Sevenfold Sword: Sorceress, Page 2

  Third called on her power as she drew her swords, on the fiery song that filled her blood, and she traveled. Blue fire filled the world, and when it cleared, she stood behind the hulking creature. Ridmark retreated before its attack, snapping Oathshield back and forth before him to keep the creature at bay. Third spun her swords, reversing her grip on their hilts, and stabbed them.

  The blades sank deep into the creature’s torso. It let out a croaking gurgle of pain, and Ridmark stepped forward, both hands around Oathshield’s hilt, and took off its head. Black slime burst from the stump of its neck, and the ooze somehow smelled worse than the swamp itself. The toad-like head hit the ground, bounced, and disappeared into the water with a splash. The glistening body staggered forward and fell with a heavy thump.

  “Good timing,” said Ridmark.

  “Thank you,” said Third, grimacing at the blades of her swords. The black slime of the creature’s blood dripped from the weapons. She doubted the slime would damage the blades but cleaning them would be unpleasant.

  “This creature,” said Ridmark. “It must be the one Magatai was telling…”

  The carcass jerked.

  Third blinked in surprise. When she killed something, it tended to stay dead. There was, however, one exception to that rule.

  Even as she looked, she saw the new hand growing from the stump of its right wrist, saw a new head rising out of the glistening ruin of its neck. The head was a hideous, twisted thing, but it was growing with uncanny speed, and already the orange eyes glared with baleful hatred.

  “Troll!” said Third.

  “Your sword!” said Ridmark, and he hacked off the toad-creature’s half-grown head with a swift chop. He grunted and flipped the creature on its back, and as he did, Third sent a mental command to the sword in her right hand. The weapon had been forged by the mysterious dwarven smith Irizidur, and dwarven glyphs marked the length of the blade.

  And at her command, the sword burst into snarling elemental flames.

  Ridmark plunged Oathshield into the toad-creature’s heart, and as he did, Third raked her burning sword across the stump of the creature’s neck. Already the black slime had begun bubbling as another new head began to grow. But the elemental fire of her sword sank into the wound, charring it black. Ridmark wrenched Oathshield free from the creature’s chest, and Third whirled and drove her burning sword into the wound. Once again, the flames poured from her sword and charred the wound, keeping the toad-thing from regenerating.

  Third pulled her burning sword free and stepped back. Ridmark kept Oathshield pointed at the glistening bulk of the dead creature, but he held out his left hand, and his staff jumped back into his grasp.

  The toad-creature did not move, nor did it heal.

  “I believe it is dead,” said Third.

  “Yes,” said Ridmark, and he cleaned the black slime from his soulblade and returned the weapon to its scabbard. “This must be one of the swamp trolls that Magatai was telling us about.”

  “I thought they would look like the trolls we fought back in Andomhaim,” said Third. “More lizard-like.”

  “So did I,” said Ridmark. “Well, the fire drakes of Owyllain look different than those of Andomhaim. Why not the trolls?” He shook his head. “We had better rejoin the others. If these things hunt in packs, we might have a battle on our hands.”

  Third nodded, and together they hurried south.

  Chapter 2: Lost Lore

  “I think,” said Calliande Arban, looking around the grassy island, “that we should stop here and wait for Ridmark and Third to return.”

  To her complete lack of surprise, no one argued.

  The Serpent Marshes, Calliande had to admit, were a miserable place. The air was hot and wet, and she hadn’t stopped sweating in days. Even the grassy islands felt spongy beneath her boots, and keeping her balance was a constant challenge. The air was so thick with flies and mosquitoes that she sometimes inhaled them, and the fruit juice they used to keep the insects at bay was both uncomfortably sticky and smelled vile. Magatai had said that all manner of dangerous creatures lurked in the marshes, though they had yet to encounter any of them. For that matter, despite the name of the Serpent Marshes, Calliande had yet to see a single snake. That was all right, since something about creatures with scales made her skin crawl.

  Though rats inspired the same reaction, but perhaps after Cathair Caedyn, that had been burned out of her.

