Kalussa ran into the darkness, pursuing the wraiths.
Ridmark needed to go after them. Even with the Staff of Blades, Kalussa and Krastikon couldn’t stand against Calem and Cathala’s magic. If Cathala turned Calem against them, he would kill them both in short order. They needed Ridmark’s help. Third probably needed assistance right now.
But Calliande needed his help.
With a snarl of frustration and fear, Ridmark hurried to her side.
Chapter 21: Wounds
Calliande was still alive.
But Ridmark feared she would not be for long.
Her breath was uneven and quick, and her heartbeat felt erratic. Blood covered the right side of her face, and there was a massive lump on her right temple. Ridmark feared that the pommel of the Sword of Air had cracked her skull.
“Goddamn it!” he rasped. If only Kalussa had listened! She could have healed Calliande, or at least healed her enough that Ridmark could have joined the pursuit of Cathala. But he understood. Kalussa couldn’t have abandoned Calem, no more than Ridmark could leave Calliande lying upon the ground.
He dropped to one knee next to her, praying he wasn’t too late, and put his left hand on her forehead, his right grasping Oathshield’s hilt.
Then he drew on his link to the soulblade, calling on its magic to heal.
Soulblades granted a Swordbearer a very limited ability to heal wounds, one that was far weaker than the healing spell of the Magistri. Calliande was one of the most skilled healers in Andomhaim, able to heal grievous wounds, but a soulblade’s ability to heal wasn’t nearly as spectacular. They were weapons of war, not tools of healing. Calliande had told Ridmark that healing wounds required her to pull the pain of the injury into herself, to endure it as the magic of the Well repaired the damage. Healing with a soulblade felt far different. The pain of the wound did not enter Ridmark. Rather, he felt the wound as if it was a weight, and healing the wound felt like pushing a large stone up a slope.
The magic reached into Calliande, and Ridmark felt the pressure of her wound.
Fear surged through him. The wound was a grievous one. Calem’s blow had indeed cracked her skull. Ridmark feared that Oathshield’s magic would not be enough to fight it, and if he pursued Kalussa and brought her back, it would be too late.
But he felt the weight of the wound begin to shift, felt Oathshield’s magic start to push it back. Had Ridmark tried this on anyone else, it wouldn’t have worked. But Calliande was the Keeper, and one of the gifts of the Keeper’s mantle was a high degree of vigor and resilience. The magic of the Keeper’s mantle was joining Ridmark’s efforts, fighting alongside him as he pushed against the wound.
He could heal it. But, God, it would take hours.
By the time he finished, Cathala might have sent Calem to kill Krastikon and Kalussa, and she would be long gone with Tamara.
Ridmark gritted his teeth and concentrated, focusing the magic of Oathshield into Calliande.
A groan came to his ears. Ridmark risked a look to the side and saw Selene come to one knee, shaking her head.
“Selene!” said Ridmark.
She blinked silver eyes at him. “What?”
“Come here, quickly,” said Ridmark.
Selene nodded, got to her feet, and staggered to his side.
“What happened?” she said, her voice slurred.
“Cathala used a spell to put you to sleep,” said Ridmark. “She seized control of Calem’s enslavement spells, forced him to attack us, and put a dvargir slave collar on Tamara. She fled with Tamara and Calem and the Sword of Death, and Krastikon and Kalussa are chasing her.”
“Oh,” said Selene, and her eyes went wide. “Oh! That’s really not good.”
“Obviously,” said Ridmark.
“That was what the Maledicti wanted,” said Selene. “This entire time, that was the plan. They let us find Cathala because they knew she would betray us.”
“And we walked right into the goddamned trap,” said Ridmark. “Third is somewhere over there. Cathala hit her with a lightning bolt. Please, go see if she’s…”
His voice trailed off, his throat working. Was Ridmark going to lose his wife and his most loyal friend in a single night?
Selene nodded and hurried into the gloom. Ridmark looked back at Calliande, forcing his will to keep pushing at the pressure of her wound. A rattle came to his ears, and he looked up to see Selene hurrying back towards him, Third a half-step behind. Third’s face was even grimmer than usual, blood on her temple and jaw from where she had struck the ground. Yet her swords were back in their scabbards.
“How are you?” said Ridmark.
“Some burns on my stomach and back, probably some cracked ribs, and an unpleasant headache,” said Third, “but I have endured worse.” She hesitated. “Calliande?”
“Badly hurt,” said Ridmark. “If I can’t get this wound healed, she’s going to die. Kalussa might have been able to heal it, but…”
“But she could not stop herself from chasing Calem,” said Third.
“Krastikon’s gone after Cathala as well,” said Ridmark. “If Cathala turns and fights, she’ll kill them both. But it’s going to take me hours to get this wound healed…”
“I will go after them,” said Third. “I will see if I can find Tamlin as well.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark. He glanced at Magatai, but the Takai halfling was still unconscious. His tattoos from Cathair Avamyr had not protected him. Probably Cathala’s sleeping mist had a more powerful effect on him due to his smaller size.
“I will accompany you,” said Selene.
