The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  She turned back around to see the bear standing on all fours in front of her, looking up with its wild gaze. It rumbled deep in its throat, something that sounded like an attempt to communicate.

  “Who are you, and where is your master?” she asked. “Wait, you’re not”—Nathaliey searched her mind, and realized she had no name for the old hermit from Markal’s story—“the master’s friend, are you? A wizard from the old order? You are, aren’t you? I could have sworn you were a real bear. You even smell like one.”

  It must be the hermit, because all of the pieces matched, down to the tower that Markal had mentioned. This was a full-fledged wizard in front of her . . . of sorts. The twenty or so years since Markal and Narud met the man had surely done little to improve his sociability. But he was staring at her intently and making a variety of coughing, chuckling noises in his throat.

  “My friend is down there and needs help. You know him—Markal, he’s one of the master’s apprentices, like me. Well, not anymore. He was made a wizard before we left. The gray marauders have him—they’re servants of the sorcerer. You probably know the sorcerer, too, he was . . .”

  Nathaliey stopped. It was too much all at once, and very little of it mattered.

  “I have to rescue my friend. Can you help me?”

  The bear let out a low moan, and a miserable expression passed over its face, as if frustrated by its inability to communicate, although she was certain that it could understand her. It turned toward the fireplace and nodded at the pot held over the fire with hooks and chains.

  The smell of wild leeks, other mountain vegetables, and some sort of gamey meat made her stomach rumble anxiously, and her mouth watered at the thought of a hot meal after so many days on the road eating cold stale food. It seemed heartless to sit down for supper when Markal was in the hands of the marauders, probably suffering torture, but she realized that the bear’s suggestion was the best possible one.

  Short of the soil and sustenance of the gardens, nothing would help her regain strength so quickly as food. She found a slightly less dusty wooden bowl on the shelf, but all the spoons looked filthy except the ladle already sticking out of the soup pot. She’d have to use that to eat. She scooped herself some of the meat, broth, and wild vegetables, and sat down on the tree stump, which wobbled as she put her bowl on the table.

  The broth was scalding hot, and she blew furiously to cool it down, then sipped and slurped so as not to burn her mouth. The meat wasn’t rabbit, but most likely squirrel, dark and strongly flavored. Hopefully, squirrel; some of the other possibilities were unpleasant to contemplate.

  When the bowl was empty, she rose to get more, and that’s when she saw that the bear was gone. In its place was a very hairy man squatting on the skins in the corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. He seemed to be naked, but there was so much body hair, and his beard was so long, that it was hard to say for sure.

  “Hello, I’m Nathaliey.” Speaking to him felt even more awkward than addressing the bear. “I am, um, Aristonian, born in Syrmarria, the daughter of the vizier. I’m Memnet’s apprentice, like Markal and Narud, who you already know. You’re Memnet’s former companion, aren’t you? What is your name, Master?”

  He didn’t answer, only watched her, face blank and expressionless.

  “Your voice must be rusty after so long living by yourself,” she said. “But try it—I’m sure it will come back.” He didn’t respond, and so she prodded with what she hoped was an encouraging tone. “You tried to speak as a bear, and now you’re back in a human body. That must be easier, right? Could you at least try?”

  He only stared, and she grew impatient. She had to get back to Markal, and this old hermit wasn’t helping in the slightest. He must have plenty of magic about him; even the bear form would be useful. Send him roaring through the stone circle, and maybe she could use the shock of his passage to free Markal.

  “I know you want to help,” she said. “You saved me from the marauders, you fed me—there was something in the food, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just soup, was it? I feel stronger than I have all day.”

  He remained silent.

  “Tell me what to do,” she urged. “Should I stay and rest? Should I go down and make an attempt now? Will you come? Tell me.”

  She clenched her teeth in frustration. The hermit had seemed more alert in bear form than he was as a human. In fact, now that she thought about it, maybe that was more true than she’d guessed. The old wizard, closed off, as mute as stone when in human form. In bear form, he was alert, sentient to his surroundings, but unable to do more than grunt or growl in communication. It was as if the animal were human, and the human an animal.

  “It’s already been too long—I’ve got to do something. Come with me or don’t, but I’m going.”

  Nathaliey went to the doorway and gave a final glance at the hermit, hoping he’d returned to a bear form while she wasn’t looking. But he remained sitting on the deer skins, legs tucked up, and now he wasn’t even looking at her, but staring into the fire. Oh, come on. He couldn’t be completely gone in the mind. A bear could hardly build a fire and make soup, after all.

  But whatever help he’d offered seemed to have come to an end. So what now? The only thing she could think of was to creep back through the dark and spy on the marauder camp to see what they’d done to Markal. She slipped outside.

  Nathaliey hadn’t gone more than ten paces when she found a sentry. If not for the heightened senses endowed to her by the Crimson Path, she’d have stumbled into him in the darkness, but instead she slipped past, holding her breath and hoping that the magic in his cloak wouldn’t allow him to spot her. She got past undetected.

