The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  But before he could reach her a second time, Bronwyn threw down her sword, grabbed one of the sewn-together skins serving as the giant’s clothing, and hauled herself onto its back. Another marauder, seeing her example, did the same. A third marauder, the man who’d lost his hand at the stone circle, reached up and grabbed a fistful of animal skin. The remaining marauders threw themselves at Wolfram to block his way. By the time the paladins had broken their resistance, the giant was looking for an escape route with three marauders clinging to its back.

  The giant stumbled backward, shaking its head and knocking into the flaming barricade, which sent up a plume of crackling sparks. And here it found a gap between the burning trees and Gregory’s paladins, and it blasted through the gap. It emerged from the fire roaring in pain, and staggered into the river with a tremendous splash. It came up wading, moving swiftly toward the opposite bank while the three marauders climbed higher to get clear of the water.

  Gregory and his paladins swung wide to get around the fire, but by the time they reached the water’s edge, the giant was already halfway across. The burning pine trees still blocked the ford, and the water was too swift and high for the horses. The Blackshields could only fire a few crossbow bolts.

  Part of the burning barricade collapsed with a roar, and flames shot skyward as the fire found fresh sources of fuel in the smoldering limbs below. Wolfram ordered the paladins back from the inferno and watched in frustration as the giant gained the opposite bank. Bronwyn and her two surviving companions jumped down and followed the giant as it lumbered up the road and disappeared into the woods.

  Wolfram had lost track of his horse in the battle, and was relieved when Marissa rode up leading the animal. Marissa’s face glowed with excitement.

  “Thirteen marauders dead!” she exclaimed. “Only three survivors.”

  “And our own losses?”

  “Four killed, and a number of others injured. We won, Captain.”

  Wolfram leaned against his horse and closed his eyes, thinking of his dead comrades and not wanting to hear their names. Not yet. He let the roar of the fire wash over him, felt its heat.

  He opened his eyes again and took in the battlefield, where the paladins were gathering the wounded and dead. Riders galloped away to inform the handful of paladins who’d remained behind the meadow, guarding their supplies. Markal and Nathaliey approached on foot. They looked tired, and blood stained the cloths that hung from their belts. Wolfram nodded his acknowledgment of their contribution.

  “Captain, we crushed them,” Marissa insisted. “Once we bring word of the victory to Eriscoba, knights will flock to the Blackshields from across the free kingdoms.”

  “Bronwyn escaped.”

  Some of the fire went out of Marissa’s eyes. “We’ll track her down, don’t worry. There are only three of them—they’ll never make it out of the mountains.”

  He glanced at the burning barricade. It was still too hot for them to get through and approach the ford. With every passing minute, Bronwyn and her companions would be harder to catch.

  Markal looked pointedly at Wolfram’s horse. “Captain, where is the red sword?”

  Wolfram looked. The linen-wrapped sword was no longer tied to his saddle. It had been there when his horse stumbled; he remembered it nearly striking him on the side of the head as he fell. Yet, it was not there, now.

  “I tied those knots myself,” he said. “It didn’t fall—I’ll swear to it.” He felt along the saddle. “But there’s no sign it was cut loose, either.”

  “The sword has its ways,” Markal said. “Quickly, let’s look for it.”

  A search of the battlefield didn’t turn up the weapon, and neither did they find it among the dead, or among the weapons, shields, and other gear being piled into a heap. Wolfram questioned his paladins, but nobody could recall seeing it.

  The conclusion was inescapable: Bronwyn must have stolen it in the chaos and somehow taken it with her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Markal instructed Nathaliey to see to the wounded while he followed Wolfram in an increasingly desperate search of the battlefield, looking for the lost sword. He’d said little to the young captain, but felt more and more grim as the truth of the situation settled in. There was no point in hectoring; if anyone understood what losing the red sword meant, it was Wolfram.

