Tyrcamber and Ruari bowed to the Emperor and then straightened up, Adalberga standing behind them. Ruari wore the fine gown she had wanted to wear to the coronation, a vivid blue to match her eerie eyes. Tyrcamber wore his golden armor – even if he had decided to relax for a few days, he could not entirely lower his vigilance.
Probably just as well, given how many things he had seen go wrong in his time as a knight.
“I am glad we were able to destroy the Laethstones,” said Tyrcamber. “It was a close thing.”
“Battle always are, are they not?” said Everard. “I will need to rely on you both a great deal in the coming months. If my predecessor had any Dragontiarna Knights at his command, perhaps the Valedictor’s invasion would have been stopped long before it reached Sinderost, and the Dragon Cult and the Fallen Order would not have dared to show themselves openly.”
“But now that they have shown themselves,” said Chilmar, “we can burn out their evil from the Empire.”
“It seems we have no other choice,” said Everard. “But I thank you for your aid, Dragontiarna Knights.”
“You shall have it,” said Tyrcamber, and Ruari nodded. “I hope to see the Empire at peace again.”
“As do I, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Everard, and he continued into the mansion’s great hall.
“To think I met the Emperor,” said Adalberga, shaking her head. “Such days I have lived to see!”
“You already met him several times,” said Tyrcamber, amused.
“Aye, but he wasn’t the Emperor then,” said Adalberga.
Ruari produced her wax tablet and wrote.
HE WILL BE A GOOD RULER, I THINK.
“Of course he will,” said Adalberga. “He will have you and Sir Tyrcamber upon whom to rely.”
###
Three days after the coronation, Third led her horse through the courtyard of Chilmar Rigamond’s mansion.
All of Sinderost was on the move. The nobles were riding to the harbor on the River Nabia, crossing over to the join the soldiers encamped on the western bank. The Emperor was leading his armies to make war upon the Fallen Order in Corbrast. Third and Rilmael would accompany the Emperor.
It would be a worthy fight, Third decided. For centuries, she had been forced to fight at her father’s malevolent will, carrying out the cruelty of his whims. This was better by far. Third would have preferred if the people of the Empire could have been left in peace, if their lands hadn’t been ravaged by years of war.
But wars always came, and Third had found that she preferred to fight in the defense of the innocent.
Perhaps she had not changed all that much, not really. Even with her magical skill reawakened, and the power of a Dragontiarna Knight burning within her, she was still a warrior. Third just had a greater variety of weapons to wield in battle, and more powerful ones at that. Power had to be used for justice, or else it was simple brutal tyranny.
And what was as just as fighting to defend the innocent?
Third saw the others in the courtyard. Selene and Ruari were on their horses, Selene talking at a considerable clip and gesturing, Ruari nodding every so often. Tyrcamber and Rilmael were talking in low voices, no doubt discussing the campaign to come. Third felt a surge of warm emotion as she looked at Rilmael, a feeling that was still new to her. She hadn’t gotten used to it. Maybe she would never get used to it.
But that was all right. Some things should never be taken for granted.
Third started to reach up to mount her horse, and the world froze around her.
Everything went motionless. Selene froze in mid-gesture, Ruari giving her a mildly bemused look. All the color drained out of the world, painting everything in shades of gray.
Save for the young woman who stood a few paces away, worry in her eyes.
The woman looked oddly familiar. She wore boots, trousers, and a leather jerkin. She had deep blue eyes and thick black hair that hung to her shoulders, and Third realized the woman looked familiar because there was something of both Ridmark and Calliande in her features.
In fact, the woman looked like an adult version of…
“Rhoanna Arban?” said Third.
The woman smiled. “Greetings, Aunt Third.”
And then Third remembered. The visions she had seen while she slept, recovering from her wounds on Guardian’s Isle, or in the instant before she had faced herself and transformed into a Dragontiarna. Rhoanna Arban was a little girl, hopefully safe inside the walls of Tarlion. But Rhoanna had the Sight so powerfully that Calliande feared it would distort her ability to understand linear time. That hadn’t happened. Instead, Rhoanna had the Sight so powerfully that the shadow of her potential future self could reach back through time and speak to the past. It was not something a human mind could understand. It was not even something an elven mind could fully grasp…and Third was only half elven.
