Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Sevenfold Sword: Warlord
    Sevenfold Sword: Warlord
    Sevenfold Sword: Warlord
    Ebook461 pages7 hours

    Sevenfold Sword: Warlord

    By Jonathan Moeller

    5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    The quest of the Seven Swords has unleashed catastrophic war.

    Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the only Swordbearer in the realm of Owyllain. He is allied with the noble King Hektor Pendragon, who fights to reunify the Seven Swords and to end the destructive war they have unleashed.

    But the tyrannical King Justin Cyros is marching to war against Hektor, and King Justin knows the secret of the malevolent New God, a secret that will kill everyone in Owyllain.

    Starting with Ridmark and his family...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJonathan Moeller
    Release dateOct 31, 2017
    ISBN9781370512928
    Sevenfold Sword: Warlord
    Author

    Jonathan Moeller

    Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

    Read more from Jonathan Moeller

    Related to Sevenfold Sword

    Related ebooks

    Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Real Berserkers

      Sep 3, 2020

      The Real Berserkers
      6 min read

    • Article

      A Dragon’s Perspective

      Jun 10, 2022

      There once lived a dragon named Deathwing. Well, at least that’s what they called him. Deathwing was growing old, far too old for his liking. The joints of his claws ached and groaned under his ever-growing weight and his scales were beginning to los

      18 min read

    • Article

      Defend The King!

      Jan 7, 2022

      Defend The King!
      5 min read

    • Article

      Nemesis Of The Normans

      Oct 28, 2021

      Nemesis Of The Normans
      8 min read

    • Article

      Lore Keeper

      Jan 11, 2022

      Originally belonged to Ordovis, one of 16 knights who served Godfrey, the First Elden Lord. “Life’s crucible” powers the armour, just as it does the Erdtree’s “primordial form”. We can see the tree from all over, but what’s going on with it? This in

      1 min read

    • Article

      Leading A Peasant Revolt In Battle Brothers Part I

      Jan 7, 2021

      The Darklands. A war-scarred waste where everything preys upon the people: orcs, goblins, bandits, corpse-eaters, barbarians, giants, great beasts from direwolf to lindwurm, hell, even the dead come back for us. But the worst monster? The predator th

      7 min read

    • Article

      Call Of The Wild

      Jan 31, 2024

      Call Of The Wild
      4 min read

    • Article

      Medieval Madness

      Mar 17, 2022

      Medieval Madness
      1 min read

    • Article

      The Friendly Lion

      Jul 3, 2019

      The Friendly Lion
      3 min read

    • Article

      Leading A Peasant Revolt In Battle Brothers Part II

      Feb 4, 2021

      The locals in Waidtal call the monstrous spiders that live in their woods ‘webknechts’. The things are horrors the size of a large dog. After a day spent wandering the woods we find a boy hiding beneath a handcart surrounded by the strewn remains of

      7 min read

    • Article

      Heroes And Villains

      Nov 25, 2021

      Heroes And Villains
      1 min read

    • Article

      Battle Brothers part I I

      Feb 23, 2021

      The locals in Waidtal call the monstrous spiders that live in their woods ‘webknechts’. The things are horrors the size of a large dog. After a day spent wandering the woods, we find a boy hiding beneath a handcart surrounded by the strewn remains of

      7 min read

    • Article

      Break For The BORDER

      Sep 29, 2020

      Break For The BORDER
      4 min read

    • Article

      Follow Your (white) Hart

      Sep 20, 2023

      Follow Your (white) Hart
      3 min read

    • Article

      Herne: The Hidden Hero

      Mar 11, 2021

      Herne: The Hidden Hero
      4 min read

    • Article

      Myths And Monsters

      Dec 22, 2020

      Myths And Monsters
      4 min read

    • Article

      King Arthur: Knight’s Tale

      Dec 1, 2020

      King Arthur: Knight’s Tale
      1 min read

    • Article

      Welcome

      Mar 27, 2020

      Welcome
      1 min read

    • Article

      At Daggers Drawn

      Aug 26, 2020

      At Daggers Drawn
      4 min read

    • Article

      The World’s First Superhero

      Oct 28, 2021

      In 321 BC, a very strange procession set out from Babylon. Alexander the Great was on the move. He had died two years earlier, in 323 BC, at the age of 32. Over the course of a few brief years, this astonishing soldier and statesman had transformed t

      8 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Sevenfold Sword

    5/5

    8 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Sevenfold Sword - Jonathan Moeller

      Chapter 1: The Demon In The Forest

      Thirty-one days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, thirty-one days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban moved in silence through the redwood forest, his boots making no sound against the ground.