  As their hopes faded, Markal followed Wolfram to the riverbank west of the still-burning pine trees. The river was swift and deep here where it flowed out of the ford, and it was equally impassible further upstream in the meadow. They had no choice but to wait for the fire to die before trying to cross. The flames had settled enough that an attempt might soon be made to douse it.

  Wolfram stared at the road on the opposite side. “I don’t see how she stole it. I saw her clinging to the back of the giant, and she didn’t have it. Saw her jump down on the other side, and she didn’t have it then, either.”

  “That’s easy enough to explain with a little bit of magic. The cloak could have concealed it.”

  “We were fighting face-to-face—she carried a regular khalifate-style sword.”

  “And you saw her the whole time after you were thrown from the horse?”

  “Most of the time, yes, but we were separated there at the end. Then I saw her jump on the giant’s back.”

  “It must have happened then,” Markal said. “She spotted the sword, distracted you, and got hold of it.”

  “While trying to tame a giant and fighting for her life with her back to a raging fire? How is that possible?”

  “The sword was probably helping. Ever since your sister killed Malik, it’s been trying to get into the enemy’s hand. It practically threw itself to her, I’ll bet.”

  “I wanted to use it, Markal. I imagined it in my hands, imagined it striking Bronwyn down. Putting an end to her nightmare.”

  “That’s exactly what the sword wanted you to do. I don’t doubt it put the idea into your head in the first place.”

  Wolfram gave him a look. “I wasn’t going to draw it. I’m not so weak-minded as that.”

  “The strength of one’s mind has nothing to do with it.”

  “But what if I had, Markal? If I’d drawn it, controlled it somehow, and killed Bronwyn, that would have freed her from the necromancer’s spell. She’d be trapped inside Soultrup with the rest of them.”

  “So not exactly freed.”

  “That was Bronwyn’s plan all along. Kill the necromancer, then throw herself on the sword so she could contend for the weapon from the inside.”

  “Facing off against King Toth,” Markal said. “I’m not sure who has the stronger will.”

  Wolfram crossed his arms. “Bronwyn does.”

  Markal didn’t want to argue the point. “We’ll never know for sure, and it doesn’t matter. You never could have drawn Soultrup and used it against her in battle. It would have found its way to her hands earlier, when she still had a chance of winning.”

  “We can’t let her keep it,” Wolfram said.

  “No, we can’t.”

  “If Bronwyn reaches the Veyrian army and the marauders with Soultrup in hand, she’ll be unstoppable. We have to hunt her down before she reaches Eriscoba.”

  “She’ll have several hours head start by the time we can cross the river,” Markal said. “And the marauders can keep up a pace the rest of us can’t manage.”

  “And what about that giant?” Wolfram said. “We can’t stop the brute.”

  “That’s one worry you can put behind you,” Markal said. “It isn’t easy to dominate another’s mind with magic. Even Toth uses whips to drive his slaves.”

  “I guess I saw that,” Wolfram said. “The giant kept trying to break free.”

  “Each time it cost Bronwyn to bring it back under her control. She can’t hold it indefinitely. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already left it behind. There are only three marauders left if it turns on her unexpectedly.”

  Wolfram looked encoura
ged at this bit of news.

  “Of course, there’s still the matter of stopping Bronwyn before she reaches Eriscoba,” Markal added.

  “How well do you know this road?”

  “Not well,” he admitted.

  “Let me sketch it out for you.” Wolfram squatted on his heels at the riverbank and drew a finger through the gravel. “This is the road. We’re roughly here, at the Khalifate Ford, on the eastern slope.”

  He took a pebble and put it on the far end of the line. “And this is the bridge on the opposite side of the mountains, where we fought the other giant, the one we killed. The bridge is a ruin now, already partially wrecked by marauders, and pulled the rest of the way down during the battle.”

  Wolfram tapped the pebble. “Once Bronwyn crosses at the ruined bridge, she’ll be into Eriscoban territory, and she can go anywhere from there. I expect the Veyrians to sack the village of Gronhelm, then set out to pillage the countryside. Once they’re loose, only a pitched battle will stop them. But getting over will be tricky without the bridge. There are other crossings, but hard to find if you don’t already know the countryside.