  Calliande rubbed her forehead as the others clambered onto the island. She had tied her hair back in a ragged tail and wrapped a cloth band around her forehead to help keep the sweat out of her eyes, but to little avail. Sometimes she thought about chopping off all her hair to keep her head cool, but the distressing thought of what she would look like with no hair or short hair always stopped her.

  Still, she didn’t mind the discomfort of traveling through the swamp. Some of it was her duties as the Keeper. She had spent so much time healing wounds and pulling agony into herself that her relationship with pain had changed. While she didn’t particularly enjoy pain or physical discomfort, they would not slow her down.

  And some of it was the challenge.

  Before coming to Owyllain against her will three and a half months ago, Calliande had been frozen, the cold grief of her daughter’s death locking her heart and mind. Rhodruthain had hurled her and Ridmark and the children into danger, and that had forced Calliande to move on, to put the grief behind her and fight for her life and the lives of her husband and sons.

  Perhaps when she saw Rhodruthain again, she would thank him for it.

  No, she would probably beat him to a pulp for putting her children in danger.

  Still, a few months after they had been married Ridmark had told Calliande that she was like a sword. Her first reaction had been amusement that he would compare his wife to a weapon of war. He responded that just as a sword left in a scabbard for too long went to rust, so too did Calliande need work against which to test and sharpen herself. At the time she had been bemused at the thought, though as the years passed she saw more and more that he had been right.

  And slogging through the Serpent Marshes made for a daunting challenge, she had to admit.

  Calliande turned to see how the others fared.

  Tamlin and Magatai came first. Of all Calliande’s and Ridmark’s companions, they dealt the best with the difficulties of traveling through the marsh. (Except for Third, but only a few things ever really bothered Third.) Calliande had seen the whip scars on Tamlin’s back, and she suspected that like her, he had endured more than his fair share of pain. The young Arcanius Knight wore the golden armor he had taken from Cathair Selenias, the Sword of Earth in its scabbard at his belt. Magatai, as ever, seemed impervious to all misfortune. It helped that his struthian Northwind ambled along with ease. Calliande had thought the water would hinder the gangly lizard, but Northwind seemed delighted, splashing through the waters and occasionally letting out a squawk of enjoyment.

  Tamlin had been in a good mood ever since they had left Cathair Caedyn, and he turned to help the likely reason for that good mood to scramble up after him. Tamara Earthcaller wore her usual long coat and vest of scutian hide, though for some reason she never sweated despite the heat. In her right hand, she held the golden staff Lord Amruthyr had given her in the Tower of Nightmares, and she smiled up at Tamlin.

  Krastikon Cyros trudged after her, grimacing, one hand resting on the hilt of the Sword of Death. Like Tamlin, he wore golden armor taken from Cathair Selenias. Unlike Tamlin, he was sweating freely and glowered at the swamps. Calliande suspected that this was the farthest southeast that the Prince Consort of Trojas had ever been in his life. He would have been used to the cooler and drier weather near the northern cities of Owyllain, not the torrid heat of the Takai Steppes and the Serpent Marshes.

  Kalussa Pendragon came after him, wheezing a little as she clambered up the side of the grassy island, the Staff of Blades thumping against the ground. She looked utterly miserab
le, her eyes red and inflamed, her nose running, sweat gleaming on her face. Like Krastikon, Kalussa had never been this far southeast, and it showed. Unlike Krastikon, Kalussa was allergic to something in the swamp, perhaps the scent put out by some of the flowers, or maybe the ropes of moss hanging from the looming trees.

  Last of all came Sir Calem, solemn and silent as ever, and he endured the rough terrain without complaint. The Sword of Air waited in its scabbard at his belt.

  Calem and Kalussa avoided looking at each other, and Calliande felt a flicker of exasperation. Was that still going on? She was tempted to knock their heads together and make them see reason, the way she had done a few times with Gareth and Joachim when one of their fights had gotten out of hand. Though come to think of it, that had never really worked with her sons, and she doubted it would work with Kalussa and Calem.