      The forest was quiet, but Ridmark knew that would not last.

      He walked in haste and in silence, making his way around the massive roots of the great redwoods. The huge trees rose like the pillars of a soaring cathedral, their branches arching overhead to blot out the sun. Given how harsh and hot the weather of Owyllain was compared to that of Andomhaim, Ridmark did not mind the shade. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the leaves overhead, casting patches of light onto the forest floor.

      A dead orcish soldier lay in one of those pools of light.

      Ridmark went motionless, his bamboo staff in his right hand, his gray cloak stirring around him in the faint breeze that rustled the leaves far overhead.

      He did not move, but listened and looked.

      It was an old, old trick, he knew.

      Kill one enemy, leave his corpse in plain sight, and then wait to ambush his friends when they came to investigate.

      Ridmark remained still and silent, looking at his surroundings, but he did not think any enemies waited to attack him. The mighty redwoods were spaced far apart from each other, which left little room for enemies to hide. In some parts of the Qazaluuskan Forest, the trees were so thick that men could stand a dozen paces apart and not realize the other was there. The lines of sight were far clearer here.

      He counted to a hundred under his breath, but no foes showed themselves.

      Satisfied that it wasn’t a trap, Ridmark strode forward and examined the dead orc.

      The orc had been a warrior of Vhalorast, a city-state to the north whose Warlord Khazamek had allied with King Justin Cyros in his quest to reunite the Seven Swords and bring Owyllain under his rule. Like all the warriors of Vhalorast, the dead orc had a tattoo on his green-skinned face, a swirling pattern of red that encircled his left eye and spread across his temples and jaw. Most of the orcish warriors of Andomhaim wore topknots. The warriors of Vhalorast eschewed that custom, and instead shaved their heads bald, growing long, drooping mustaches bound with bronze rings. The mustaches made for a stark contrast with their white tusks. The dead warrior had been wearing good armor – a shirt of interlocking bronze rings backed by a leather cuirass, bronze greaves and bracers, and a shield of wood and hide on his left arm.

      None of that had been enough to save him.

      His leaf-bladed bronze sword and bronze dagger were still in their scabbards. The orcish warrior’s throat had been cut, his chest green with blood.

      Green and wet, come to think of it. The blood hadn’t had time to congeal.

      Ridmark went to one knee and put a finger on the orc’s forehead.

      The green skin was still warm.

      The orc hadn’t been dead long. Less than an hour, Ridmark thought.

      But who had killed him?

      Ridmark didn’t think anyone in King Hektor Pendragon’s army had done it. The Arcanius Knight Sir Parmenio commanded King Hektor’s scouts, and while they were all competent men, they would have either shot the orc with an arrow or avoided the fight. For that matter, the cut across the warrior’s throat had been done with a blade of unusual sharpness. Iron was rare in Owyllain, which meant that steel was nearly nonexistent. Every man in Hektor Pendragon’s army carried a weapon of bronze, and bronze could not hold as sharp of an edge as a steel blade. Ridmark had seen many, many wounds in his life, and he knew that a bronze sword had not done this.

      A glint of green caught his eye. Blood was pooling beneath the dead warrior. Ridmark got to his feet and used his bamboo staff to lever up the orc’s torso.

      The orc had also been stabbed in the back with uncanny precision, right between the bronze rings of his mail. It hadn’t been a fatal wound, but the sequence was plain enough. Someone had stabbed the orcish warrior in the back, but before he could recover, the attacker had cut his throat.

      It left Ridmark uneasy.

      King Hektor’s army was marching north through the forest, towards the dry hills surrounding the fortress of Castra Chaeldon. Somewhere north of Castra Chaeldon waited the army of King Justin Cyros, marching south to smash Aenesium and Hektor’s allies. A long distance separated the two armies, but bands of scouts had been stumbling into each other with increasing frequency.

