The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “This is Wolfram of Arvada,” Markal said.

  “Just Captain Wolfram.”

  “Of Arvada?” Nathaliey said. “Isn’t Bronwyn . . .?”

  “Bronwyn is my sister, and I’m here to find her. If these marauders have taken her prisoner, I’ll kill them all to free her.”

  Nathaliey looked at Markal, who shrugged and said, “I tried. He . . . well, I’ll explain later why he thinks she’s alive.”

  “You’ve drawn enemies, all right,” Wolfram told Nathaliey. “Wights, anyway. One of the scouts spotted several blue lights down the mountainside, coming this way.”

  “Wights wouldn’t come unless something was driving them,” Markal said.

  “Precisely my thinking,” the captain said with a sharp nod. “Which means marauders. My question is, do you think this is the best defensive position? Marissa is uneasy—she says the circle wants to reject us, and there was that matter of the stone that tried to crush us. But the pair of you seem to have some control over the place. So . . . should I be worried or hopeful?”

  Markal looked to Nathaliey. “Give him an answer.”

  “There’s power in the stones,” she said, “and it’s more favorable to us than to the enemy. But the magic is old and it’s bottled up. No easy task to call it out. The longer we have, the better. Do you have magic? Can you hold off the wights while we work?”

  Wolfram shook his head. “We have a few rings and charms, but nothing that could turn them if they’re being driven by sorcery.” He cast his eyes to the left, where Soultrup remained on the ground, bound in its linens. “Unless . . .”

  “No,” Nathaliey said firmly. “You can’t touch the red sword. It serves the enemy now.”

  “I told him that already,” Markal said. “But our friend is full of doubts . . . about a good many things.”

  “My sister’s light is still burning, wizard. I know she’s alive.”

  Paladins kept arriving from below, and Markal asked for an assessment of the Blackshields’ strength. Wolfram had brought three companies through the mountains, during which time they’d lost ten paladins—two killed by griffin attacks, three dead fighting giants, and five more who’d been injured or taken ill, and were forced to retreat to Eriscoba. One of the companies had established a redoubt at the end of the old road, where they kept the horses and most of the gear; that was roughly fifty miles to the south of here, and would be of no help. That left Wolfram with two companies and forty-seven paladins in total.

  It was a good number, Nathaliey thought, almost a small army. If the approaching enemies were the marauders they’d spotted that morning at the ravine, Wolfram had double their numbers, and if these men and women fought with a fraction of Bronwyn’s skill and confidence, it was a battle they should be able to win. The presence of wights complicated matters, of course, but so did the standing stones.

  When the captain set off on other business, Nathaliey turned back to Markal.

  “You didn’t tell Wolfram his sister is dead?”

  “Of course I told him. He doesn’t believe it—something to do with the pendant we took from the bandits. It’s apparently telling him she’s still alive. He followed it over the mountains, and it apparently helped him find us with some sort of seeking spell.”

  “But he’s seen that it’s just us, that there’s no Bronwyn.”

  “He’s convinced she’s still alive. And . . . well.” Markal shook his head. “He’s convinced. What more can I say?”

  “What do you mean by that?” she said. “You saw her die, didn’t you?”

  “I thought so, yes.”

  “You thought so? What exactly happened that day?”

  “She went down under a swarm of Veyrians. They weren’t trying to take her captive, they were trying to kill her.”

  “So you saw her go down, and then what? You fled? Could it be they just took her captive?”

  “No, I didn’t flee. Not right away, not without seeing the end of it. I’m telling you, I saw her go down. They disarmed her, knocked her to the ground, and kept stabbing her even when she’d stopping struggling. Maybe the master could have survived that, but nobody else would have. And the enemy had her body—if there had been any spark of life, they’d have extinguished it.”

  “Then Wolfram must be wrong,” Nathaliey said firmly.