  “I think, my lady,” said Krastikon with a sigh, tugging off his helmet, “that a rest would be welcome.” His dark hair stood in sweaty spikes. “Should we survive this quest, I never wish to return here.”

  “Eh, it is not so bad,” said Magatai, climbing down from Northwind’s saddle. The struthian began eating big mouthfuls of the hill’s grass. “At least we can see farther than in the Illicaeryn Jungles. Magatai did not approve of the jungles. It was too easy for foes to creep up unseen upon him. Here, we can see much farther.”

  “Yes,” said Kalussa. She started to say more, then she sneezed and rubbed at her eyes.

  “At least the jungles weren’t so damned wet,” said Krastikon with a sigh.

  “Fear not, Prince Krastikon,” said Magatai. “We have made excellent progress. Another few days to the east, and we shall draw close enough to the Tower Mountains that the ground will start to rise. The marshes will thin, and soon we will travel through the foothills of the mountains.”

  “A few days,” said Kalussa, her voice a rasp.

  “Perhaps Ridmark and Third will find that causeway,” said Calliande, trying to raise her apprentice’s spirits.

  “If it’s here, they’ll find it,” said Tamlin. “And it must be here. Few men of Owyllain have ever come to the Serpent Marshes, but we know the xiatami carry on regular trade with the orcish tribes beyond the Tower Mountains. They must have a reliable way through the swamp. Else no one would bother to make the journey, no matter how rich the profits.”

  “I can see why few men of Owyllain have ever come here,” said Krastikon. “Or why the realm has had only a few minor conflicts with the xiatami. God and the apostles, what sane man would want to live here? If the xiatami want to keep these swamps, then they are welcome to them.”

  “Let’s have some food,” said Calliande, “and then I’ll make sure that everyone’s waterskin is full.”

  “I will keep watch,” said Calem, and he walked to the edge of the little island before anyone could stop him. Well, someone did need to keep watch.

  The others sat down to eat and drink, and Calliande joined them, pulling food from her pack. King Kyralion and Queen Rilmeira had made sure they were well-supplied before leaving Cathair Caedyn, and the gray elves were skillful at making travel rations. Kyralion and the gray elves had given them hundreds of peculiar-looking bars created by mixing jerky, bread, dried vegetables, and fruit. The bars could apparently last for years without turning rancid, even in damp conditions like the marshes, and one bar was dense enough to provide enough nourishment for a day.

  While they weren’t the best thing Calliande had ever eaten, they nonetheless tasted better than she had expected. And her father had told her many times that hunger was the best spice of all, and in the centuries since he had died, she had seen those words proven many times.

  “Out of curiosity,” said Krastikon, pointing at one of the bushes in the center of the little island, “are those edible?” Bright purple fruits hung from the bush’s branches. Calliande had never seen anything like them. They looked sort of like a cross between an apple and a peach, though that shade of purple looked somehow unhealthy.

  “They are not,” said Magatai. “The juice of that fruit is quite lethal, though it is one of the more pleasurable ways to die.”

  Krastikon frowned. “Pleasurable?”

  “The juice of the fruit induces a state of intense arousal, in both men and women,” said Magatai with good cheer. Kalussa glanced at Calem and looked away, a blush starting beneath the sweat. “Should a man and a woman consume the fruit, they will lie together until their hearts burst within their chests from exertion.”

  “Dear God,” said Krastikon. “Is everything in this place lethal?”

  “Most of it,” said Magatai with good cheer, finishing off his ration bar.

  “Well,” said Tamara in a quiet voice. “I suppose there are worse ways to die.”

  They all looked at her in surprise, and she grinned back at them.

  “Believe me,” said Tamara, “I would know. In all the ways my other selves have died, none of them have died like that.”

  Tamlin took Tamara’s hand, and she squeezed back. They had been doing more of that since they had left Cathair Caedyn. Calliande idly wondered if they had slept together yet. Not that it really was any of her business, of course, but one of Tamara’s other selves had been Tamlin’s wife, and if Tamara was recovering more of her other selves’ memories, perhaps she had recovered some of their emotions as well. Certainly, she would be good for Tamlin, and Calliande rather suspected that Tamlin would be good for Tamara…

  God! She was transforming into a meddlesome old woman, wasn’t she? Well, she had lived for two and a half centuries, so perhaps it was overdue.