“How can I see you now?” said Third. “I forgot all the other times. And I was dying or injured then.”
“Ah, well, you’ve changed,” said Rhoanna. “Quite a lot. You’re still who you always were, of course, but you’ve changed. You have a lot more power now. Your mind is more attuned to magic than it ever was, to say nothing of the influence of the Malison. I can talk to you now, and you can retain the conversation.”
“Then you have come to give me a warning,” said Third.
“Yes,” said Rhoanna. She took a deep breath. Which was surprising, given that she was the shadow of a potential future and therefore had no need to breathe. “I can’t tell you what to do, partly because there are limits on it. You can see my shadow…but you can’t see all the shadows that might become the future. Even your mind cannot grasp them all. But I can advise.”
“What do you advise?” said Third.
“I think you should go to Urd Mythruin at once,” said Rhoanna, “and take the Theophract’s gate back to Andomhaim.”
“But I am needed here,” said Third.
“You are,” said Rhoanna. “You are needed more in Andomhaim. The Frankish Empire has the Guardian, Tyrcamber, and Ruari. Andomhaim has no Dragontiarna Knights, and they need you badly. Agravhask and the Heptarchy have overrun Cintarra, and the Heralds of Ruin are going to try to kill my father.”
“Why?” said Third. “They are his enemies, yes, but why make a special effort to kill Ridmark specifically? The Keeper would be a greater threat.”
“Because the Heralds of Ruin serve the Warden,” said Rhoanna, “and the Warden can see the flows of time. He knows that my father is the one who might stop him. The threads of time converge on the Warden and the Shield Knight…and my father is the one who can stop him. You’ve seen the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon, Aunt Third. You know what the Warden really wants. It can’t happen, or he’ll destroy trillions and trillions of lives. My father can stop the Warden…but he needs your help.”
Rhoanna disappeared, and the world exploded back into motion and color. Third staggered a little, clutching at the side of her horse’s saddle to keep her balance. The animal, sensing her sudden disquiet, pawed at the earth.
“Third?”
Rilmael dropped from his saddle and walked to her side. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at him and drew in a deep breath.
“I think,” said Third. “I think I have to go back to Andomhaim.”
***
Chapter 27: The Warden’s Web
“So, High Priestess,” said Agravhask, gazing at Taztaloria. “It seems that Mayascora acted…rashly.”
He stood on the dais of the great hall in the Prince’s Palace. Some of the windows had been smashed in the fighting, and the air smelled of smoke. The fire drakes had done a thorough job of terrorizing the city and disrupting the defenses at the cost of setting several uncontrolled fires. Now that the Heptarchy held Cintarra in a fist of iron, the fires were being put out. Agravhask had put the priestesses and Ordinariates of the Seven Temples to work confiscating the valuables of the city’s population and claiming all food
supplies. They would take a census of the city, household by household, to prepare the population for forced labor. Like the Isle of Kordain to the south, Cintarra would be brought into the Heptarchy, and its population would work to expand the power of the seven goddesses.
At least until the Great Eye opened, and the way to Cathair Kaldran was clear.
Until then, Agravhask had to hold Cintarra…and recent complications had made that difficult.
The curule chair was empty. Agravhask would not sit on it. He would save that for the Prince, who would be brought to the worship of the Heptarchy once the boy was found. On either side of the dais stood the crystal casks holding the preserved heads of the High King and the archbishop, and the larger cask holding the soulblade Excalibur. The mighty weapon was too dangerous to handle, and so it would be secured in the case, a trophy of the Heptarchy’s conquest of Cintarra.
The chief commanders and priestesses of the invasion had gathered in the great hall for a council of war. Tuldrask and Valdrammis had returned from the east, and Vhastur waited with them, having brutally put down the remaining pockets of resistance in the Western City. Milchikai and his chief engineers stood next to Vhastur. The Master of Engineers was all but bursting with energy. There was a great deal of work to do, and the population of Cintarra represented a vast pool of forced labor that could carry out the designs of the Azrikai engineers.
