The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  The dark acolyte was so intent on his work that he didn’t look up, even as Chantmer’s spell washed over him. There was no response, and his quill continued scratching. Chantmer blinked, fear rising in his belly that the incantation had failed.

  And then the dark acolyte coughed. Once, twice, then a barking, wheezing fit. He threw back his hood and clawed at his throat. His tongue lolled like a dying dog’s, and he gasped for air. The quill fell, and the glass bottle dropped and broke. The man scooped dust from the paving stones and shoveled it desperately toward his mouth as if he were standing in a pool of water.

  The water was an illusion, but the thirst wasn’t; the spell had sucked the moisture from his body, and he would be burning up like a man crossing the sandy wastelands.

  “Hammers, Chantmer!” Jethro said.

  Chantmer had already wiped dripping blood from his hands, and now he groped at his supply of power. He felt weak and wobbly, and if it had been a lesser-known incantation, he might not have had enough to manage, but this was volans malleis.

  He reached deep, pulled hard, and his power came out even as he was speaking the words. A pair of spectral hammers materialized in front of him. They began to spin in the air in front of his face, growing brighter and stronger with every passing instant.

  Meanwhile, the dark acolyte was recovering from the shock of the desiccation spell. He looked shaky, as if he were on the verge of dry heaving, but he’d clearly recognized what had happened to him. He looked around, spotted Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro, and snarled a curse, even as he lifted his own hands. Chantmer threw the hammers. They struck the enemy and threw him violently to the ground.

  The man lay on his back with his forehead caved in and blood pooling from his mouth. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, and something oily slithered from his mouth and dissolved in the air—the man’s wight, escaping his corpse.

  Chantmer’s triumph vanished when he got a good look at his opponent. It was neither Zartosht nor Jasmeen, but some unknown dark acolyte. The man’s hair was shot with alternating streaks of black, white, and gray, but he had a young, almost boyish face. Thin lips, a thick nose—not a handsome individual, that was for sure.

  The fight had drawn attention, and men and women surrounded the dead body. Narud pushed through to Chantmer’s side and pulled him back. The crowd parted around them. A pair of Veyrian soldiers on patrol approached. One poked the corpse with his spear, while the other scanned the crowd with a sharp, searching gaze. Thank the Brothers for the concealing spell. It kept them hidden until they reached Jethro.

  Chantmer suppressed a curse. “Who was that?”

  “A new enemy,” Narud said. “But more importantly, are Jasmeen and Zartosht both still here?”

  Chantmer wobbled, legs trembling. “I’m spent. We have to go back.”

  “What about the second rune circle?” Jethro said.

  “Damn the runes. We have to regroup and rethink this.”

  The crowd parted in the direction of the other circle, and Jasmeen pushed through, throwing back the hood on her robe and letting her concealment slip. She grabbed the shoulder of a man standing over the dead acolyte’s body, and he screamed and fell, blood squirting from his ears. Power crackled along Jasmeen’s body as she absorbed the man’s pain.

  Others cried out and tried to flee, until there was a near riot of people running in all directions. Someone knocked over one of the braziers cooking spits of lamb meat, and it collapsed in a cloud of sparks and flames. A woman stumbled or was pushed into burning coals, and the hem of her robe caught fire. More screams, and the panic spread.

  The two Veyrian soldiers pushed along with the crowd, trying to separate fights breaking out over collapsed stalls and canopies. Jasmeen ignored them, ignored the panicking crowd, and stalked toward the companions from the Crimson Path, radiating fury.

  “Stay clear,” Narud told Chantmer and Jethro. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Another pair of Veyrian soldiers came pushing in from the rear, even as the panic continued to spread through the crowd. It was almost out of hand already.

  One of them spotted Chantmer, one of the few not running or shouting. “You! What’s this about?”

  Chantmer drew himself to his full height. “I’m the pasha’s vizier. That woman is a wizard, an enemy of the high king. One of the ones the pasha has been looking for.”

  The soldiers took in the dark acolyte, and their eyes widened. Narud, as yet, had not dropped all of his concealment, even though Jasmeen was facing him now from twenty paces away, clearly seeing through his magic.

