Sevenfold Sword: Sorceress

by Jonathan Moeller

  The clay spheres landed on the ground, shattered, and exploded with thick white fog.

  A wave of dizziness went through Tamara as the fog washed over her.

  And through the gloom of the night and the swirling fog, she saw dozens of kobolds charge forward, nets and chains in hand.

  Chapter 23: A Slight Miscalculation

  Tamlin fought his way to Tamara’s side, his head spinning.

  He felt worse than drunk. He had the same dizziness, the same sense that everything was whirling around him. Unlike drunkenness, which usually put him into a good mood, Tamlin felt horrible.

  Because he knew that he and Tamara were about to be killed or taken prisoner.

  The kobolds closed around him, and Tamlin hacked and slashed. He had killed over a dozen of the creatures, and the Sword of Earth had sliced through the nets that tried to entangle him. The kobolds had then abandoned that tactic, deciding to slay him rather than capture him.

  Tamlin cut another kobold in half, overbalanced, and almost fell over. He caught himself in time, but not before another kobold sprang at him, bronze-headed spear drawn back to stab. The kobold would have killed him, but a blast of fire shot past him and caught the kobold in the chest, throwing the creature to the ground. Tamara was on one knee next to him, wheezing in exhaustion, her face glittering with sweat and a livid red burn around her neck. Yet magic still crackled and snarled around her fingers.

  The others had succumbed to the gas that had erupted from the clay spheres. Cathala, Calem, Krastikon, and Kalussa all lay stunned on the ground. Or perhaps they were dead. Tamlin wasn’t sure if the strange gas had been lethal or not. The dvargir often brewed up such deadly weapons to use in their vicious battles in the tunnels of the Deeps. Tamlin, recognizing the danger, had cast a spell of elemental air to keep the gas away from his nose and mouth, and he had done it just in time.

  He had still gotten half a breath full of the gas, and he felt it dragging at his limbs, threatening to push him into unconsciousness. Tamara had cast the same spell, and while it had kept her conscious, the gas had hit her harder, probably because she weighed a good fifty or sixty pounds less than he did. She hadn’t been able to stay standing, though she kept casting spells at their enemies.

  Another kobold sprang at him, and Tamlin chopped its spear in half and then took its head off. The spindly body collapsed, the tail and the clawed limbs thrashing once and then going motionless in death. The harsh yellow eyes of the kobold’s severed head glared up at him, as if furious. Tamlin almost told the dead kobold not to worry, and then realized that the gas was scrambling his thoughts and making him woozy.

  He forced aside the wooziness and killed another kobold. Tamara cast a spell, a bolt of forked lightning leaping from her hand. The lightning stunned a pair of enemies, and Tamlin killed them both before the creatures recovered, their blood sliding along the green blade of the Sword of Earth.

  He stumbled and caught himself, wheezing, and saw the dark forms approaching.

  Over a score of dvargir warriors moved forward as the kobolds fell back. Like the dvargir Tamlin had fought on the journey to the Monastery of St. James, their gray-skinned heads had been shaved bald, their eyes filled with the void and rings of gold and bronze glittering in their ears and noses. The dvargir wore armor forged from the strange black alloy they used in their blacksmithing, and each one of the warriors carried a black crossbow.

  It seemed they had decided that Tamlin and Tamara were too dangerous to take alive, and the ever-practical dvargir were simply going to shoot them.

  Tamlin looked at Tamara, intending to tell her to run as he attacked the dvargir to distract them, but he realized she couldn’t run. She could even get back to her feet. He saw the same knowledge reflected in her eyes, the realization that they were about to die.

  At least they would die together.

  Tamlin turned to face the dvargir, bracing himself to charge one final time.

  ###

  Third felt terrible.

  She had a bad burn across her torso from Cathala’s lightning bolt, and to judge from the way that breathing hurt, she had cracked a rib or two in the landing. Her head kept threatening to spin, likely from bouncing off the ground. Third dismissed the pain as irrelevant. She had been an urdhracos for centuries, and compared to the agony of that existence, a few bumps and bruises and cracked ribs were of no consequence.