Taztaloria lifted her chin and gazed at Agravhask, attempting to replicate the haughty mask that Mayascora had so often displayed. Alas, Taztaloria did not quite have the same level of arrogance to pull it off. Under normal circumstances, that would have made her more dangerous. Taztaloria lacked Mayascora’s seething pride and could think far more clearly. But the Heptarchy invasion force was surrounded by foes on all sides, and Taztaloria was self-aware enough to realize that she lacked the military skill to deal with those threats.
Which meant Agravhask would find it all the easier to bend her to his will.
“We should choose our words with care, Warlord,” said Taztaloria. “Mayascora served as the High Priestess of the Crimson for many years, and her zeal for the goddesses was unmatched.”
“It was,” said Agravhask. “Unfortunately, it seems the High Priestess allowed her zeal to override her prudence. Her folly cost us eight thousand arachar soldiers.”
That was a substantial portion of the strength Agravhask had at his command. Not enough to cripple the army, but still a serious blow. Though it had rid him of Mayascora and her most loyal followers among the Temple of the Crimson.
“I concede that while Mayascora made no errors in her zeal, her attempt to carry out that zeal perhaps left something to be desired,” said Taztaloria. “But, yes, eight thousand soldiers is a serious loss, Warlord. The goddesses sent us here to claim new lands and souls for their dominions, not to waste their soldiers’ lives to no gain.” She drew herself up, regal and haughty. “The Temple of the Crimson stands ready to support the conquest of this new land.”
That was a polite way of saying Taztaloria would follow Agravhask’s lead. A clever method of saving as much public face as possible, given Mayascora’s catastrophic errors. Agravhask would have to keep a careful eye on Taztaloria.
“Despite certain setbacks,” said Agravhask, “our position is strong. Cintarra is ours, and the army of Andomhaim and its allies is in full flight, retreating to the region known as Khaluusk. We shall have time to build our defenses here and enact a system of forced labor among the population to ensure our soldiers are fed and equipped.”
Even as she spoke, Agravhask felt Shieldruin tremble in its scabbard.
Ah. He had arrived, and sooner than Agravhask had expected.
The Warlord gave his orders, instructing his commanders to oversee the confiscation of all valuables and supplies. The Seven Temples were to take a census of the city’s population. Any who resisted the confiscations or the census were to be executed, and the corpses displayed in the city’s forums to inspire fear. Agravhask wanted the census and the system of forced labor completed within two weeks. He needed to launch new attacks against Andomhaim, to keep them too busy to retake Cintarra.
“We will also send ambassadors to the lands ruled by the Dragon Cult,” said Agravhask, “to seek an accord with this Duke Merovech.”
Taztaloria frowned. “Should we not subdue them as well?”
“In time,” said Agravhask. “A war against two separate foes is to be avoided, High Priestess. The Dragon Cult, it seems, originated on another world, and came here to claim a new homeland. Every soldier in its army can wield magic to some degree. Once we have subdued Andomhaim, we will deal with them. Until then, best to keep them at arm’s length.” Agravhask would prefer to have an accord with his fellow Heralds soon. Both Merovech and Aeliana were unstable and not to be trusted. They had become Heralds out of a lust for power or revenge, rather than understanding the Warden’s great purpose, and those enslaved to their lusts were unreliable.
Fortunately, the Theophract would ensure cooperation.
“There is one other matter, Warlord,” said Valdrammis. “As you know, the use of the bombasts in the harbor district revealed several underground passages. We first thought those merely cellars, but a large underground maze extends deep beneath Cintarra, possibly even to the Deeps themselves. Likely the city was sacked and rebuilt several times over the last few thousand years.” Valdrammis cleared his throat. “Given the extent of the maze, I think it likely that some of the city’s inhabitants are sheltering there…”
“And possibly the Prince himself,” said Agravhask. Tywall Gwyrdragon had disappeared during the fighting. Most likely, he was dead and lay among the slain somewhere. Thousands had died, and some of the corpses would never be found.