      If one of Hektor’s men had not killed this orcish warrior of Vhalorast…then who? An ally?

      Or a creature that was taking advantage of the chaos to kill?

      If a creature of dark magic was loose in the forest, Ridmark was the best one in Hektor’s host to face it.

      He stepped back from the dead orc, scrutinizing the ground.

      There were no tracks from the orc’s killer, which was strange. Ridmark spotted the slain orc’s tracks, marked among the dirt and the fallen leaves. The warrior had been walking with a steady, untroubled pace, heedless of his enemy and his impending death.

      Stranger and stranger.

      Ridmark decided to follow the tracks.

      He hurried forward at a light jog, bamboo staff in hand. Oathshield remained in its scabbard at his left hip, bouncing off his leg every so often. The soulblade was a far superior weapon to the bamboo staff, but Ridmark was the only Swordbearer in Owyllain. Best to keep the enemy unaware of his true capabilities. And Ridmark had noticed that the human and orcish warriors of Owyllain held the quarterstaff in contempt as a weapon.

      He had taught quite a few of his enemies the error of that belief. His sons, too, would grow up knowing how to use a staff and how to defend against one…

      Chasing enemy scouts through a forest was not the time to worry about his sons. He could do that later, constantly.

      The ground grew rockier as he followed the trail to the northwest, and soon massive gray boulders jutted from the earth. That hadn’t seemed to slow the redwoods down, which towered as high as ever. It did force Ridmark to slow his pace, keeping an eye out for any foes.

      He heard the orcish soldiers arguing before he saw them.

      There were three of them. Ridmark slowed and approached one of the massive gray boulders, staff ready in his hand.

      I’m not going out there again, said the first orc, speaking the orcish tongue with the distinctive jagged accent of the city of Vhalorast.

      Don’t be a damned coward, said a second orc, contempt in his voice. Aye, Hektor Pendragon’s host is in the forest, but they’re seven miles south yet. The blood gods hate cowards and cravens.

      The blood gods hate morons, too, and they repay stupidity with death, said a third orc. You’ve seen the corpses. None of them were cowards, but the demon took them.

      Demon? If there was indeed a creature of dark magic loose in the redwood forest, it seemed to be preying on King Justin’s scouts. That said, there was nothing that would stop it from attacking King Hektor’s men. And Ridmark was a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to oppose creatures of dark magic. He could not in good conscience let an urvaalg or an ursaar prey upon anyone, even if the creature’s victims were serving a man like Justin Cyros.

      But an urvaalg or an ursaar wouldn’t have left precise wounds like that. It would have torn its victims apart. Ridmark wondered if an urshane or an urhaalgar or even an urdhracos was loose in the forest.

      They shouldn’t have gone out alone, said the second orc. The Warlord wants us to cover as much ground as we can, aye, but going out alone is stupid. I say we head north and rejoin the main host. The Warlord needs to hear the news. If there’s a devil in the forest, the High Warlock can deal with it. Or King Justin can turn it to stone with the Sword of Earth.

      Aye, said the first orc, but think how much glory we shall win if we slay the creature and bring it before the Warlord’s throne!

      Or it will kill us all and our bodies will rot in the forest, said the third orc. It has to be an urshane or maybe an urdhracos, or some horror crawled up from the Deeps. We’re scouts, and a scout who fails to return to report is useless. Let us bring the news to the Warlord and the High Warlock, and they can deal with it.

      The Dark Arcanius won’t like it, said the first orc.

      Ridmark’s fingers tightened against the staff. The Guardian Rhodruthain had founded the Order of the Arcanii among the men of Owyllain, teaching them to use elemental magic against the armies of the Sovereign and his lieutenants. In Andomhaim, the Magistri occasionally turned to dark magic. Unfortunately, it seemed the Arcanius Knights had turned to dark magic far more often. It happened so often, in fact, that the Order of the Arcanii had split in half after Kothlaric Pendragon’s disappearance, and a rival Order had set itself up under the protection of Justin Cyros, an Order that tolerated and encouraged the use of dark magic and necromancy.

      The Dark Arcanii, as they were called, had become some of Justin’s most effective and feared servants.

