The Black Shield (The Red Sword Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  Bronwyn had unhorsed Gregory, and the paladin was fending her off with shield and sword. Lucas and two other paladins fought nearby, but had their hands full with other marauders and couldn’t reach his side. That left Wolfram and the young paladin who’d joined him just as Bronwyn and her companions began their charge. A marauder came in on a horse, and Wolfram attacked him desperately, anxious to fight past the man to reach Gregory’s side.

  Gregory was both strong and skilled, and withstood Bronwyn’s initial thrust, then traded her blow for blow, using his reach and his shield for maximum effect. But she was too fast for him, too powerful, and shortly began to wear him down. The one-handed marauder fought his way clear and joined her in the attack, doubling Gregory’s danger.

  Wolfram threw back his head. “Blackshields! To Gregory! Defend our own!”

  Paladins came fighting in from every side. Gregory battled, shield held against the one-handed marauder while he clashed swords with his gray-faced former captain. Blood streamed from a cut in his temple, and he’d lost his sword tip. Bronwyn’s sword glowed a fierce, thirsty red. But he was somehow holding off her blows and keeping the one-handed marauder at bay at the same time, even as they drove him back. He only had to hold on for a few more seconds, and then Wolfram and others would come to his aid.

  Gripping Soultrup with both hands, Bronwyn slammed it against Gregory’s sword, and his blade snapped at the hilt with a tremendous crack. A vicious return swing hacked his arm. As he stumbled, the one-handed marauder came in under Gregory’s shield, thrust his sword up under the paladin’s breastplate, and shoved it into the man’s belly. Gregory groaned in pain and slumped facedown as the marauder jerked his blade free with a jeering snarl.

  Wolfram stepped over a dead marauder, slapped aside a weak attack from another, and found himself facing Bronwyn and her lieutenant, who turned toward him, grinning fiercely, blood dripping from their swords and Sir Gregory dead at their feet. Wolfram cried out in anger and pain and hurled himself into the fight.

  #

  Markal heard Captain Wolfram’s cry and turned from the dark acolyte to see Gregory slumped on the ground and the one-handed marauder standing over him with the dead paladin’s blood dripping off his blade. Bronwyn stood by his side, and the pair made a formidable sight, with more marauders joining them. Paladins came fighting toward the body of their fallen comrade.

  Their faces were enraged or grim or determined in turn, but there was also exhaustion in all of them. The marauders, though fewer in number, looked fresher. Even the injured ones fought on with a tireless, unflagging energy that no mortal warrior could ever match, not even Sir Wolfram’s Blackshields. As the battle raged, the paladins’ initial advantages in numbers and positioning on the heights had decreased, and now one of their champions had fallen.

  Bronwyn and her companion stepped over Gregory’s dead body and met Wolfram’s furious attack. The young paladin captain shouted a battle cry, and his face burned with righteous anger, but he stood alone, and his face showed the same exhaustion as the rest of his paladins. Bronwyn, in contrast, seemed stronger than ever as she struck back. Her sword burned with red fire.

  But why? Why would she be getting stronger? She hadn’t grown stronger during the fight at the stone circle. It must be some fresh devilry. Markal looked behind him, to where Nathaliey was struggling to hold back the shadow Vashti pushed toward the battlefield. Sweat stood out on her forehead, and blood slicked her palms, but she was still fighting, still holding her own.

  Vashti remained near the shattered palisade, and while shadows kept pouring from his hands, his arms were drooping, and it seemed that his strength was failing. A few more seconds and he’d be spent and Nathaliey could throw her remaining strength into the fray. But if it wasn’t Vashti who was strengthening Bronwyn, it must be someone else.

  Markal closed his eyes and felt. Groped across the hillside, down the road, and . . . there! A second wave of sorcery, masked by Vashti’s shadow attack. A second dark acolyte. How had Markal missed him before?

  The second enemy sent a slender tendril that hid itself among the gloom, the smoke, and the noxious odors of battle, and Markal felt along it as it climbed the hill. It hid itself among the first dark acolyte’s magic until it reached the battlefield, and then divided into numerous separate strands, each feeding a different marauder. The largest thread entered Bronwyn, who was ruthlessly pressing the attack against her brother. Wolfram had allies now, three other paladins who had entered the fight, but so did Bronwyn, and her side was gaining the upper hand.