“No,” said Third. “Stay here. The Shield Knight will be vulnerable while he heals the Keeper. Someone will need to guard him.”
Selene hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well. You can move faster without me.”
“Third,” said Ridmark. “Good luck. I dislike sending you alone, but…”
“You are needed more here,” said Third. She paused. “If I am able to do so, should I take Cathala alive?”
“No,” said Ridmark.
Third nodded, stepped forward, and vanished in a flash of blue fire.
“I shall guard you,” said Selene, drawing her dark elven sword and turning to the south.
Ridmark nodded and looked down at Calliande. There was nothing else he could do now. It was in the hands of God and Third.
He turned his full attention to his wife’s wound, forcing the magic of Oathshield to push its weight back.
###
Tamlin swam back to consciousness.
For a disoriented instant, he could not remember where he was. Had he been sleeping in his armor? Was he on campaign with King Hektor? God, had he fallen asleep while on watch? That was a grievous offense.
No, wait, he wasn’t on campaign. He was at the ruined Monastery of St. James. They had come here to find his mother, to learn her secrets, and…
She had drugged him.
Alarmed, Tamlin surged to his feet, ignoring the dizziness and the headache.
He didn’t think he had been out that long. The position of the moons had not changed by much. Tamlin turned, wondering where Calem had gone, but there was no sign of the other knight.
“Calem?” he called.
No one answered.
But he thought he saw someone moving through the courtyard, heading towards the gate to the ancient gray elven road. Tamlin�
�s resolve hardened. If his mother intended treachery, she would have to escape through that gate. He drew the Sword of Earth from its scabbard, hurrying down the rampart stairs to the courtyard. A quick jog took him to the gate, and he stood before it.
Instead of his mother, Krastikon and Kalussa came into sight. For some reason, Krastikon was carrying his bronze war hammer instead of the Sword of Death. Suspicion went over Kalussa’s face, and she pointed the Staff of Blades at Tamlin.
The wariness on her face, after they had gone through so many dangers together, hurt Tamlin more than he would have expected.
“You haven’t sided with her in this madness, have you?” said Kalussa.
“My mother?” said Tamlin. “She drugged me. What’s going on?”
“Treachery,” growled Krastikon. “She has kidnapped Tamara and taken control of the spells on Calem, and she has also stolen the Sword of Death.”
“What?” said Tamlin, his uneasiness turning to fear. “How could she have kidnapped Tamara? Tamara is at least as strong as she is.”
“A dvargir slave collar,” said Kalussa.
His fear turned to terror. A dvargir slave collar? Tamlin knew firsthand the kind of torment those hellish devices could inflict upon their victims.
Then his terror turned to pure molten rage.
How could Cathala have possibly done this? So she didn’t like Tamlin? He could live with that. But how could she have done that to Tamara? Did Cathala think to turn Tamara into her slave, and then claim the glory of defeating the New God for herself? It was insane. For that matter, how could she do that to Calem?
“Then we’re going to get them back,” said Tamlin. “Right now.”
“You’re with us?” said Kalussa.
“Find me again,” whispered Tysia in his memory. “The New God is coming.”
He had lost Tysia. Tirdua had died in Trojas. But Tamlin had found them again in Tamara, and now Cathala threatened to harm her? God and the saints, what was the foolish woman thinking? The foothills of the Tower Mountains crawled with danger from jastaani and worse things. In the darkness, she might well trip on the uneven terrain and crack her head open.
“I’m not going to let anyone hurt Tamara,” said Tamlin.
“Good man,” said Krastikon. “Let’s move.”
Chapter 22: This Is For Your Own Good
The air shivered around Cathala, and she felt her weight return as the magic of the wraithcloak faded.
She caught her balance and looked around, Tamara’s chain cold and heavy in her right hand, the Sword of Death pulling at her belt. How far had they gone? Two miles? Maybe three? Not far enough. They had to keep moving. The Keeper was probably dead, and Cathala was reasonably sure that she had killed Third. Yet it would have been better if Calem had managed to cut down Ridmark as well. The Shield Knight would want vengeance for his dead wife, and Cathala realized that Ridmark might be able to collect it. She had nothing but contempt for warriors and their stupid, oafish ways, but watching Ridmark fight Calem had unsettled her. Calem should have taken him apart, but Ridmark had been on the verge of killing the younger man when they had fled.
For that matter, that blond little Pendragon bitch would probably come running after Calem, and she had the Staff of Blades. Cathala looked at Calem and felt her lip curl in contempt. He was a useful enough warrior, but why would any woman fall for him? Kalussa Pendragon had to be soft-hearted or soft-headed, or likely both.
“Come,” said Cathala to Calem. “We must continue moving. My enemies will follow us soon enough.” She jerked on Tamara’s leash, and the younger woman stumbled after her, the chain clanking. “How much longer until your wraithcloak can turn us immaterial again?”
“I do not know,” said Calem, his voice toneless and dead. “At least an hour. Likely longer. The effort of making all three of us immaterial drained its power. It will take some time to recover.”
“Damn it all,” snarled Cathala. Why could no one do anything right? “Keep moving. Tell me the instant your cloak is ready. We will need to cover a great deal of distance very quickly.”