      The Dark Arcanius, said the third orc, can take his precious authority and shove it sideways up his…

      Ridmark was not familiar with the dialect of orcish spoken by the orcs of Vhalorast and did not recognize the term, but he was entirely certain that the rest of that sentence was not complimentary to the Dark Arcanius.

      The other two orcs laughed.

      Fine, said the first orc. We are agreed? We will return and report to the Warlord. He can decide what to do about the demon.

      Very well, said the third orc, and the second rumbled agreement.

      Ridmark decided to take a risk. The orcs knew more than they had said, and perhaps he could persuade them to speak with him. A brief parley and he might find out everything he needed to know about this demon and where to find it.

      His mind made up, Ridmark strode around the boulder, staff held crosswise before him.

      Hold! he said in orcish. Men of Vhalorast, I would parley with you!

      The three orcish scouts looked as he had expected, wearing the same kind of armor and facial tattoo as the dead warrior he had seen earlier. They whirled as Ridmark came around the boulder, yanking their bronze swords from their scabbards.

      Greetings, said Ridmark. I wish to speak with you about this demon.

      The orcs stared at him.

      Kill him! yelled one of the orcs. The one to land the killing blow can take his armor!

      Ridmark sighed.

      So much for a parley.

      The three orcish warriors charged, drawing back their swords to strike, and Ridmark moved to meet them. They came in a rush, no doubt assuming they could overwhelm one foe armed with a staff. Ridmark dodged to the side, deflected the stab of a sword, and swept his staff before him. The staff hammered into the back of an orcish warrior’s knee, and the orc lost his balance with a cry. Before he could recover, Ridmark hammered the end of his staff into the orcish warrior’s throat. The blow crushed his windpipe, and the orc began the noisy business of asphyxiating to death.

      The remaining two warriors spread out, trying to come at Ridmark from the left and the right simultaneously. Ridmark sidestepped and jabbed his staff, catching the orc on the left in the belly. The orc stumbled with a grunt, and Ridmark hit him in the head twice in rapid succession. On the second blow, there was a cracking sound, and the orc went down, blood leaking from his nostrils and ears. The final orc went into a furious attack, slashing and stabbing with his bronze sword, and Ridmark retreated, dodging the swings and using his staff to deflect the thrusts.

      At last the orc’s momentum played out, and Ridmark parried a blow, shoved, and sent the orc stumbling back.

      His staff found the orc’s stomach, and the warrior doubled over with a pained wheeze. Three sharp blows to the back of the head, and the fight was over.

      Ridmark stepped back, breathing hard, and raised his staff in guard, his eyes sweeping the boulders for any more foes, but none appeared. Ridmark lowered his staff, rolled his aching shoulders, looked at the dead orcs, and grimaced. That had been a waste. He had hoped to get some useful information from them, but once the orcs had seen his dark elven armor, they would not have stopped before they had killed him and claimed it for themselves.

      Still, at least King Justin Cyros had been denied the service of three more scouts.

      The logic was brutal, but such were the demands of war.

      Ridmark considered the ground, noting the locations of the tracks. The rocky ground did not leave much in the way of usable footprints, but he thought the three dead orcs had come from the north. Ridmark headed in that direction, following the tracks as they wove through the boulders. Another mile, he decided. One more mile and he would see if he could find any evidence of the demon that had been haunting the forest. Too much further, and he risked running into a band of foes he could not handle on his own.

      One more mile, and then he would return to King Hektor’s army. If the creature of dark magic, whatever it was, decided to go after the men of Aenesium, Ridmark would be ready to face it…

      Something jolted on his left hip.

      Ridmark looked down. He shifted his staff to his left hand, reached down, and grasped Oathshield’s hilt with his right hand, drawing it a few inches from its scabbard. The blade of blue steel glittered in the dim sunlight, and both the soulstone in the pommel and the soulstone in the blade were glowing with white light, white flames starting to dance around the weapon. Through his link to the sword, Ridmark felt the soulblade’s sudden wrath, felt its desire to be drawn and wielded in battle.

      There was a creature or wielder of dark magic nearby.

      Ridmark drew Oathshield from its scabbard and stepped back, staff in his left hand and sword in his right. Oathshield burned with white fires, the flames crawling up and down the blue blade. He took a few steps back, looking for any approaching enemies.