  Nathaliey reached the ring moments later, several stones around the circle from where she’d departed. The marauders had set up camp in the center, tearing up the meadow with their boots and campfires, and throwing down bedding they’d hauled into the mountains. They had a surprising amount of gear, as if they’d been prepared to hunt the two fugitives on foot for an extended period of time.

  She spotted Markal. He was alive. And in fact, seemed largely unharmed.

  They’d bound his hands behind his back and put him on the far side of the stone circle next to a cook fire. His back was to her, but he held himself upright and stared into the flames. She couldn’t see his face to be sure, but it didn’t seem that the beating he’d taken had done any serious damage. The red sword sat in front of him on the ground, still wrapped in linen and cord.

  Most of the marauders were about their business setting up camp and preparing supper, but a pair were questioning Markal: a man squatting in front of him and a woman leaning against one of the standing stones with her arms crossed. Nathaliey thought the woman was the one who’d approached the hermit’s shelter and stared inside without seeing, although it was hard to be sure given the distance and poor quality of light. The pair spoke to Markal in low, harsh tones, and Nathaliey strained to hear over the wind, the crackling fires, and the sounds of marauders preparing their supper and making camp.

  The man squatting in front of Markal snatched up the sword and rose to his feet. He gestured at the weapon with a question, and Markal shook his head, which brought an angry remark from his interrogator, something about shoving the sword through the captive’s heart. Markal responded, and while she couldn’t hear his words, she caught their meaning from his tone.

  Go right ahead. Kill me with the sword.

  Yes, and bind his soul to it. May as well, if he were going to die anyway, and once inside he could join the struggle for control. Except he didn’t know that Nathaliey had returned. She willed him to hold on for a few more minutes before he threw his life away.

  Nathaliey remained behind one of the standing stones on the opposite side, lurking in much the same way the marauders must have done while waiting to spring their ambush, and the cool stone whispered to her as her hand grazed the surface. Old magic, ancient magic, but as recognizable to her touch as ginger or
peppercorn would have been to her tongue.

  The magic of this place had much in common with the master’s gardens. It wouldn’t surprise her, in fact, if Memnet had studied the stone circle before crafting his defenses. Just in this single stone she felt runes to break bones and wards to confuse, and when she moved to the next stone, she felt enchantments to maim, to kill, and to drive an enemy mad. The standing stones had more than enough power to destroy an entire company of marauders.

  But Nathaliey wasn’t of the order that had built this place, and there was an aggressive note to the magic, as well, a warning that it would attack her like any other intruder. Slipping silently to the next stone, she let her fingers trace an engraving in the surface. This one could open the ground and swallow their enemies alive, much like what had happened during the fight for the walled inner garden. But the more she touched it, the greater the warning became, until it was almost hostile. She could bring it to life, yes, but the ground would devour her, too, and Markal, as well.

  The enemy captain shifted the sword to one hand and slapped Markal across the face with the other. “You lie! Where is she?”

  Markal didn’t answer, which brought more shouts. The captain handed Soultrup to the woman and drew his own blade. All the commotion drew the attention of other marauders, and Nathaliey used the distraction and the darkness to slip from stone to stone, working her way around the ring from the exterior. She ran her fingers along each stone as she passed behind them. There must be something here to help her.

  Some seemed entirely dead, their strength spent years or generations ago. Others were only a ghostly whisper, magic faded like oil evaporating from an uncorked flask. The ones with stronger magic were either shielded, and harder to wake, or openly hostile like the one with the devouring spell she’d touched earlier. Finally, she came in behind the stone nearest where they were holding Markal. She paused to listen, to feel, and her hopes took a leap forward at what she sensed. The stone murmured to her, welcomed her touch, promised to obey her command.

  Nathaliey reached through the stone, figuring that she was on the opposite side of the woman who’d been leaning against it, listening to the interrogation. She should be able to feel the woman from here, using the stone as a conduit for her senses, but something blocked her, and strangely, the sound was more muffled than it had been, as well, as if the circle were acting as a barrier, a membrane that was stronger on this side of the ring than the other. A part of the circle’s defensive structure, perhaps?

  What first seemed a frustrating development, blocking her from listening in on the enemy, soon struck her as an important aid to her efforts. The membrane would give her cover as she worked, and it was clear that work would be necessary as she ran her fingers over the stone, searching for the magic that had drawn her attention.

  What are you? What do you have for me?

  And more importantly, where? Her fingers found carvings in the stone, but they were either worthless or resistant. Yet something was still calling to her, promising help.

  Nathaliey found it at last, a rune near the base of the stone, a powerful incantation partially buried in the earth. She studied it as her fingers brushed away the soil to fully expose the markings.

  The magic was strong and useful. Calling it would draw enemies toward her, and then send the stone crashing onto its side, crushing them as it fell. How many marauders could she kill? Most of them, perhaps, if she did it right. If only the rune weren’t so eroded, and the magic were closer to the surface. It would take at least ten minutes to coax it out.

  Nathaliey sat cross-legged with her eyes closed and her hands against the stone. She felt stronger, more confident and serene, and remembering the mute hermit in his hidden sanctuary and his soup, she silently thanked the Mountain Brother for bringing her aid.