  The black tendril pulsed in Bronwyn’s chest, and every time it throbbed, she seemed to grow stronger, and as she did, the red fire spread along the blade of her sword.

  Markal’s eyes remained closed, and he sensed all of this with his spiritual eyes, rather than visually. He felt along the tendril as it entered Bronwyn’s chest, and there he caught a glimpse of the true horror. Bronwyn’s soul. It was inside, a writhing, terrified, anguished mass, and trapped. Trying to escape, but unable to do so.

  By the Brothers, by the blood of the Crimson Path. By the Harvester himself. Bronwyn had died that day in the camp on King Toth’s highway, slaughtered by Veyrian soldiers after Soultrup threw itself from her hands. And then, her soul departing, Toth himself had enslaved her soul, bound it to her body, and raised her to lead his marauders. And now, with Soultrup in hand, she had become the dark wizard’s champion. If Markal didn’t do something, Bronwyn would kill her brother and destroy the paladins she had once led, all while her soul cried out in horror.

  “I have you now,” Nathaliey said through clenched teeth. Markal opened his eyes to see his companion still fighting Vashti. His shadowy attack was finally dissolving. “I’m going to break your bones and send your miserable soul to the Harvester.”

  She placed her hands palm down, and power welled up within her. Markal’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

  “No, not yet. Look!”

  Markal was too weakened by the fight to do it himself; he need Nathaliey to see and understand.

  “What?” she said. “Look where?”

  He corrected himself. “Not look, feel. There’s a second enemy. Another dark acolyte, and he’s feeding his power to the marauders.”

  Nathaliey was quicker about it than he had been, and she drew her breath in with a sharp gasp. “How did we miss him?”

  “I don’t know, but if we don’t do something, they’re going to win. Wolfram and the rest will die. And then they will become gray marauders, too.”

  “Markal, I can’t. He’s too strong—I don’t have enough power left.”

  “You don’t have to cut it. Cast the imbue spell.”

  “What? Like in the gardens? But they’re not wights, they’re . . . oh, they are.”

  “I’ll give you the incan—”

  “I know the words.”

  Nathaliey closed her eyes and brought her power to the surface.

  Markal cast a desperate glance up the hillside. One of Wolfram’s companions fell. Another withdrew with a deep cut across his sword arm. The third paladin was contending with two marauders while reinforcements tried to join both sides. The one-handed marauder turned to face Marissa, who fought her way forward in a desperate attempt to reach her captain’s side.

  And suddenly, Bronwyn and Wolfram were alone. The captain of the marauders and the captain of the paladins. One dead, one living. Sister and brother. She brought Soultrup around from her shoulder, and it slammed into his shield, driving him back.

  Nathaliey spoke the words in the old tongue: Imbue these weapons with power, and take the spirits of the dead to render them frail.

  Her magic descended upon the battlefield. Sword tips gleamed with gold fire, and paladins straightened, stiffened with renewed strength.

  #

  Wolfram let his battered shield fall to the ground. His arm throbbed with pain. He lifted his sword as Bronwyn came at him in a huge, sweeping attack. The bonfires were losing their
strength, and his sister was a shadowy, relentless form coming at him in the gloom. And it wasn’t only her; the marauders all seemed to be growing stronger with every passing moment.

  Gregory’s body lay at Wolfram’s feet, facedown in the churned-up grass, slick with the man’s blood. Others lay dead all around: paladins, marauders, horses. He turned aside one blow, then another. The third time, Soultrup got past his defenses and struck him a glancing strike across the ribs. He lifted his sword as she came after him again. This was it, this was the end.

  A sudden, unexpected surge of strength flowed through his limbs. He straightened, then ducked away from Bronwyn’s sword, which whooshed past his neck, so close that if he’d moved an instant later it would have cut his head from his shoulders. He lifted his sword to parry another blow, and that’s when he saw the gold fire gleaming on the edge of his blade.