  That said, she might not be much good in a fight just now.

  But the urgency of her task drove her on, letting her ignore the fatigue and pain. Cathala had kidnapped Tamara, which was bad enough. She had also stolen the Sword of Death, which was much worse. Third had fought one Necromancer in Trojas, and that had been a harrowing fight. She had no wish to repeat the experience.

  But worst of all, to Third’s thinking, was that Cathala had seized control of the enslavement spells on Calem’s mind. Third had spent nearly a millennium enslaved to the will of the Traveler, and in the years since her liberation, she had developed a loathing for all who kept slaves or tried to enslave others.

  It was just as well that Ridmark had told her not to spare Cathala, because Third had intended to kill her regardless of what Ridmark said, and she never liked to disappoint her friends.

  Third covered the foothills in haste, using the fiery song of her blood to travel from place to place. From time to time she stopped, drawing one of her enspelled swords and using its magical fire as a torch to illuminate the ground. It was clear from the tracks what had happened. Cathala had left the ruined monastery and headed south along the road in great haste, Calem striding at her side. Tamara had followed her, stumbling now and again, likely from Cathala tugging on that dvargir leash.

  But there was another set of tracks after those. Krastikon and Kalussa, to judge from the imprints the Staff of Blades had left in the dust, and unless Third missed her guess, Tamlin had accompanied them. That was good. Third had suspected that Cathala had murdered her son, but perhaps she had shown mercy and merely incapacitated him.

  Or, more likely, she had tried to murder Tamlin and had made a botch of it. Third suspected that Cathala vastly overestimated her own abilities.

  Short of underestimating one’s enemies, that was one of the worst mistakes a warrior could make.

  She jumped forward another hundred yards and caught her balance, sweeping her sword over the ground. Krastikon, Tamlin, and Kalussa had increased their pace here, hastening to the south. Likely they had seen Cathala in the distance and had hurried to close with her.

  Even as the thought crossed Third’s mind, she heard the distant ringing of metal on metal and a hoarse voice shouting instructions.

  A battle was underway. Tamlin and the others must have found Cathala, and she had thrown Calem at them. Tamlin and the others would need Third’s immediate assistance.

  Except…the noise was far too loud. A battle with five combatants, even combatants wielding powerful magic, would not make that much noise. And that in turn meant…

  “Damn it,” whispered Third.

  She looked around, spotted a hill, and traveled there.

  When the blue fire cleared from her vision, Third saw that she was too late.

  Kobolds swarmed through the valley below, at least a hundred and fifty of them, every one of the creatures marked with the jagged glyph of Great House Tzanar. A gray haze of unnatural fog rolled through the valley, made silver by the moonlight overhead. The dvargir loved brewing weapons of deadly gas for battles in the cramped confines of the Deeps, and that particular gas was a favorite of dvargir slavers since it knocked out their victims with no long-term injury.

  She spotted Cathala, Calem, Kalussa, and Krastikon lying prone in the valley, overcome by the gas. Tamlin stood and fought, Tamara kneeling next to him and casting spells of lightning and fire. Both of them looked at the end of their strength. That didn’t matter, because there were nearly fifty dvargir in the valley. A score of them converged on Tamlin and Tamara, crossbows in hand. Evidentl
y, the dvargir had decided that the two of them were too much trouble, so they would shoot them dead and loot the Sword of Earth from Tamlin’s corpse.

  Third had perhaps five seconds left in which to act.

  She took a deep breath, reaching for the fiery song in her blood.

  ###

  The last of the kobolds skittered out of the way, and Tamlin looked back and forth. All the kobolds had retreated, giving their dvargir masters a clear field of fire.

  The dvargir raised their crossbows.

  “Tamlin,” whispered Tamara. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” said Tamlin. “No, don’t be…”

  Blue fire flashed behind them, and the dvargir flinched in surprise.

  Before Tamlin could react, a cold hand seized his collar, and blue fire swallowed the world.

  He felt a moment of whirling, spinning disorientation, and a horrible sensation of falling.

  Then the blue fire cleared, and Tamlin found himself somewhere else.