  Now, she thought. Come to the surface, my friend. Wake from your slumber, and help me defeat my enemies and yours. Break their bones and call the Dark Gatherer to collect their souls.

  Chapter Eleven

  Markal had been in a panic as his captors dragged him across the stone circle with his hands bound behind his back and a rag stuffed in his mouth. Several of the marauders had rushed off to hunt Nathaliey, who’d momentarily escaped their grasp. She’d had more presence of mind than he had, and cast a simple but deceptively powerful spell to slip away. Even as enemies were beating him, he spotted her fleeing from the stone circle and vanishing into the night.

  The attackers shortly returned from their hunt, breathing heavily and shouting with frustration, and a serene feeling washed away his fears. Their agitation and anger told him everything. Nathaliey had eluded their grasp. It was a small miracle, but there was hope so long as she was free.

  The marauders should have fled the stone circle—surely they were sensitive enough to recognize that this was a place of danger for them, but a center of strength for Markal and Nathaliey—but instead they put themselves to making camp. Markal’s hopes rose.

  Men and women lit a campfire and brought out kettles and other cooking gear. Venison appeared, a grouse. Some vegetables, a bit of dry meal they mixed with water to make flat cakes. It was all a reminder that the marauders were only men after all. They needed to eat, to rest.

  The marauder captain and one of his companions—a woman—approached. The captain stood over Markal, while the woman moved to lean against a nearby stone. The captain’s back was to the fire, his face hidden in darkness, except for a glint from his eyes, an angry glare.

  “Are we safe here?” the woman asked.

  “There is nowhere safe for us in these parts. Is the watch out?”

  “Sentinels in the usual locations,” she said. “But if the other one comes back, she might slip past our defenses.”

  “She’ll be miles away by now,” Markal said. “Changed into a bird and flying for help.”

  The captain turned to him. “If your friend had that kind of power, surely she’d have done it long before we hunted you to this place.”

  “She was reluctant to abandon me. I begged her to change earlier, to fly away and save herself, but our types are loyal, you understand.”

  “You are an ineffective liar,” the man said.

  “And since you are well schooled in the art of deception, you would be trained to recognize it, wouldn’t you?”

  The captain left him, conversed in low voices with some of his comrades, and returned a few minutes later carrying the linen-wrapped sword. He squatted and placed Soultrup on the ground between him and the wizard.

  “And how did you come by a magical sword?” the man asked.

  “Is it magic? I didn’t know.”

  “Now you’re not even trying. How did you get it?”

  “I’m not even trying because it’s pointless to answer a question whose answer you already know. Surely your master told you before sending you off on the hunt.”

  “I don’t know the answer. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Was that possible? They carried enough supplies that they must have been mounted at some time, which meant they’d likely come from the Tothian Way, possibly from the direction of the mountains. It might be that they’d been given vague instructions to retrieve a magical sword, but knew nothing of Bronwyn’s death, or even the attack on the gardens.

  “Answer my question,” the man said.

  “Could you loosen these bonds on my wrists, first? They really hurt.”

  “Yes, naturally. Let me free your hands so you can wave them about and cause trouble. Tell me, how did you get the sword?” The man’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “I’ll beat it out of you if I must.”

  Markal gestured at Soultrup with his chin. “Let me suggest you take the sword and kill me. That will solve both of our problems.”

  The captain turned to the woman. “If he does not answer, tighten the cords until his wrists bleed. It will weaken his magic and perhaps clarify his mind at the same time.”

  Markal decided to answered truthful
ly for a stretch. That might confuse the marauders more.

  “The sword was in the possession of a paladin by the name of Bronwyn of Arvada.”

  “Yes, it was. Tell me more.”

  Something darkened in the man’s tone, and Markal sensed danger. He kept his tone calm as he continued.

  “Bronwyn went looking for the sorcerer, determined to cut him down with the red sword and then fall on the blade herself.”

  “Now you’re telling the truth. You will suffer less if you continue to do so.”

  “You threaten me whether I’m telling the truth or not.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” the man said sarcastically. “Please, do go on. I will refrain from the threats. And then I will kill you either way once we’ve finished. Does that suit you better?”

  Markal took a deep breath to calm himself. “Bronwyn found her enemy in the Sacred Forest, where he was burning thousand-year-old trees to build his highway. But the sorcerer is cunning, and Bronwyn didn’t recognize him. She fought Pasha Malik instead, killed him, and the sword slipped from her grasp.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then she found another weapon and fought on.”

  “Continue.”

  “There were too many enemies. She fell, cut down by Veyrian soldiers.”

  “Now you’re lying again.”

  Markal blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me. She didn’t die at the hands of Veyrian soldiers.”

  “I was there. I saw it. There were too many soldiers, and they surrounded her. She’d lost Soultrup, but she kept fighting to the end. They stabbed her to death.”

  The captain opened his fist. He held Bronwyn’s pendant with the silver moon. “And this?”

  “You found that in my bags.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “We recovered it from bandits in the hill country west of Aristonia.”

  “You claimed to have witnessed the paladin’s death. Yet somehow you got her pendant from bandits?”