  “I need something to eat,” Markal announced. “Even a scrap of bread or a bit of that venison stew they were cooking, if there’s any left.”

  The paladins had turned the cook fire into a small blaze, seeming to prefer as much light as possible. Probably a good idea; the marauders’ night vision seemed to rival that of Markal and Nathaliey. No sign of any food, but Nathaliey had an idea.

  “I know where there’s something to eat. And it has a little magic in it.”

  “Did you find the hermit? Is that where you were?”

  “He’s in a tower off in that direction.” She gestured toward the south side of the circle. “He gave me some soup, and it very nearly brought me back from the dead.”

  “I was wondering—you seem fresh enough, and you dug the rune out of the stone. No way I could do that in my current condition.”

  “Was he always like that?” she asked.

  “He’s a strange fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a naked, hairy hermit who can’t speak a word.”

  “I don’t know about naked, but he can speak. He just chooses not to.”

  “Maybe twenty years ago he could,” Nathaliey said. “But he can’t speak now, or the choosing not to is so strong it makes the same difference. He was a bear at first, and I swear the bear could communicate better than the man.”

  “So long as I can eat some of the soup,” Markal said. “Can you bring me some? I’m going to tickle these stones and see what I can find. But hurry—the enemy is coming.”

  Nathaliey felt it too as she crossed the ring of stones. A stirring to the north and from below them. A whisper at first, carried on the breeze, of motion and a malignant presence similar to what they’d felt that morning upon leaving the ruined watchtower. With everything that had passed, that felt like a week ago, though it couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen hours.

  She hadn’t felt that same presence when entering the stone ring, pursued by Wolfram’s paladins, which should have told her they were someone other than marauders. She’d been exhausted, terrified, and the stones themselves carried such an aura that she hadn’t noticed what should have been obvious.

  Nathaliey reached the rocky ledge a few minutes later, or what looked like a ledge. With no time to waste, she picked her way to roughly the correct spot and turned her body at the precise angle the bear had shoved her into earlier. When her head was positioned just so, she looked for the tower doorway out of the corner of her eye.

  No, this wasn’t right. It must be back a few feet. She stepped back and tried again, but still couldn’t see the fire burning on the hearth or any other sign of the tower. Growing frustrated, she tried in the other direction, but had no luck there, either, and so she returned to her original spot.

  You’re too anxious. Clear your mind.

  This time, she felt along the ledge to aid her search, going back and forth, groping for the door by touch. But after a few more minutes of searching, Nathaliey began to suspect another possibility: the hermit no longer wanted to be found. For whatever reason, he’d revealed his tower and offered his hospitality when she hadn’t been seeking it, but now that she was actively trying to find him, he’d gone into hiding.

  And if that was the case, she’d never force her way inside. She had too much experience turning away unwanted visitors from Memnet’s gardens to think she could overcome those kinds of wards with non-magical means. For all she knew, the illusion was so complete that she was groping along a tree trunk, or still back at the ring, only thinking she’d come up here in the first place.

  Nathaliey was ready to abandon the search, when a shout came from below, and a clank o
f steel on steel. Already? She’d hope for more time, but it seemed that the enemy had arrived.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Markal was waiting with Captain Wolfram and about a dozen of his warriors when there was a clash of weapons and a few shouts from the trail below them, and eight paladins came running up the hillside from the darkness below. They were breathless, shields dangling from their arms as they sheathed their swords, but unharmed. Markal stepped aside to let them past, and they stumbled to a halt in front of the captain.

  One of the newcomers wheezed out a report. “There’s at least . . . twenty . . . marauders.”

  “More,” another said. “And wights.”

  “How many wights?” Wolfram demanded.

  But the paladins didn’t have an answer to this, only that they’d spotted glowing blue forms moving among the enemy. The captain had positioned the eight at a defensible position on the overgrown trail below, with orders to skirmish and test the enemy’s strength. Then the wights appeared, and they’d fled for their lives.

