 
SEVENFOLD SWORD: CHAMPION

Jonathan Moeller

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## Description

Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the defender of the realm of Andomhaim.

The realm is at peace after a long and terrible war, but dark powers threaten other lands.

And when a mad elven wizard comes to the High King's court, Ridmark finds himself fighting not only for his own life, but for the lives of his family.

For the quest of the Seven Swords has begun...

***

Sevenfold Sword: Champion

Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

Ebook edition published July 2017.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

## A brief author's note

At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book.

A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author's website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

***

## Chapter 1: The Keeper of Andomhaim

The day the quest of the Seven Swords began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King's court, Ridmark Arban showed his youngest son how to hold a sword.

It surprised him how much he enjoyed spending time with his sons. Ridmark had not been close with his own father. Leogrance Arban had been a great and noble lord of Andomhaim, a man who had done his duty and done it well, but he had spared little time for his youngest son. As Ridmark grew older and experienced losses and griefs of his own, he came to understand that Leogrance had thrown himself into his duties after Ridmark's mother had died. By then Ridmark had been a page at Dux Gareth Licinius's court, and Dux Gareth had raised him more than Dux Leogrance.

Still, Ridmark begrudged his father nothing. In the end, he supposed a father's duty was to train his sons to look after themselves after he had died. Leogrance Arban was eight years in his grave, slain fighting the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia, but the skills Ridmark had learned after Leogrance had sent him to Dux Gareth's court had served him well.

But in the years since, Ridmark had learned that no matter what a father did, no matter how he trained his children...there were some things that no amount of love and teaching could conquer.

The black grief fluttered at the edges of his mind.

Once, as a younger man, he would have tried to push it aside, or deny it, or let it drive him into a rage. Instead, Ridmark accepted it, and let it remind him of those who were still with him.

"Father?" said Joachim Arban.

Ridmark blinked and looked at his youngest son. "What did I tell you the last time?"

He stood with his sons on the western bank of the River Moradel, the walls and towers of the High King's city of Tarlion rising on the far side of the river. To the south stretched the endless expanse of the southern sea, which no man had ever crossed. To the east stood the domus where Ridmark and his family and their servants lived, a villa built in the style of the Romans of old. A salt-scented breeze came off the sea, the blue sky dotted with white clouds overhead.

"You said," said Joachim, his face scowling with concentration as only a child of three could scowl, "that I should hold the hilt with both hands."

Ridmark nodded. "That's right." His youngest son looked more like his wife. Both Ridmark and Calliande had blue eyes, but Joachim had Calliande's eyes and blond hair. Of the two boys, Joachim was by far the more emotional, capable of giddy joys and ferocious tantrums. When Gareth had been three, the only time he had ever cried had been when he had accidentally scraped or hurt himself.

"Like this?" said Joachim, shifting his grip on the wooden practice sword.

"No," said Gareth Arban before Ridmark could speak. "Your thumbs are wrong."

Ridmark looked at his oldest son. Gareth was now eight years old, and while Joachim looked like Calliande, Gareth looked more like Ridmark, with black hair and blue eyes. Gareth wasn't smiling, but then he usually didn't. Calliande had said that Gareth had inherited Ridmark's sober nature, and that seemed true enough.

Joachim's face screwed up as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or not. "What's wrong with my thumbs?"

"Nothing," said Gareth. "They're just in the wrong place." He reached over and adjusted Joachim's grip. "There, like that."

Joachim looked up. "Is that right, Father?"

"It is," said Ridmark.

"Father showed me how to do that when I was your age," said Gareth with all the wisdom of his eight years.

"I did," said Ridmark. "Now. Hit me with the sword."

Joachim lifted his wooden blade and glanced at Gareth, and Gareth took a prudent step back.

"No, don't hit your brother," said Ridmark, for what felt like the billionth time. The boys were as likely to start fighting as they were to start talking. Gareth had explained to Ridmark that Joachim needed punching to instruct him, while Joachim sometimes hit Gareth just for the fun of it.

Ridmark had rejected both arguments, much to their dismay

"It is unknightly to attack an unarmed opponent," said Gareth.

"I'm not a knight yet," said Joachim. "Neither are you."

"Soon I'll be old enough to be a page in a noble court," said Gareth. "So, I will know more about being a knight than you will."

"You still haven't hit me," said Ridmark.

Joachim blinked, took a deep breath, drew back the wooden sword, and swung it with all his strength. He spun on his right leg, overbalanced, and landed with a thump, blinking in surprise.

"I don't think you were supposed to fall over," said Gareth. Another boy would have flung it as an insult or a joke. Gareth made it as a simple statement of fact.

"You swung too hard," said Ridmark. "It's important to hit hard, but it's also important not to leave yourself open." Joachim staggered back to his feet. "Watch." Ridmark took a swing with his own practice sword, going through the movements with exaggerated slowness. "Did you see?"

"Could you do it again?" said Joachim, his eyes wide.

Ridmark repeated the attack, still moving with exaggerated slowness.

Joachim took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the little wooden sword, and swung again. He overbalanced once more, but only a little, and this time he kept his feet.

"That was better," said Gareth.