  “Go!” Chantmer urged the soldiers. “I demand that you stop her.”

  His ruse worked. The men stared, clearly seeing the death swirling like dark, oily shadows around the woman, but they lowered their spears and advanced on her warily. Jasmeen was so focused on Narud, who was now gathering his own power, that she didn’t see the soldiers until they broke into a charge.

  Jasmeen turned toward them and brushed her hands in front of her from right to left. The smoking charcoal from the overturned brazier flamed to life, and she swept up the mass of fire and coals and hurled it at the soldiers. Each individual piece exploded as it struck, and the soldiers went down engulfed in flames and screaming.

  Jasmeen had expelled her power to attack the soldiers, but her weakness wouldn’t last long. Already, she was drawing their pain, as well as taking from the others being trampled, struck, or burned in the chaos that had become the night market. Crowds heaved this way and that, trying to force their way into alleys that had been barricaded to keep out carts and other heavy traffic, then surging back across the square when they couldn’t break free. People, mostly children, fell beneath the trampling feet, and Chantmer felt Jasmeen drawing their pain. But not only her; there was someone else in the crowd doing the same. Another dark acolyte, coming toward them. It must be Zartosht.

  Narud spoke his incantation and slapped his hands together. A collection of debris raised itself from across the square: the burned soldiers’ spears, baskets, the wheel of a cart, even abandoned shoes and bits of broken crockery. The mass of it lifted into the sky and came raining down on Jasmeen. The dark acolyte replied with a swift incantation, raising an invisible shield. Most of the debris bounced harmlessly away, but there was too much to deflect it all, and a butter churn struck her on the forehead and drove her to her knees.

  Chantmer watched this display of Narud’s power, impressed and jealous at the same time. He had no idea what incantation his companion had called up, but it had been effective. What’s more, Narud still seemed to have power in him; Jethro was already feeding him another incantation by the time Chantmer pushed to their side.

  “Save your strength,” Chantmer said. “Zartosht is coming, and you’ll need it.”

  “I feel him, too,” Narud said. “But I need to kill the woman, first.”

  “If you do that, we’ll have no way to fight Zartosht,” Chantmer said.

  He looked back through the crowd, where the riot was still spreading. Veyrian soldiers poured into the square from one of the alleys, and they were jabbing people with spears and swords to move them out of the way. Panicky Syrmarrians pushed back, fighting with stones, broken bottles, and fists. A soldier went down, pummeled by an angry mob, and his comrades charged with lowered spears to clear them away. They reached their companions and kept surging, skewering anyone who was slow to get out of their way.

  It was a horrific scene, and the enemy was putting it to use. Zartosht was collecting pain as he pushed through, and Jasmeen was at it again, too. The butter churn hadn’t knocked her down for long, and dark, swirling energy collected once more around her shoulders and head as she rose to her feet.

  “Narud!” Chantmer said. “We can’t win this fight. By the Brothers, we have to flee. Use what you have left and get us out of here.”

  Narud glanced at Jasmeen, who stared at him, grim-faced, with blood running down her forehead, and then looked to Jethro. “Help me.�
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  “Do you know the cleansing spell?” Jethro said. “It will clear people from your path.”

  The uncertainty faded from Narud’s face. “Yes, I know that one.”

  Jasmeen turned, hands waving about to gather coals and fire from an abandoned cook stall, and Chantmer braced himself. But before she could hurl fire at them, Narud spoke his incantation, and the crowds parted—rioters, the injured, and soldiers alike—and closed again behind them as they ran.

  Chantmer had felt strong enough while standing, but now that he was on the move again, his legs trembled, and a bone-deep exhaustion overtook him. His head felt light, dizzy, and he thought he might pass out. His hands were still damp from blood, and he’d wiped off so much that his cloth was soaked, and his robes were so bloody it looked like he’d been stabbed. All of it had come from his pores and run down his arms, drawn out as he was weakening himself to cast the desiccation and flying hammer spells.

  Narud pushed ahead, but Chantmer fell behind, and was nearly swallowed up by the crowds that reformed behind them. He called out for help, and what came out was feeble, an old man’s voice. Jethro turned and spotted him, and came back for him.