  “Losing control like that,” said Kalussa. “It…it would be…”

  She gazed at Calem, a stricken look going over her face.

  Calliande opened her mouth to reply when the Sight surged to life within her.

  The Sight let her see far-off places, catch glimpses of the past and the future, and allowed her to see currents of magic as if they were fashioned of mist and light. The bracelet on her right wrist glowed with magical power, the crystals set into the delicate metal flashing with light.

  Antenora, her first apprentice, was reaching across the miles to speak with her.

  “Lady Calliande?” said Kalussa. She had noticed the shift in Calliande’s attention. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, I think,” said Calliande. “Antenora is trying to contact me.” She took a deep breath, clearing her mind. “Can you keep watch while I speak with her?”

  “Of course,” said Kalussa.

  “Nothing shall escape Magatai’s vigilance!” declared Magatai.

  Calliande nodded, focused, and sent her Sight into the bracelet.

  As before, the spells that Antenora’s skill had laid into the bracelet caught her Sight and sent it hurtling northward. Mountains and plains and oceans and forests and deserts blurred before her vision, and then she saw Tarlion. The chief city of Andomhaim sat on the eastern bank of the River Moradel, the great southern sea lapping at its harbor. Calliande glimpsed the Citadel of the High King, the sprawling edifice of the Great Cathedral, the strong towers of the Castra of the Swordbearers, and the slender spire of the Tower of the Magistri.

  Her Sight hurtled towards the Tower of the Keeper. It rose from a small wood of oak trees, a slender octagonal tower topped with a copper dome that had turned green from verdigris over the centuries. Calliande’s Sight blurred into the Tower, and she expected to see Antenora in the library, sifting through the tomes as she so often did.

  Instead, Calliande found herself looking into the bedroom Antenora and her husband Sir Gavin used when they visited the Tower. Antenora lay in the bed, propped up by pillows, her face wan. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles beneath them. She looked ill, which was strange since she never got sick. Truth be told, she had endured both her pregnancies with more vigor than Calliande had.

  “Ah, Keeper,” said Antenora, smiling as she adjusted the bracelet on her right wrist. “It is
good to see you. I feared the Maledicti might have come for you as well.” Her voice was throaty and rich, but there was a rasp to it, reminding Calliande of when Antenora had still been trapped in her curse of dark magic.

  “Antenora,” said Calliande. “Are you all right?”

  Antenora laughed a little. “I am better than I have any right to be.”

  “Are you ill?” said Calliande.

  “No, simply exhausted,” said Antenora. “I was exhausted in the fight, but I am recovering.”

  Calliande felt her eyes of flesh blink, and then her brain caught up with what Antenora had said earlier.

  “Wait,” said Calliande. “The Maledicti attacked you?”

  “Yes,” said Antenora.

  “Dear God,” said Calliande. “Are you all right? Is Gavin all right?” A horrible thought occurred to Calliande. “Are your children safe?” She knew the Maledicti were ruthless enough to target the children of their enemies, and she lived in dread of the thought of Gareth and Joachim falling into the hands of someone like Khurazalin or Mhazhama.

  “It was a difficult battle, but we prevailed,” said Antenora. “The Maledicti nearly overcame me, but Gavin arrived with Truthseeker, and they fled rather than face a Swordbearer’s fury. There were two of them, both orcish men, one living, one undead. The first had a scar upon his face and wore robes of red. Based on your description, I believe this was Khurazalin, the Maledictus of Fire. The second was undead and wore robes of blue, and wielded the magic of elemental ice and water. This was in all probability the Maledictus of Water.”

  “We haven’t faced him yet,” said Calliande. “He seems to spend most of his time in Urd Maelwyn advising the Confessor.” A wave of searing fury rolled through Calliande, and it took all her mental discipline to force it back. The Maledicti had dared to attack her friends in Andomhaim? “Antenora, tell me what happened.”