      A flicker of blue fire caught his eye, and Ridmark strode around another boulder.

      He came into a clearing formed by a ring of large boulders about forty yards across. Had Owyllain’s climate been a little less arid, perhaps a pond would have formed in the shallow depression. The loose ring of boulders reminded Ridmark of the circles of black standing stones the dark elves had raised in ancient days, but these were only natural boulders, not menhirs carved with sigils of dark magic.

      The source of the dark magic stood in the center of the clearing.

      It was a human man of about thirty, wearing the bronze armor favored by the Arcanii, plates of bronze overlaid upon a leather cuirass, bronze greaves on his legs and bronze bracers upon his forearms. A crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, and on his head, he wore a plumed bronze helmet with a T-shaped slit.

      Beneath the helm, Ridmark saw that the man’s eyes glowed with harsh blue light.

      He was an Arcanius Knight, but he was wielding dark magic. Already Ridmark saw shadows crawling around the Arcanius Knight’s fingers as he gathered power for a spell. He was one of the Dark Arcanii, a member of the rival Order that had formed to support Justin Cyros.

      What is this, then? said the Arcanius. His voice had a faint, insect-like buzz to it. Dark magic sometimes caused mutations in its users. To judge from the sound, and to judge from the grayish corpse-like pallor on the Arcanius Knight’s fingers and neck, the process had begun. Are you the creature that I have hunted through the woods?

      As it happens, said Ridmark, lifting Oathshield and watching the Arcanius, I also was hunting for the creature.

      That was foolish of you, said the Arcanius. When I find the creature, I shall bind its will and enslave it, and wield alongside the others in battle. If you find it first, it shall slay you.

      I very much doubt that, said Ridmark.

      You are another of the Arcanii, yes? said the Arcanius. One of the fools following King Hektor.

      I am following King Hektor, said Ridmark, but I am not an Arcanius. I’ll give you one chance to walk away from this.

      The Dark Arcanius laughed, long and loud. Will you? I decline. Your armor shall make a fine trophy.

      He thrust out his hand and cast a spell, and a lance of shadow and blue flame burst from his fingers. Ridmark was ready for it, and he called on Oathshield’s power as he raised the sword. The spell struck the soulblade and unraveled in a spray of blue flames.

      The Arcanius blinked, frowning behind his helm.

      How did you do that? he said. No spell of the Arcanii can turn aside dark magic. Are… A hint of fear entered his voice. Do you wield one of the Seven Swords?

      No, said Ridmark, striding forward.

      The Arcanius stepped back, yanking his sword from his belt, and blue fire and shadow started to play around the blade. Ridmark kept moving forward, Oathshield ready in his right hand. He braced himself to attack, knowing that the Arcanius would have charged his sword with dark power.

      Then something entirely unexpected happened.

      A pillar of blue fire swirled atop a nearby boulder. Ridmark’s first thought was that another Dark Arcanius had cast a spell, but then a shock of recognition went through him. He had seen pillars of blue fire like that before, not once but many times.

      The fire vanished, and a woman appeared in its place.

      She was about Ridmark’s height, her face too angular to be human, her skin a little too pale for a human, and her ears pointed from her dark elven blood. Thick black hair hung in curtains alongside her narrow face, and she wore close-fitting armor the color of wet ashes, wrought of some black metal known only to the dark elves. Her eyes were usually flat and black and icy, but they glimmered with fading blue fire, the flame shining in her veins like glowing fingers beneath her skin.

      Nine years ago, on the day that Ridmark had first met her, she had tried to kill him.

      Now he trusted her as much as he trusted anyone.

      And he was absolutely astonished to see her in Owyllain.

      Third? said Ridmark.

      She looked at him and smiled a little.

      Third? Third of what? said the Dark Arcanius, his bafflement plain. He snarled and thrust his free hand, shadow and blue fire snarling around his fingers.

      Third! said Ridmark, charging towards the Arcanius.

      Third of what? shouted the Dark Arcanius.