  His sword met Bronwyn’s, and red and gold fire clashed and sparked. In the reflection, he saw fear and hate in her eyes. And torment. Was it possible she was still down there somewhere? She seemed to be both his sister and something else, something dark and monstrous. As if someone had captured Bronwyn’s proud nature and twisted it into an image of itself, a face staring back from a black pool of ink.

  “Sister,” he said between clenched teeth. “Where are you? What have they done to you?”

  “You must die,” she said. “Must . . . die.”

  Bronwyn swung again, and he parried. Gold and red fire twisted where the swords clashed.

  Wolfram didn’t know if he was feeling magic from Markal and Nathaliey, or the pure, distilled emotion of battle, but he was no longer scared. And as he came back around with a swing of his own, he was surprised to find that he could push the attack in turn. Soultrup met him blow for blow, but he was no longer merely in a defensive posture, awaiting the inevitable killing stroke.

  Even so, he made little progress, could not get through. And Bronwyn was recovering her balance and confidence. She came up under one of his strokes and caught him on the ribs. The breastplate stopped it from cutting through, but the blow left him staggering, his sword momentarily out of position, and Soultrup came around again, this time at his neck. Another sword blocked it with a terrific clash of steel.

  “Captain!”

  Marissa had reached his side. Lucas was to her left, holding off Bronwyn’s one-handed lieutenant, and two more paladins were fighting their way over dying enemies.

  Marissa blocked another of Bronwyn’s blows, and Wolfram took advantage of the distraction to launch an attack. His first stroke landed a hard blow against his sister’s shoulder. She came around with a snarl, a crazed light in her eyes. Soultrup swept aside Marissa’s sword, smashed her shield, and threw her back into the fight with Lucas, the one-handed marauder, and the rest. Alone once more, the strength fading from his limbs, Wolfram tried to land another blow, but Bronwyn turned it aside easily.

  Still too strong. Still too damn strong. He couldn’t stop her.

  “Bronwyn!” he cried. “For the love of all that is holy!”

  She stepped back, took a deep, ragged breath, and opened her hand as if to let Soultrup fall, but it stuck to her palm as if nailed there. A visible shudder worked through her, and her fingers began to tighten around it again. Wolfram could only stare in horror.

  “No!” she cried, and violently shook her arm.

  Soultrup fell away. Bronwyn screamed and clenched her wrist as if it were broken, even as she fell to her knees with her back to Wolfram. The red sword—the blasted, cursed ugly sword—was moving, was crawling somehow across the ground toward her, and whatever had caused her to throw it down was gone, and she reached for it as it approached. Her fingers touched the hilt.

  Now! He must stop her before she got it again.

  Wolfram lifted his sword behind his shoulders and sprang forward. Bronwyn looked up and back at him. Her eyes were clear—briefly, horrifically clear. There she was again, his sister. His beloved sister, alive and free inside.

  Bronwyn had Soultrup, and her arm muscles strained as if fighting against her, but she didn’t lift the sword as he brought his own weapon around to strike.

  “Wolfie.” Her voice was strangled. “My broth—”

  She never finished. The sword caught her across the neck and she went down.

  And then Wolfram was caught up in a final, terrific struggle of marauders and paladins. Swords everywhere, a struggle to keep from being stabbed, hacked, chopped. The enemy was breaking free, fleeing, and some foul wind gathered about them, stirred the fires, dampened them to throw darkness across the battlefield. All was chaos, and most of the surviving enemy slipped away in the confusion. Slowly, gradually, his eyesight cleared.

  Bronwyn was there, dead. And by his own hand. Wolfram’s heart felt torn from his body, and he looked away.

  His gaze fell on Gregory, on young Henry, lying nearby. Other companions, also dead. Wolfram swallowed hard, fighting down his emotions. Now was not the time to break down. Later, yes, he would allow himself to feel it, but there was too much to do now.

  More than a dozen paladins had died, together with two-thirds of the marauders who’d charged up the hillside into the fight. Horses, too. Caught up in the battles of men, and cut down just as ruthlessly.