  “Chantmer, watch out!”

  “No, I’m fine. I just need a little help to—”

  A hand seized his wrist from behind. It was Zartosht, who’d caught up with them. The dark acolyte gave him a malicious smile.

  “Look at you, spent. Weak. Helpless.” His grip tightened, and pain flared in Chantmer’s wrist. “You should have taken my offer. Now you’re going to taste the power of my lord and king, and understand what a mistake you have made, even as you die.”

  An incantation came to Chantmer’s lips, a spell to squirm free of Zartosht’s grasp. But there was no power left to draw, and the words came out sounding like a breeze ruffling dead leaves. Zartosht began to speak.

  The words were of the old tongue, but twisted and broken. Harsh and guttural. His grip tightened, and then it was ice, a sharp, stabbing cold that spread to Chantmer’s wrist, and from there sent shards of freezing pain up his arm. Chantmer gasped and his knees buckled. Shadows wreathed Zartosht’s hand, and black tendrils crept up Chantmer’s arm, toward his shoulder.

  Jethro appeared out of nowhere, slamming into Zartosht and breaking his grip. Warmth flooded into Chantmer’s arm, along with a thousand needlelike pinpricks as his hand came back to life. Jethro threw his arms around the dark acolyte, who cursed and struggled, but couldn’t break free.

  Zartosht’s hand still looked like a glove of black shadow, and he seized Jethro’s right hand with a snarl. The shadows that he’d sent into Chantmer’s arm exploded into Jethro, who crumpled with a scream. Then Narud was there, an incantation on his lips, and Zartosht cast the archivist aside to face him.

  A fist of air slammed into Zartosht and threw the dark acolyte backward, where he landed in a crowd of jostling, pushing Syrmarrians. Veyrian soldiers came in behind them, stabbing and spearing, seemingly bent on clearing the market in the most brutal way possible. Zartosht fought to get free of the mob, but they swept him along in their panic.

  Chantmer and Narud hauled Jethro to his feet. The archivist cradled his injured arm, his face a mask of pain, and as Chantmer pulled him along, he saw that his hand had withered until it looked like a chicken claw plucked out of a fire. All of the shadowy, icy pain that Zartosht had been spreading up Chantmer’s arm had exploded into Jethro in an instant, and it was obvious the man would never use that hand again.

  Enough of Narud’s clearing spell remained active that they were able to get clear of the soldiers, who served as an unwitting rearguard against Zartosht and Jasmeen. The dark acolytes were together now, but still struggling against the mob.

  At last Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro reached the far side of the square and entered the alley. They fled toward the palace, leaving behind the bloody chaos of the Syrmarrian night market.

  None of them spoke. There was no need. The result of their attack had been a disaster in every way possible.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wolfram hurled his spear into the mass of charging enemies, and then his sword was in hand without memory of having drawn it, and he urged his own horse forward. He clashed blades against a pig-faced marauder with the blackest, deadest eyes he’d ever seen. They traded several blows before the surging, chaotic battle separated them again. Wolfram joined another fight, and struck an enemy so hard that he knocked the man from the saddle.

  He lifted his sword for a follow-up swing to finish the man off, but a marauder charged in from the opposite side, and it was all he could do to get his shield up before he was unhorsed himself. By the time he disengaged from that fight, the man on the ground had escaped. Two more skirmishes, neither conclusive, and then he finally had enough space around him to search for Bronwyn.

  His sister was about fifteen feet away, Soultrup in hand. The red sword slashed and thrust, nearly a blur as she battered through a young paladin’s defenses. Her opponent’s sword dropped, and Bronwyn delivered a brutal strike across his breastplate, which sent him flying from the saddle. He got to his knees and tried to hoist up his shield as Bronwyn leaned in the saddle. Soultrup gleamed with fire as she swung.

  Bronwyn’s blow caught the man across the shoulder blade and cleaved his armor. He fell without a sound and landed on his back. Something shimmered along the dying paladin’s neck and throat, a bluish wisp of light that seeped from his mouth and bled off toward the sword. Bronwyn threw her head back and seemed to wrestle briefly with the weapon before she renewed the fight.