  Nathaliey had gone to search for the hermit, hoping to secure help, or at least some of his magical stew, but there was no sign of her yet. Markal couldn’t afford to wait; he moved to a pair of standing stones that he’d investigated earlier, and felt for the runes and wards chiseled there. They whispered to him again, louder this time, as he felt the cool hard surface. Some of the magic was inscrutable, but he recognized other parts. One rune, in particular, held promise, with the ability to blind approaching enemies, but the endless wash of seasons, the rain and wind and snow, had eroded its surface and buried the magic so deeply that he’d need days to bring it up again. He searched for something more suitable.

  The whispering stones were noisy, distracting, and he gave up at the first glimpse of blue light entering the trees below. Markal stepped away from the circle and made his way toward the trail leading down the hillside, ready to fall back if needed, but anxious to observe the enemy’s approach. He stepped to one side in a little hollow carpeted with pine needles.

  A line of fir trees stood on the side of the trail like silent witnesses to the lights that came flickering toward him. He counted four wights in all, bunched in a mass and slinking forward reluctantly, as if driven. Shadowy figures in gray cloaks followed, easing toward the stone circle so furtively they might have been ghosts themselves.

  In spite of his exhaustion, Markal felt calm, his fear banished as the enemy approached, some fifty feet away now. They were within charging distance, and he prepared to flee, but they hesitated right when Markal thought they would break into a run.

  To what purpose, he didn’t know. Perhaps they felt the power radiating from the stone circle, threatening them, much as he felt the malignant magic of the wights and the dark auras of the marauders themselves.

  He sensed rather than heard Nathaliey coming up behind him. She held out something, which he took, then turned over in his hand.

  “A biscuit?”

  “It’s a kind of unleavened bread with wild berries and suet. Paladin food.”

  “What about the hermit?”

  “He has withdrawn his assistance,” she said. “Or maybe he’s going to appear in our midst as a raging bear and tear these marauders limb from limb.”

  “In other words, you couldn’t find him.”

  “I swear I went to the same spot, but I couldn’t find the tower.” Nathaliey nodded at the wights and marauders. “Why are they stopped? Why don’t they charge?”

  “Gathering power, I suppose.”

  Meanwhile, he may as well do what he could to regain his own strength, so he took a bite of the paladin biscuit. It was terrible. Greasy and overly salted, and the berries were tart, not sweet. Also, it was small. When he finished, his stomach was rumbling harder than ever.

  “I don’t suppose you have another,” he said.

  “Were you expecting to make a meal of it?”

  “How about a little wine to wash it down?”

  “Strangely, I thought I should get here as soon as possible, rather than rummage about until I could serve you a proper feast.”

  His amusement was short-lived, as it seemed that the enemy was gathering to charge. There were four wights and roughly twenty marauders, including a hooded figure directing them into ranks who had to be the captain. His posture was familiar, and Markal thought it the same man who’d chased them into the ravine that morning. The marauders began a low, wordless chant, filled with grunts and snarls, and the wights added a long, miserable-sounding moan that made the hairs stand up on his neck.

  Markal and Nathaliey fell back toward the circle. Wolfram met them just outside it. The captain cast a glance down the hillside. His face showed nerves, but his voice was steady.

  “Not so many.”

  “Every marauder is equal to three regular soldiers,” Markal said.

  “And every paladin is worth five.”

  “Have you faced marauders before?”

  “Several times.” The defiant edge softened in the captain’s voice. “And I won’t lie, they are daunting enemies. Implacable and untiring. But we outnumber them, and we have a position of power. I have only one question of you.”

  “You want to know if we can handle the wights.”

  Wolfram nodded. “We can turn them aside with our charms and trinkets, but not if marauders are driving them forward. The wights are already dead—our swords pass right through them.”

  “We have magic for that,” Nathaliey said. “An incantation to give your weapons the power to puncture wights and send them fleeing in terror.” She must have caught Markal’s doubtful look, because she added, “I suppose I could do it if you’re not ready.”