  He was standing on the road through the foothills, Tamara still kneeling next to him, her eyes wide with astonishment. Third stood before them, breathing hard and in obvious pain, blue fire fading from her veins and eyes.

  “Third?” said Tamlin, astonished.

  “Yes,” croaked Third. She grimaced and helped Tamara to stand. “Come on, get up. We have to move.”

  “Third?” said Tamara, a bewildered, dreamy tone in her voice. “How did…does it feel like that every time you jump?”

  “Yes,” said Third. “Though I would not have been able to do that before the Sylmarus. But we must move. The jump did not take us very far, and the dvargir might figure out where we are.”

  “No!” said Tamlin, trying to clear his spinning head. “Kalussa and Krastikon and Calem are still back there. If we abandon them, God only knows what the dvargir will do to them.”

  “We cannot help them,” said Third, her voice angry. For an instant, Tamlin wondered if she was angry that he had questioned her, but then he realized her ire was directed at Cathala. “If we go back, either the dvargir will kill us, or they will take us captive as well. If we are to help our friends, we must return with additional aid. The Keeper is still alive, and the Shield Knight’s soulblade should be able to heal her.”

  “But the others…” said Tamara, her voice faint with horror. “We can’t…we can’t…”

  Tamlin hesitated. He had been a captive of dvargir slavers. He knew exactly what would happen to anyone in their hands.

  Damn his mother for this!

  “Sir Tamlin,” said Third. “Either we leave right now, or we never will.”

  Tamlin took a ragged breath and looked at Tamara.

  He had to keep her safe.

  “Let’s move,” said Tamlin.

  Tamara closed her eyes and nodded.

  Tamlin had to keep her safe.

  But he vowed that he would not rest until he found a way to free his friends from the clutches of the dvargir slavers.

  ###

  Bit by bit, Cathala swam back towards consciousness.

  Her first thought was that she felt terrible.

  She was lying on the ground, the rocks digging into her hip. For God’s sake, why was she outside? She had a comfortable bed in the monastery’s guest quarters. And why did she have such a nasty headache? And why was there such a sharp metallic taste in her mouth?

  Memories drifted through her headache. Tamlin, now an adult. Talitha, who now called herself Tamara, and how impudent she had become, seduced by her love for that oaf. Cathala’s brilliant plan to take Tamara from the ruined monastery and train her in her proper role, and then…

  With a surge of alarm, Cathala opened her eyes and tried to stand up.

  Instead, she fell over onto her other side. She tried to push off the ground but found that she could not. Her hands had been bound behind her back, and there was something heavy dragging at her throat. She looked down and saw a heavy black chain connected to a stake in the ground. There was a dvargir collar around her neck, and to judge from the nasty taste in her mouth, a gag from the same metal between her jaws. Cathala turned her head and saw Kalussa and Krastikon sitting a short distance away. Both of them wore dvargir collars connected to chains, and both had a band of black metal encircling the lower half of their heads, likely to keep them from talking.

  For a moment Cathala could not process the sight.

  Her first thought was that she had made a slight miscalculation.

  Then the sheer terrified panic exploded through her.

  Cathala’s first impulse was to run, but the stake had been driven too far into the ground, and there was no way she could get it loose. She reached for her magic, intending to work a spell, and then agony exploded through her as the collar blocked the magic. The pain was too much for Cathala, and she fell onto her side again, the metal gag blocking her scream.

  She sat up again, shaking, and saw Kalussa glaring at her, her eyes filled with terror and rage. Cathala ignored her and looked around, and spotted Calem standing a short distance away, flanked by a pair of dvargir guards. Unlike the others, he was not bound, and the Sword of Air still hung in its scabbard at his belt. Fresh hope surged through Cathala. She still had a grip on his controlling spells, and the Sword of Air could cut her loose from these chains.

  She sent a mental command to Calem, and again agony exploded through her mind, and Cathala collapsed shaking to the ground.