      But Third was already moving. She jumped off the boulder and vanished in a swirl of blue fire, disappearing before she hit the ground. The Arcanius gaped at that, and Ridmark closed. Oathshield blazed with white fire, and he hammered the blade at his enemy’s head. The Dark Arcanius snarled and raised his sword, and Oathshield clanged into his blade. The Arcanius rocked back, growling as he began a spell.

      Before he could finish it, blue fire snarled behind him, and Third reappeared out of nothingness. In either hand, she held a short sword of blue dark elven steel, and she stabbed with precision. The Arcanius let out a strangled croak, and then collapsed dead to the ground, the shadow and blue fire fading from his sword.

      Oathshield’s fire faded away, the glow in the soulstones dimming. Ridmark met Third’s dark gaze.

      I do not believe there are any additional foes nearby, said Third. Her voice, as always, was cold and precise. Nor are there any creatures or wielders of dark magic in the area.

      No, said Ridmark.

      An intense memory burned through his mind. Nine years ago, he had led the Anathgrimm warriors of Queen Mara against the Frostborn in the Northerland of Andomhaim. The woman who called herself Third had been at his side for those battles, his trusted lieutenant and his most capable scout, and they had had this exact conversation a thousand times before.

      Then the unreality of the situation caught up with him. The Northerland and Andomhaim were far away, and yet Third was here.

      He felt himself smiling.

      I am very pleased to see you, said Ridmark, and your intervention was timely.

      Third smiled a little, which was as close to demonstrative as she ever got. And I am glad to see you, Lord Shield Knight.

      But…how the devil did you get here? said Ridmark. How did you even find us?

      With this, said Third, lifting her right arm. On her forearm, over her dark armor and clothing, she wore a bracer of blue metal.

      It was the exact same shade of blue as Oathshield.

      What is that? said Ridmark.

      The Keeper’s apprentice forged it the day after you disappeared with the wizard calling himself Rhodruthain, said Third. It was imbued with a spell to track Oathshield. Using it, I have been able to follow you here.

      Ridmark blinked. Then how did you get to Owyllain? There are at least three thousand miles of ocean between Owyllain…

      It is closer to three thousand five hundred, said Third. There is also another continent between them. But I traveled through the subterranean passages of the Deeps. With my ability to travel, I covered great distances in a single day.

      How did you find the way through the Deeps? said Ridmark.

      I went to Khaldurmar and forced the dvargir to tell me, said Third. I also forced them to allow me the use of one of their subterranean canals. That allowed me to travel far faster than I could otherwise.

      Ridmark stared at her. Khaldurmar? She had gone into the city of the dvargir and come out again alive? It was astonishing.

      Then again, if anyone could do it, it was Third.

      Third shrugged. I did not kill any of the dvargir. And it was the task that my sister Queen Mara and High King Arandar laid upon me. They asked me to find what had become of the Shield Knight and the Keeper. Some of the court of Tarlion feared that you and your family had been slain, but Antenora’s Sight revealed that you were alive. She wrought this bracer and imbued it with seeking magic, and I have followed you ever since. I am very pleased that you are still alive. She paused. Are the Keeper and your children well?

      They are, said Ridmark.

      This sorcerer, this wielder of dark magic, said Third, glancing at the dead Dark Arcanius. Was he a foe of yours?

      Yes, said Ridmark. I didn’t know his name, but he tried to kill me.

      He is not the only one, said Third. I had to avoid a half-dozen others as I traveled, and there is a large army of humans and orcs and other kindreds beyond the hills to the north. Several hundred more of these wielders of dark magic are accompanying that host.

      That would be the army of King Justin Cyros, said Ridmark. His brain started to work through his shock. Third, I am glad beyond words to see you. But I’m afraid you’ve landed in the middle of a war.

      Third shrugged. I am no stranger to war. Now there was an understatement. She had seen centuries of war before she had escaped the curse of her dark elven blood. And I would be pleased to assist you against any foes. My task from Queen Mara and High King Arandar was to learn of your fate and bring you back to Andomhaim if possible. If you are slain, I will fail in my task.

      This way, then, said Ridmark. I can explain to you on the way.

      He paused and then smiled.

      And I am very glad to see you, he said. Very glad. You and I have seen many dangers together, and if we are to face new perils, you are one of the few I would be glad to have at my side.