  “You’ve regained your strength?” he asked.

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  He thought about one of the stones he’d identified while she was searching for the hermit. “I might have something else. Enough power for the both of us.”

  Something changed in the tone of the marauders’ chanting, and all three of them glanced in that direction to make sure they hadn’t begun their final push.

  “Nathaliey’s spell won’t last long,” Markal said. “Watch for the gold fire on your blades, Captain, and make the most of it.”

  Given the length of the marauders’ hesitation, Markal expected them to approach warily, pushing against the resistance of the stone circle, but they suddenly broke into a charge. If the enemy hadn’t been running uphill, Markal, Nathaliey, and Wolfram might have been caught out, and as it was, they barely had time to fall back to join the paladins before the first three marauders forced their way between two stones and entered the stone circle.

  They found the Blackshields braced for combat. Wolfram, Marissa, and three others attacked with swords, while a second group slammed into them with a shield wall to pin them against the stones. More paladins waited, ready to pounce on any who escaped or broke through.

  Any other enemy would have crumpled under the ferocious defenses, but the three marauders held their ground. Each man faced multiple attackers, and paladin swords broke through to batter helms and slash arms and shoulders, but the marauders held just long enough for more of their comrades to come pouring between the two stones.

  Markal and Nathaliey had withdrawn several paces until they were safely positioned behind the swords and shields of their new allies, but maintained a view of the fighting. Markal was watching for the blue glow and anguished faces of wights.

  “Have your spell ready,” he said. “The wights are coming.”

  And yet for a moment, he dared hope it wouldn’t be necessary. The stone circle was resisting the intruders, and Wolfram was overwhelming those few who’d broken through. One marauder was down already, two more faltering, and most of the enemy company was blocked outside the circle, unable to force their way in to join the fight.

  And then a cloaked figure burst through and gave a shout of triumph. The enemy captain. He raised his sword, and a dark aura surrounded
him. Others came streaming in after like a current through a breached dam.

  Wolfram shouted for a counterattack, and his reserves hurled themselves into the battle with shouts and clashes of steel on steel. Within seconds, the center of the stone ring became an all-out battle. Markal and Nathaliey fell back to keep from being caught up in it.

  “Where are the wights?” she said.

  Markal scanned the battlefield. No sign of their ghostly light, but it wouldn’t be long. “Keep ready—they’re out there.”

  “Markal, I’m not sure I can . . . you said you had something else? What is it?”

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He led her to one of the promising stones he’d identified while she searched for the hermit. They put their hands against the cool surface.

  “I felt this one before,” she said, “but I don’t know what it is or how to call it.”

  “It’s a well of power.”

  “Oh,” she said. Then, more fervently, “Oh! Like the master’s orb. But it’s corked up down there. How would you break it free? It’s too strong . . .”

  “It had to be strong to keep the power bottled all this time. I can’t free it entirely, but look, there’s a trickle that’s come out already. Do you feel it? If we can get it out, we’ll have more than enough power to finish this fight—fire, shaking earth, a rain of stone—whatever we need.”

  She closed her eyes. “A thread, just a . . . I can’t get to it. Grab it and help me pull it out.”

  Markal bent his will into the stone and felt for the tip of the thing. He could brush the edge of it, but couldn’t quite get his will so deep into that ancient magic as to seize hold of it, not with the sounds of paladins and marauders fighting and dying only feet away. A man screamed, and Markal looked up and saw four ghostly blue lights flowing into the stone circle.

  The wights were old, twisted, decaying souls—a near-formless mass of grasping limbs—who must have been languishing among the ruins of the hill country for generations, hiding to avoid the Harvester and his hounds. Their long, rotting faces were barely human, and their eyes burned with anguish and hatred as a pair of marauders drove them forward with lashes that glowed with a sickly sorcerous green light.