  Markal and Nathaliey came to offer aid to the wounded, and Wolfram told Marissa to organize the paladins for another defense, in case the marauders were simply regrouping.

  He went back to Bronwyn’s body to collect the red sword. But it was gone, carried away by the enemy. Soultrup had vanished once again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chantmer stumbled through the palace gates, dead-on-his-feet exhausted. Narud lurched after him, with Jethro behind, bent in agony as he cradled his withered hand. Their concealing spells were drooping, and a Veyrian soldier challenged them and gave chase with a spear when they didn’t answer. He soon had them trapped in a dead-end courtyard.

  If the palace hadn’t been half-emptied of guards from the riots and fires in the night market, maybe they’d have been caught, but when the three companions shrank against the pillars of the arcade, just enough of the concealing spell remained. The guard retreated to search elsewhere, and Chantmer, Narud, and Jethro made their escape.

  Soon, they were entering the catacombs that led to the archivists’ quarters and the library. The corridor was tomb-quiet, and a strange aroma hung in the air.

  Narud stiffened. “Something is wrong.”

  Jethro lifted his head and looked about, pale and frightened. “There was an attack,” he whispered.

  It was true. Wards had blown apart, runes lay broken. Two traps in the floor had been triggered. A column that had once supported three different protective spells, two of them lethal, had a crack down the middle, and the carvings in the stone seemed to have eroded completely away. Someone had come here and challenged the strongest defenses of the library.

  The destruction only grew worse as they continued down the corridor. It had been a sustained attack, and Chantmer’s heart was thundering as he approached the library, terrified of what he would find.

  “It was a trick all along,” he said. “There was nothing in the night market—they only meant to draw us out.”

  “No,” Jethro said. “There was something.”

  Yet his foreboding grew as he saw the library door, and beyond that, the archivists’ quarters, and he knew what he would find. Karla, Erasmus, and the others dead. The books stolen or despoiled. He reached a hand for the brass door handle of the library, afraid to touch it.

  “Open it, Chantmer,” Narud said. “We have to know.”

  Chantmer’s hand closed around the handle, and a whispered challenge came to his mind.

  Who are you? Are you friend or foe?

  The challenge came from the door, and he let out a deep breath. The final wards were intact. Inside, beneath the ribbed arches of the library, was confirmation. A shimmer of protective magic hung in the air, on the floor, on the stone cei
ling, in the flagstones. The enemy had broken to the very door of the library, but no further.

  “Hello?” he called.

  At the sound of Chantmer’s voice, the other four archivists poured out of the Vault of Secrets, their faces tense and afraid. Karla spotted Jethro clenching his ruined hand, and hurried to his side, but the old archivist pushed her away. “Get me the Abyss Codex,” he said. “Black spine, red letters. Shelved near the compendiums.”

  As Karla hurried off to obey, Chantmer asked what had happened. The news was alarming. A magical attack had hit the corridor about an hour earlier, and the archivists had taken refuge as it smashed their defenses. Nobody had spotted the sorcerer behind the attack.

  “This goes beyond the dark acolytes,” Chantmer said. “We’ve seen their work—they couldn’t have broken through so many defenses so quickly.”

  Narud frowned. “You think it was . . .?”

  “It must have been.”

  “Thank the Brothers the library held.”

  “Yes, but for how long?” Chantmer let out his breath. “Our defenses are fatally weakened. Years of work smashed, and Toth will regain his strength long before we can rebuild.”

  Karla returned with a massive tome, and one of the other archivists swept aside papers and moved candles so she could put it down. Jethro, cradling his destroyed hand against his body, used the other to flip open the book and turn pages. The archivists read subsection titles and scattered words as all five worked to piece out their place in the book and find what Jethro was searching for.

  Chantmer looked back to Narud. “This place is no longer safe.”

  “And what do you propose? Flee? Leave the books?” Narud shook his head. “This is precious knowledge, ancient and irreplaceable. We can’t abandon it to the enemy.”

  “We’re irreplaceable, too.”

  “No, Chantmer, we’re not.”

  “Fine, then,” he said, fighting frustration and fear. “Surely you accept that losing us and the books would be worse than losing the books alone.”