She strode along the road, the Sword of Death thumping against her leg with every step, her mind racing. She had escaped from the monastery, yes, but the escape hadn’t been as clean as she would have liked. Too many of her enemies had survived and would come after her. Cathala was confident she could deal with them, that she could overcome any obstacles.
First, though, she needed a plan.
Perhaps simple flight was her best option. Once she got to the Serpent Marshes, there was no way her enemies could follow her. The swamp trolls and the various other wretched creatures that infested the marshes would prove a problem, but Cathala’s magic would deal with them. And once she had bonded the Sword of Death to her will, she would have all the magical power she would ever need.
A thought occurred to her, beautiful in its simplicity.
Perhaps she need only flee for a little while, just far enough that she would have the hour she needed to bond the Sword of Death. And once she did, once she had the power of the Sword under her control, she wouldn’t need to fear the Shield Knight or any of his surviving allies. There had been countless battles fought in these hills over the millennia, and the bones of many warriors lay in the dust. The Sword of Death would raise them as an undead horde, and Cathala could fling them at the ruins of the Monastery of St. James. Let Ridmark Arban try to catch her then.
Yes, she decided. Just a little further, and she could stop and bond the Sword of Death to her will. Taerdyn had been an idiot. He had carried the Sword of Death for twenty-five years, and all he had accomplished was to impoverish Trojas and raise a useless undead army that had perished with him. Cathala would use the Sword of Death to defeat the New God and save the world.
With Talitha’s help, of course.
She glanced back at Tamara and flinched.
Tamara’s face had been twisted with fear when they had fled the monastery, but now her expression was a mask of rage. The mismatched eyes stared at Cathala without blinking, and she felt the hatred in those eyes as if it had been a physical blow.
Talitha had never looked at her like that. Not ever, not during the entire war against the Sovereign.
Cathala felt a wave of unease. Doubt flickered at the edges of her mind. Was she making a mistake? Perhaps she had gone too far. Then fresh anger drowned out the doubt. How dare Tamara question her. How dare anyone question her! Half-measures never accomplished anything. And Cathala had sacrificed years of her life to prepare Tysia, years of sweat and pain and toil.
She was going to make Tamara understand.
No matter how much pain it took.
###
Sheer panic had seized Tamara after Cathala had locked that collar around her neck, panic that overwhelmed her. She had seen dvargir raiders carrying collars like that, and Tamara knew what happened to the captives the dvargir dragged into the darkness of the Deeps.
And now Cathala was doing the same thing to her.
But as she stumbled down the road after Cathala, Calem walking blank-faced at her side, Tamara’s fear had melted into anger.
Partly it was fury at Cathala’s betrayal. Tamlin and the others had taken great risks to free them, and to show her gratitude, Cathala had stabbed them in the back. She might well have killed the Keeper, who was one of the bravest and noblest women that Tamara had ever met. Even worse, Cathala had forced Calem to do it, and Calem was devoted to the Keeper the way that a loyal soldier was devoted to his queen. That alone was a heinous crime, regardless of whatever Cathala might wind up doing to Tamara.
And partly it was because Tamara could remember wearing a collar like this before.
One of her other selves, one of the other shards of Master Talitha, had worn a dvargir collar. Tysia, probably. Tysia had possessed some ability with water magic, even as a child, which was why the dvargir had put the collar on her.
As the fear and the rage swirled through her mind, bits and p
ieces of memories not her own, memories from her other selves, bubbled to the forefront of her thoughts. She remembered fragments of Tysia’s knowledge. Tysia had known how to use water magic, and Tysia had gained that knowledge from Talitha’s memories. Tamara had grown up knowing how to use earth magic, and that had come from Talitha’s memories.
Which meant that Tamara, too, could use water magic.
Though when she tried to reach for the power of elemental water, the collar sent agony flooding through her.
Another memory flickered through her mind, another experience of Tysia. She had been sitting on the steps of the monastery’s library with Tamlin, both of them children. Tamlin had been describing his lessons for the day, talking excitedly about a historian of the ancient Romans that he had read. There had been an enemy of Rome, a general named Hannibal, and a great boulder had blocked the path of his army through the mountains. Hannibal had overcome the boulder by heating it in a fire and then pouring cold vinegar over it. The stress had shattered the stone, and Hannibal’s army had continued its march into Italia.
Perhaps Tamara could do the same thing to the collar using the magic of elemental fire and ice.
Except whenever she reached for magic, the collar flooded her with pain.
But the collar had a weakness.
The level of pain was proportional to the amount of magic she summoned. If she tried to draw a smaller amount of magic, it still hurt, but not nearly as badly. Tamara had been killed six times in her other lives. Seven, if she counted what Rhodruthain had done to Talitha in Cathair Animus.
Compared to that, what was a little pain?
Tamara summoned magical fire, heating the collar, and then magical ice, chilling it. That hurt, and not just from the agony the collar sent stabbing into her brain. But she could endure it. Especially since she felt the collar shivering with pressure. The dvargir were superb smiths and engineers, but they had not built the collar to withstand that kind of strain. If Tamara kept at it, sooner or later the collar would break.
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