  “Now, look at this,” he continued, placing another stone at roughly the midpoint of the mountain road. “Here we have the ruins of Montlac. I assume you know of them.”

  “I’ve heard of the place,” Markal said. “An abandoned town on the trade routes, right?”

  “More than a town—it was an entire barony at one point. In the old days, it was the baron’s right to collect tolls in return for clearing bandits from the high passes. Then trade declined between east and west, the winters turned harsh in the mountains, and the lake silted in, robbing the barony of the fish that kept it fed. That happened back in the day of my grandfather, back when the old road was more than just a trail.

  “Up until a few years ago, there were still a few families living at Montlac, led by someone who still called himself a baron. An unrecognized claim, and no Eriscoban would pay a toll, but they did buy supplies from the fellow and sleep in his caravanserai, which at least provided a hot meal, fodder for horses, and protection from the elements. Then came giants, griffins, marauders . . . the people who lived there are long gone.

  “The point is this,” Wolfram continued, tapping the stone that marked the spot, “we entered the mountains somewhat overburdened. I didn’t know how long we’d be in the east, how difficult it would be to resupply, and I wanted to cache supplies somewhere that wouldn’t require a complete return to Eriscoba. The baron’s caravanserai is a burned husk, but the cellar beneath was untouched, and I stuffed it with food, spare clothing, extra armor, and the like.”

  Markal nodded, beginning to see what the captain was getting at. “Go on.”

  “We leave the injured, the weakest horses, and almost all of our gear here at the ford, together with enough healthy paladins to ensure they won’t be slaughtered if more enemies come this way from the khalifates. They’ll continue at whatever pace they can manage.

  “The rest of us travel as light as we can. What faces us is a brutal up-and-down climb, but pushing hard, we should reach the ruins of Montlac in two days. If we haven’t caught Bronwyn by then, we’ll grab what we can from my cached supplies and keep going.”

  “There are only three of them,” Markal said. “What’s to keep Bronwyn from hiding in the woods until you’re past?”

  “I have two wizards, don’t I?”

  “That point could be disputed.”

  “I know your limitations, but all I need is the same sort of magic you used before. Send out magic eyes to track the marauders. That’s the only thing I need from you.”

  “Every spell has a cost,” Markal said. “And I don’t only mean a blood cost. If we send a seeker, Bronwyn will know we’re following. She’ll sense it coming, and most likely gauge the distance of its caster.”

  “My sister is no fool—she’ll know we’re following already. She has the sword and knows we’ll be desperate to stop her from reaching reinforcements with it in her possession. She’ll travel as fast as she can, knowing we’re going to chase her every step of the way. Most likely, she won’t hide, but if she does, I need to know.”

  “And after Montlac?” Markal asked. “Say we don’t catch her before then. How long until we reach the ruined bridge where we need to have stopped the enemy or else?”

  “It’s another two days from Montlac to the bridge, if we make good time. But that’s terrain where we’ll have the advantage over marauders on foot, since it’s mostly downhill from Montlac until you reach the foothills on the other side of the Spine. And the last stretch is flat—perfect for horses. Even if we don’t gain an inch on her before Montlac, we’ll be sure to run her down before she reaches the ruined bridge.”

  Markal cast his gaze across the river to where Bronwyn and the other survivors had fled into the woods. It seemed incredible that marauders could outrun paladins on horses, but these were no ordinary knights on foot. They could move at a relentless pace, which they’d already proven on several occasions.

  Still, they needed to eat, didn’t they? They needed to sleep. Bronwyn and her companions had little more than their cloaks and their swords, and neither food nor rest would come easily.

  He wasn’t as confident as Wolfram that he and Nathaliey could track the marauders with seekers, but if he could occasionally locate the enemy, they could at least get ahead of them on the road and double back for a more methodical hunt.

  What about the red sword? Bronwyn had wielded it before, and would surely not hesitate to do so again. He remembered her heroic defense of the bridge over Blossom Creek against an army of wights. The thought of facing her as an enemy, Soultrup in hand, was terrifying.