  Harsh voices speaking the dvargir tongue came to her ears as she tried to fight back the pain, and hard hands grabbed her arms and hauled her upright. A dvargir warrior stepped before her, examining her face. Unlike the others, he looked older, the lines in his face deeper. His black armor was adorned with red gold in places, which Cathala remembered was a sign of rank among the dvargir. That meant he was a Dzark, a minor noble among the dvargir and their equivalent of a knight.

  The black eyes stared at her, and the Dzark smiled without mirth.

  “Good evening, my lady,” said the Dzark, speaking Latin with a rough, harsh accent. “I see you have had a busy night, yes? I suggest you avoid using magic. The results are not pleasant. Let her speak.”

  Someone tugged at Cathala’s jaw. There was a clang, and the cold, foul-tasting metal of the gag was pulled away. Her mind raced, formulating a new plan through her panic. The dvargir were fond of making bargains. If she could just get away from them with the Sword of Death…

  “Listen to me…” she started.

  “I am Thazmek, a Dzark of Great House Tzanar of Khaldurmar,” said the Dzark. “Might I know your name?”

  Cathala tried to draw herself up as best she could while wearing a chain. “I am Cathala, a Sister of the Order of the Arcanii, and I have come to warn you of great peril.”

  “Have you, now?” said Thazmek, his smile widening a little.

  “The sword that was my belt carries a terrible curse,” said Cathala. “If anyone other than me handles it…”

  “They will die?” said Thazmek, still smiling. “That is a well-known property of the Seven Swords.” He turned his head, and Cathala saw a dvargir in the dark hood and mantle of a shadowscribe. The shadowscribe wore a pair of armored gauntlets, and he used those gauntlets to carry the Sword of Death in its scabbard. “Fortunately, the wise shadowscribes fashioned gauntlets to protect themselves from the Sword’s power. The Sovereign’s Staff of Blades, as well.” Another shadowscribe held the Staff of Blades with an identical pair of gauntlets. “I confess, the shadowscribes were most impressed by the spells of enslavement upon the human with the Sword of Air. Truly the work of a master of dark magic. Since they were linked to you, it was easy to transfer the link to the shadowscribes.” He sighed. “I will almost regret selling such a puissant warrior, but this is a harsh business and my lords in the Great House demand ever greater profits.”

  “Both the Swords and the Staff are deadly artifacts,” said Cathala, struggling to keep her tone cool and disinterested. “They will destroy you if you
wield them…”

  “What?” said Thazmek, scowling. “Obviously they will destroy anyone who wields them. Ruin follows them like smoke from a fire. The dvargir are not fools. The Maledicti have tried to draw Khaldurmar into the War of the Seven Swords, but we are not so stupid. We work for the highest bidder as the fools who wield the Seven Swords bleed each other dry. But trying to claim the Swords for ourselves? No, we are not that foolish.” His smile returned. “But we know someone in Najaris who will pay a great deal for both the two Swords and the Staff of Blades.”

  “Listen to me,” said Cathala, unable to keep the terror from her voice. “You…”

  “It’s almost a pity,” said Thazmek. “You’re remarkably beautiful, at least by the standards of the human vermin, and powerful with magic. You’re exactly the sort of woman that Lord Tycharon prefers to purchase for his spells, both you and the other girl. Considering what Lord Tycharon’s going to do to you, I almost regret selling you to him. Almost.” His smile turned into a hard-edged grin. “But I would regret not getting paid even more.”

  “You cannot sell me!” screamed Cathala, unable to control herself any longer. “I am a Sister of the Arcanii! I am an apprentice of the Master Talitha! I am a daughter of royalty! I will burn you for this! Let me go, let me go, let me go…”

  “By the great void,” said Thazmek, “this one’s voice is even more annoying than the other one. Shut her up.”

  One of the dvargir shoved the gag back over Cathala’s mouth and locked it in place. Thazmek turned and began bellowing orders in the dvargir language, and both the kobolds and the dvargir warriors began moving in haste. Calem strode after Thazmek like a white shadow, his face an empty mask, and Cathala saw Kalussa staring at him with desperate appeal.

  A short time later, the dvargir party headed south, dragging Cathala along with them to be sold.