      He would have hugged her, but he knew she did not like to be touched.

      Third blinked, then smiled, and offered him a bow.

      And I am glad to see you, my friend, said Third. We have seen perils together, so let us see a few more. But how did you come here?

      It’s a long story, said Ridmark, but it’s six miles back to King Hektor’s army. The wizard who brought us here is a gray elf called the Guardian of Cathair Animus…

      ###

      Calliande Arban’s jaw ached.

      That wasn’t a surprise. She knew why it was happening. When she was under stress, she tended to clench her jaw. Her healing magic wasn’t as effective when she used it on herself. That said, it did allow her to probe her body for injuries and illnesses, and she had discovered that she sometimes clenched her jaw so tightly that she inflicted a mild sprain on the joint. Fortunately, it hadn’t yet done any damage to her teeth.

      Perhaps she had inherited that from her mother. Calliande remembered her mother often rubbing her jaw and neck as if they pained her, but both her parents had kept all their teeth right up until the day they died of plague. On the other hand, Calliande had been her parents’ only child, which made her wonder if her mother had experienced difficult pregnancies.

      Maybe Calliande had inherited that from her mother as well…which might explain what had happened to Joanna.

      She expected grief to flood her at the thought of her daughter, and it did…but not with the paralytic, crushing force that it had before. Calliande would always mourn Joanna Arban, but she could not let it dominate her as it had for the previous six months.

      To be blunt, she had too much to do, and if she didn’t do her work properly, a lot of people might die.

      Perhaps work really was the best cure for sorrow.

      Her daughter might have died, but she still had two sons. And if she wanted to see them again, if she did not want to leave them orphaned at a young age, she needed to make sure she and Ridmark returned to them alive and victorious.

      Which explained why she had so much work to do.

      All right, said Calliande. Try it now.

      The bushy-bearded knight gave her a wary glance, took a deep breath, and nodded.

      The redwood forest rose around Calliande, the trees soaring higher than any tower built by the hands of humans. It was a beautiful place, and it would have been a peaceful place, but the stillness of the forest was shattered by the passage of the army of King Hektor Pendragon.

      The column stretched for miles. Thousands of hoplites marched, clad in bronze armor and helmets, and knights in more ornate armor commanded troops of soldiers. Hundreds of Arcanius Knights ranged up and down the line, patrolling for any sign of the dark magic wielded by the servants of Justin Cyros. Towering jotunmiri warriors walked in their own groups, their skin a grayish-green and ugly to human eyes, though their melodious voices rumbled out the sagas of their kindred. Countless scutians pulled supply wagons. The scutians were giant lizards with sharp beaks and shields of bone that protected their necks. They were not terribly fast, but they were strong and had astonishing stamina, and plodded ever onward with little need for rest.

      At the moment, Calliande’s concern was with teaching.

      Her four students walked with her.

      The first was her new apprentice Kalussa Pendragon. Kalussa was a beautiful young woman of nineteen, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes. Calliande had forgiven Kalussa for her failed attempt to seduce Ridmark.

      She was still working on forgetting.

      Her other three students were men. Sir Jolcus had a bushy beard and a barrel chest and was more comfortable with animals and the wilderness than people and civilization. Sir Tamlin was tall and strong, with thick black hair and gray eyes the color of steel. He affected the manner of a gallant warrior and a chivalrous knight, but Calliande knew him well enough by now to see the sadness beneath the mask. Tamlin’s best friend Sir Aegeus walked next to him, a big man with close-cropped red hair. Sir Aegeus’s good humor was not feigned, and he was happiest when fighting, drinking, and wenching, though not necessarily in that order.

      Sir Jolcus took a deep breath, gathering himself.

      As you say, Lady Calliande, he said, and the Arcanius Knight turned to face the object of their lesson.

      Six trisalian lizards lumbered after them, their massive feet punching the earth as they strode. The great beasts looked like scutians, but far larger, more muscular, and much more dangerous. Each trisalian was thirty feet long from tail to beak, and they stood ten to twelve feet tall. They had the same bony shields and beaks as the scutians, but the trisalians each had three horns, one rising from their beaks, and two more jutting from the bony ridge over their eyes. Those horns were longer and thicker and stronger than a knight’s lance, and just one of those creatures could cause terrible harm if it rampaged through a formation of footmen.