But it was also possible that Tywall’s retainers had taken the boy Prince and hidden him somewhere within the maze, waiting to use him as a symbol to rally the population. For that matter, the inevitable rebellion against Heptarchy rule would use the underground galleries as a base for their resistance.
“Send scouting parties into the maze to map it,” said Agravhask. “Include an Ordinariate or a battle wizard with each party. As you say, the maze might reach the Deeps, and we will need to deal with any urvaalgs or ursaars.”
He dealt with a few more minor matters, and then the assembled commanders and priestesses went about their tasks. Agravhask waited until they departed and then turned to his retinue of Chosen Guards, who waited at the foot of the dais.
“Remain here,” he ordered. “I shall return shortly.”
The Chosen Guards inclined their heads, and Agravhask walked through the door behind the curule chair. It opened into a narrow passage and a round chamber that had likely served as a council room. Narrow windows looked into the gardens behind the great hall, dim sunlight leaking through them.
A figure in a dark cloak stood facing the windows, the black staff in his armored right hand seeming to drink the light.
“Lord Theophract,” said Agravhask.
The Warden’s apprentice turned. The Theophract was armored from head to foot in blue dark elven steel. The masked helmet had been wrought in the shape of a snarling dragon, and through the eye holes of the mask, Agravhask saw nothing but impenetrable darkness. The Theophract’s staff looked like a vertical hole in the air, a crack that led into utter nothingness.
Of course, it wasn’t a staff, not really.
A sheathed sword hung on the Theophract’s left hip. Agravhask recognized the weapon. It was the dark soulblade Ghostruin, which Agravhask had last seen in the hands of the Shaluuskan orc named Vhalmharak. No doubt, its presence here explained why ghost orc scouts had been harrying the arachar soldiers.
“Agravhask,” said the Theophract, the mask making his voice flat and metallic. “You have done well. Cintarra is yours.”
“Now it is a question of holding the city,” said Agravhask.
“Indeed,” said the Theophract. “You must hold until the other four Heralds
arrive. With the combined powers of all five soulblades, you can override the locks upon the Great Eye and command it to open. Then we can open the way to Cathair Kaldran, and the real battle can begin.”
“Cintarra shall be held,” said Agravhask. “It will take the forces of Andomhaim some time to recover from their defeat and go on the offensive again. Though I confess we have taken losses. I misjudged the depth of Mayascora’s pride and arrogance, and her folly cost us a substantial minority of our available forces.”
“I will deal with the army of Andomhaim myself,” said the Theophract.
“There will be problems with the other Heralds,” said Agravhask. “The necromancer remains in the Frankish Empire. And Merovech and Aeliana are…unruly, ill-disciplined, enslaved to their lusts.”
“You are correct,” said the Theophract. “But I will ensure that the necromancer arrives in time. And the bearers of Stormruin and Ruinheart shall join you when the hour is right. You understand our lord’s vision, Agravhask of Mazulrast…and Merovech and Aeliana will obey when the moment comes to open the Great Eye.” The Theophract paused, one finger tapping against the black staff. “Merovech and Aeliana had one of the Keys of Tarmyntir.”
“Then why has the gate not been opened?” said Agravhask. “With the Key, we would have no need to force our will upon the Great Eye. The full powers of the Eye would be ours to command…and our lord will need the Key to open the tomb.”
“The Shield Knight and the Keeper defeated Aeliana and Merovech before the Great Eye,” said the Theophract. “The Key fell into the possession of Third of Nightmane Forest, who was pulled to the Frankish Empire and became a Dragontiarna Knight.”
“Ah,” said Agravhask. “The vagaries of fate. Or of coincidence. Behold the workings of chaos and random chance against us.”
“Our lord the Warden believes that coincidence is how God imposes His will upon the cosmos,” said the Theophract. “This defective, flawed, rotting sham of a cosmos. But the power in the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon will change that…and coincidence may be betrayed. Third of Nightmane Forest shall be slain, and the Key shall pass into the hands of the Warden’s servants once more.”
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