  By the Brothers. Soultrup had drunk the paladin’s soul. And then Bronwyn had struggled to reassert control. How tenuous was it? Would she weaken as the battle continued?

  He didn’t have a chance to consider this further before a charging marauder forced him to fight for his life. Swords clashed, horses jostled, they pulled apart again, and Wolfram finally got a good look at his opponent.

  It was the one-handed marauder, a survivor of the battle at the stone ring, and one of only three who’d escaped the conflagration at the ford by crossing the river clinging to the giant’s back.

  “You took my hand,” the man said. “Now I’m going to take your head.”

  The marauder had a reach as long as Sir Gregory’s, and power to his swing. For the next minute, Wolfram was in a fight for his life, before Marissa and Henry came to his aid, two marauders joined the enemy, and the clash devolved into a melee.

  The marauders were fewer in number overall, but seemed fresher than Wolfram’s forces, and they began to force a wedge into the Blackshields. Another twenty feet and they’d have the two sides divided, which he had to prevent at all costs. Nothing but disaster would follow if he couldn’t hold formation.

  The survivors from the failed palisade defense had retreated to their mounts, and Lucas had held them in place until they’d formed ranks, rather than throwing them piecemeal into the battle. This small, but organized force now slammed into the marauders just when it appeared that they’d break through. They held long enough for Wolfram to plug the gap with his own paladins.

  Wolfram was still trying to get to his sister when another marauder forced him into battle. Fighting around two dead men and a fallen horse, Wolfram met his new enemy with a flurry of blows. He turned aside a counterattack, got over the top of the man’s defenses, and slashed his sword arm. The man recoiled from his injury, and Wolfram spotted an opening. He leaned from the saddle and thrust hard. The sword tip penetrated the marauder’s ribs just below his armpit. The enemy cried out and tried to squirm free, but Wolfram shoved the sword home.

  The marauder slumped and fell, nearly dragging Wolfram out of the saddle before he could get his sword free. He turned in the saddle as a knot of marauders hurled themselves at him. There were four in all, including Bronwyn, the one-handed marauder, and two others. Two paladins rushed to block their path before they could overwhelm him.

  Bronwyn swung the red sword, and it s
lammed into a paladin’s shield with a tremendous crack. Another marauder smashed the paladin hard across the skull, and he fell and was trampled underfoot. The second paladin retreated under heavy attack from the other two marauders. Wolfram cried out for help and tried to fight his way to help the man. No help was forthcoming, and suddenly he found himself facing Bronwyn and three other marauders alone.

  A clap of thunder rent the air, simultaneous with a flash of light that illuminated the entire hillside. The ground heaved, his horse stumbled, and he nearly fell. Marauders and their mounts dropped all around him, including Bronwyn.

  Markal stood above them on the hillside, his hands outstretched and dripping blood. Nathaliey was about ten paces behind him, facing the other direction, where she was pushing back against a shadow that rolled up the hillside and attempted to smother the light from Wolfram’s fires. A figure stood near the wreckage of the palisade, pushing shadow out of his hands in pulses that attacked Nathaliey’s defense.

  Wolfram’s sister rose to her feet, Soultrup in hand. The other marauders struggled to free themselves from their injured horses. Gregory and Lucas closed in from the side to attack them before they could reach Bronwyn’s side. The two Blackshield lieutenants cut down one marauder and injured another, and forced Bronwyn to confront them.

  Wolfram urged his horse to carry him closer to the fighting, but before he could get around the injured animals to join the fight, something grabbed Wolfram from behind. He turned, thinking it was marauders, but thick cords of shadow snaked around his waist and tightened.

  His horse continued forward, but he didn’t. As the animal pressed on, the shadows dragged him from the saddle and slammed him to the ground, and even when he was down, continued to tighten. He struggled to catch his breath. The shadow was like a snake, and he was the mouse suffocating in its coils.

  Markal shouted something. Shards of light flashed from the wizard and flew at Wolfram like glowing knives, where they struck the coils and sliced them in two, and soon nothing was left but tendrils of shadow, twitching as they dissolved. Wolfram regained his feet and collected his sword.