"It was," said Ridmark. "Now, try to hit me." Joachim started to wind up for a massive swing. "No, not like that. You'll fall over again."

"It's bad to fall over in a sword duel, isn't it?" said Joachim.

"Well," said Ridmark. "Yes."

Joachim swung at him, and this time the boy kept his movements controlled. Ridmark lowered his practice sword and deflected the attack. The swords came together with a sharp crack, and Joachim flinched, blinked a few times, and grinned. He let out a shrill imitation of a knight's battle cry and started hammering at Ridmark's sword repeatedly.

Despite his worries about the present and the future, the sight of a small child attacking him with a wooden sword was so absurd that Ridmark burst out laughing. Joachim froze in astonishment and then started laughing at well. He looked a lot like Calliande then. She reacted the same way on the rare occasions when Ridmark laughed.

Not that there had been many opportunities of late.

"That," said Gareth, attempting a stern glare, "is not the proper way to use a sword, Joachim."

"No, it isn't," said Joachim. "But it's loud!"

He whacked Ridmark's sword once more with a resounding crack, and all three of them laughed.

"No one is louder than you, Joachim," said Gareth.

"When I am a knight," said Joachim, "I shall be known as Sir Joachim the Loud."

"Most likely," said Ridmark. He glanced at the towers of Tarlion across the river to the east. "And I think that's all the time we have for sword lessons today." Both Gareth and Joachim groaned. "Gareth, you need to go to your lesson with Brother Octavius. And I need to take the ferry to Tarlion to meet the new Dux of Calvus."

"Can we come with you?" said Joachim.

"Not today," said Ridmark. The new Dux of Calvus would be offering homage and swearing fealty to the High King, and it would be a long affair with oaths in formal Latin, followed by a feast. Joachim would be bored out of his skull before the new Dux got halfway through the first of the formal oaths. "But maybe if you ask nicely, Dieter will let you help in his workshop today."

Joachim brightened. "I like helping to make the fences."

"Knights don't make fences," said Gareth.

"I shall," announced Joachim. "I shall be Sir Joachim the Loud and the Maker of Fences." He fell silent, frowning as a thought seemed to occur to him.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

Joachim looked up at him. "Do you think we will see Mother today?"

Probably not, thought Ridmark.

"Maybe," he said aloud. "If she is feeling better."

"But she's not sick," said Joachim. "At least not anymore." He hesitated. "Do...do you think she's mad with me, Father? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," said Ridmark, gesturing towards the domus. Both boys followed him as they climbed the slope from the river towards the house, the thick grasses rustling around them. He didn't want to discuss this, but he knew how that kind of fear could fester in a young mind. "She's not sick, and she's not angry with you. She...is in mourning."

"Because of Joanna," said Joachim.

"Yes," said Ridmark. The grief fluttered at the back of his mind. "That was very hard for your mother. One of the hardest things she's had to face, and she has done many difficult things. She just needs time."

"But I don't understand," said Joachim. "She was just a baby. Mother only knew her for three days."

Ridmark was at a loss how to answer that. He supposed it all seemed unreal to Joachim. When Joanna had been born, neither Gareth nor Joachim had seen the small, struggling girl. She had barely lived three days, and Calliande had not slept for a single one of those three days as she tried healing spell after healing spell.

Calliande had not slept much in the six months after, either.

Ridmark wondered if Joachim resented that. He knew that older children often resented the younger ones. But Ridmark had been the youngest, and Calliande had been an only child. Perhaps neither of them understood.

"You used to be a baby, didn't you?" said Gareth in a quiet voice.

Joachim's eyes went wide at that. "Oh. I think I understand."

"Then you understand," said Ridmark, "that we must be kind to your mother."

"And we must pray for her," said Gareth.

"Yes," said Ridmark.

They walked in silence for a while as they drew nearer to the house. Its walls had been built of white stone, its roof covered in tiles of fired clay. Ridmark and Calliande had built the house on the site of the long-abandoned fishing village where she had grown up all those centuries ago. Though, to be totally accurate, they had built the domus several hundred yards west of where the fishing village had once been, given how the River Moradel tended to flood in the spring.

The house was stirring as they walked to the courtyard gate. Servants, both human and halfling, went about their tasks. Soon after the defeat of the Frostborn, Ridmark had hired a halfling woman named Dagma to look after the Tower of the Keeper in Tarlion, and in the past eight years, Dagma had taken over as the seneschal of both the Tower and the domus. Ridmark made a mental note to speak with her before he left for Tarlion. It was good of her husband Dieter to let Joachim hang about in his workshop, but he didn't want Joachim causing problems with the servants. In another few years, Joachim would start taking lessons with Brother Octavius, but...

"Gareth, you have to keep learning to speak the orcs' language," said Joachim. Evidently, he didn't want to talk about his mother any further.

Gareth sighed. "I wish knights didn't need to learn to speak orcish."

"It will serve you well," said Ridmark. "Almost everyone outside of the realm of Andomhaim speaks orcish, and not just the orcs." Of course, Kothluuskan orcish, Qazaluuskan orcish, Anathgrimm orcish, and the orcish tongues of the three baptized kingdoms all tended to have different slang and grammar, but there was no reason to trouble Gareth's head with that quite yet.