      Calliande had never seen trisalians before Rhodruthain had brought her to Owyllain, but she had spoken with some of the Arcanii since, and she had learned some of the lore of the trisalians. In ancient days, the dark elves had opened doorways to other worlds, summoning the orcs and the kobolds and the manetaurs and countless other kindreds to this world to labor as their soldiers and slaves. The kobolds and the saurtyri had come from the same world, and evidently, the scutians and the trisalians had been drawn from that world as well. Once the Sovereign had owned the scutians and the trisalians, but over the millennia the herds had broken from his control, and the scutians had been domesticated.

      The trisalians could only be tamed, not domesticated.

      Which, Calliande supposed, was the entire point of this exercise.

      Jolcus cast the spell, gesturing with his right hand. Purple flames glared around his fingers as he drew on the magic of elemental earth, and Calliande reached for the Sight. With the Sight, she saw the earth magic that Jolcus summoned, saw the spells already upon the six trisalians that lumbered after them, saw his will shaping the magic into the desired form.

      He did not, alas, use earth magic with any measure of finesse. Nevertheless, he had a good deal of raw power, and a natural talent for this kind of spell, which likely explained why he was the most skilled of the Arcanii at binding animals to his will.

      Yet his skills had improved over the last week as Hektor’s army marched north. Jolcus’s spell settled over the nearest trisalian, and he blinked in surprise.

      That was easier than I expected, my lady, said Jolcus. I think I could bind more trisalians than earlier.

      Sir Aegeus, said Calliande. You try now.

      Aegeus sighed and shook his head. You know, there are times when being an Arcanius is useful, but God and the saints! Give me a foe to beat, not all this magic foolery…

      You should heed the Keeper, Sir Aegeus, said Kalussa. Once she would have said that with pride and bombast. Now she only sounded weary. Once Aegeus would have laughed at her, but now the red-haired man grimaced and nodded.

      The dark staff in Kalussa’s hand tended to inspire fear.

      Aegeus grimaced again and cast the spell. Purple fire pulsed around his fingers. His effort was cruder than Sir Jolcus’s, but it would suffice to control two trisalians.

      Better, said Calliande. Sir Tamlin?

      Tamlin gestured with a flourish, the purple light burning to life around his fingers. Unfortunately, despite his Swordborn heritage, Tamlin’s strength in magic lay with the magic of elemental air, not elemental earth. Perhaps it was just as well. He hated his father, which given Justin Cyros’s crimes, was not surprising. Despite that, Tamlin’s skill was increasing, and he managed to exercise control over three trisalians.

      Good, all of you, said Calliande. You’re improving.

      Aegeus snorted. Hardly.

      That is not so, Sir Aegeus, said Calliande. A week ago, you couldn’t manage to control a single trisalian. You are improving, as are the other Arcanii I’ve taught the spell. If we can manage this, think how a hundred trisalians flung into Justin Cyros’s army at the right time will change the course of the battle.

      Tamlin nodded, but Kalussa and Aegeus and Jolcus looked dubious. The men of Owyllain had no tradition of cavalry. Connmar Pendragon had brought horses to this new land when he had fled here five centuries past, but the horses had died out long ago. Consequently, the men of Owyllain, noble and commoner alike, fought on foot. They had always fought on foot…and Calliande feared that meant they were blind to the potential of the trisalians as a weapon of war.

      That was all right. King Hektor had given her the authority to do as she wished in matters of magic, and by God and the saints, Calliande intended to do just that.

      And if King Hektor’s men were blind to the possibilities of the trisalian as a weapon of war, then perhaps Justin Cyros and his allies were just as oblivious.

      Lady Calliande is correct, said Tamlin. He almost always agreed with her in public, perhaps to support his King, or maybe because he was still embarrassed that he had tried to seduce her on the day they had met. I do not have much facility for earth magic, but it has still improved. And a hundred trisalians charging into the traitor Justin’s ranks…I hope I can see it.

      Why does Lady Kalussa not try? said Aegeus.

      Because, Sir Aegeus, said Kalussa, gazing into the trees. I have my own lessons with the Keeper.

      The blue crystal atop

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1