  Time enough to worry about that. The first thing was to clear the burning barricade, which was still throwing off heat, but beginning to die down. A little longer and paladins could attack it with waterskins.

  And then cross the ford. The hunt on the road. The fight against Bronwyn and Soultrup. Paladins would die. Maybe wizards, too.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Markal, Nathaliey, and forty-four paladins arrived at Montlac on the second morning after the battle at the ford. Markal studied the small alpine valley as he dismounted, muscles complaining.

  Massive rocky peaks with ice-covered crowns rose in a bowl around them, and the air tasted clean, cold, and thin. The ruins of Montlac spread around the perimeter of what was once a lake, but was now a vast bowl-like meadow speckled with a handful of small oxbows where the mountain stream began its trek toward the eastern plains.

  Near the center of the valley was a ruined castle on a hill that must have once sat on an island, but now seemed to be guarding nothing in particular. Only one of the towers was still standing; the rest had collapsed, along with two of the four walls.

  Closer at hand, the nearby meadows were lumpy with the ruined foundations of the old town, punctuated with lichen-covered boulders—nature’s standing stones—perhaps carried from the mountain heights in ages past by flowing ice fields.

  Wolfram sent scouts up the road, positioned several men to the rear, and sent a few paladins on horse toward the old castle to verify that enemies hadn’t taken up residence. The rest he ordered to dismount. Exhausted, ravenous horses began to crop at the tall green grass. Nathaliey groaned and slid from the saddle to join Markal, and they let their mounts join the other grazers.

  Wolfram rode by, studying his surroundings with a sharp expression. “Keep your eye out for griffins, will you? It’s hard to imagine a better place for one of their flocks to make its home.”

  “I thought he wanted another seeker,” Nathaliey said when Wolfram was gone. “So which is it? Track Bronwyn, or search for griffins?”

  Markal raised an eyebrow. “It’s just magic, just blood from your pores. Why can’t you do both? And maybe make our horses fly while you’re at it. We all agree that would be extremely helpful.” He smiled at her grimace.

  “And we need a seeke
r?” she asked.

  “We need one.”

  Since the battle, Nathaliey had already sent two seekers to track the escaping marauders, and Markal had sent a third. The first had found Bronwyn and her two companions still in the company of the giant. By the second seeker, she’d abandoned the giant, who’d rumbled off into the mountains. Bronwyn and her two companions raced west, moving with impressive speed and stamina up and down through the mountains. They slept little and seemed to eat nothing.

  The last seeker had found the enemy already in Montlac. They’d stopped for an unexpectedly long time, and when Markal relayed this information to Wolfram, the captain had considered this news gravely. If there were other marauders making camp in the abandoned barony, they might have a real fight of it. But then Bronwyn and her companions moved on, and the valley had seemed empty when they arrived.

  Given Bronwyn’s speed, Wolfram had been right to leave his supplies behind. Traveling light, his riders made steady progress, and had very nearly reeled in their quarry. Wolfram hoped to catch her by noon tomorrow.

  “I’ll watch for griffins,” Markal told Nathaliey. “You find Bronwyn.”

  “I had a feeling you were going to say that. All right, go do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

  She climbed one of the lichen-covered boulders and sat cross-legged up top, where the wind gusted through her hair. To Markal’s eye, she looked like a morsel set down for a griffin to snack on, but already her native abilities had her blending into the stone, and the longer she remained motionless, the harder she would be to spot.

  Markal found the horses, removed their saddles, and led them away from Nathaliey to graze them so he wouldn’t be tempted to pester her about the seeker. His stomach rumbled.

  “You’re the lucky ones,” he told the horses, who were engrossed in their meal. “The rest of us have been subsisting on suet cakes for days. The captain had better pull something tasty out of his stores or I’m going down to the river to fish.” The horses paid him no mind. “Go on, then. Keep smacking your lips. Not that it’s rude or anything.”