"I don't have to learn orcish," announced Joachim with pride.

Gareth scoffed. "That's because you're too little."

"I'm not little, I'm three!"

Ridmark stepped into the courtyard. It was a wide, clear space, with a narrow pool running down the center, pillars lining the walls. When guests came, Ridmark entertained them here, assuming the weather cooperated, and...

He stopped in surprise, as did Gareth and Joachim.

"Mama!" shouted Joachim, and he shot across the courtyard like a crossbow bolt.

Calliande stepped closer to them.

She did not look at all well.

In many ways, she looked no different than she had ten years ago when Ridmark had first met her on the slopes of Black Mountain. She had the same blue eyes, the same long blonde hair, the same sort of windswept beauty to her face. But that face was much thinner than he remembered, the lines sharper, with dark circles under her eyes. She had lost a great deal of weight in the last six months, enough to alarm Ridmark, and the dress hung much more loosely from her than it had a year ago.

Her eyes were still bloodshot. Likely she had been crying again this morning.

"Mama!" said Joachim, and he slammed into her legs, wrapping his arms around her.

"Joachim," said Calliande. She propped the worn staff of the Keeper against one of the pillars and picked up Joachim. "How are you this morning?"

"Good," said Joachim as Ridmark and Gareth drew nearer. "I learned how to hold a sword, and I'm going to be Sir Joachim the Loud. I'm also going to build fences and not learn to speak orcish."

Calliande tried to smile at him. "Well, it sounds like you've had a very busy day."

"I did!" said Joachim.

Calliande squatted to look Gareth in the eye, still holding Joachim. "And how are you, Gareth?"

"I am well, Mother," said Gareth. "I hope you are well."

She set Joachim down, kissed Gareth on the top of the head, and straightened up. "Why don't the two of you go have breakfast in the kitchen? I want to talk to your father."

"Yes, Mother," said Gareth. "Come on, Joachim. The bread should still be hot."

The two boys ran from the courtyard. Ridmark tried to remember what it was like to have the energy to run everywhere and failed.

Instead, he met Calliande's eye.

She tried to smile. Her eyes were still red and raw from weeping. But she was on her feet and out of bed, and she had bathed and dressed. There had been too many days of late when she hadn't been able to get out of bed.

They stood in silence for a moment.

At last Ridmark took her hand. Her fingers felt thin and cold. "How are you?"

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "I'm..." She took a shuddering breath, and she looked away.

He gripped her hand tighter, and she squeezed back. They had faced all manner of dangers together, but this had broken her in a way that none of them ever had. Ridmark thought he had known all there was to know about grief.

Joanna's death had taught him otherwise.

It had hit him very hard.

It had hit Calliande far harder.

He tried to take comfort in the fact that Joanna had been baptized before her death, that her soul now resided with the Dominus Christus in paradise. Her brief life had been full of pain, but she would never have to know the many, many other pains of mortal life.

It was a comforting thought, but it did little for his own grief. But some sorrows simply had to be borne.

"Today's the day the new Dux of Calvus comes to give homage to Arandar, isn't it?" said Calliande.

"It is," said Ridmark. "Antenora and Master Vesilius should be there if you don't feel like coming."

"I don't," said Calliande. "But I need to...I don't know, Ridmark. I need to just...not be at our house for a day or two. I haven't been to Tarlion since the pregnancy took a turn for the worst." She let out a long sigh, and an echo of her old fire went over her face. "And I'm still the Keeper of Andomhaim. Antenora has been carrying too much of my work lately."

An idea came to Ridmark. "Why don't we take the boys with us?"

Calliande blinked. "To a ceremony at the court? They'll be bored out of their minds."

"All four of us haven't gone anywhere together for some time," said Ridmark. "It will be good for them. If we're both there, they won't dare misbehave. And, God willing, they'll both be knights someday. They'll have to learn how to stand solemnly and listen to formal speeches sooner or later."

Calliande looked at him, and Ridmark feared that she would give up, that she would go back to her bed and weep some more.

Then she rallied, and he saw a flicker of her old self once more, the woman who had gone with him to Cathair Solas and saved him from the fury of the Dragon Knight's sword.

"You're right," said Calliande. "You usually are. I'll call my maid and have her help me dress the boys."

Ridmark nodded, careful not to let his relief show. She had not left the domus since Joanna had died.

It was a start.

###

An hour later, Ridmark found himself standing on a raft as the ferrymen poled the craft towards the docks north of the walls of Tarlion.

He could have worn a formal tunic and mantle and cloak, but he was the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and so he had opted for armor instead. Specifically, he wore the blue dark elven armor he had taken from the armories of Urd Morlemoch all those years ago, the overlapping plates of blue steel protecting his torso and upper legs. Beneath the armor, he wore a gambeson, tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, and the gray cloak the last archmage of the high elves had given him hung from his shoulders. A belt encircled his waist, heavy with the weight of sword and dagger.

Oathshield rested in its scabbard upon his left hip.

There was no other sword like it in Andomhaim, and likely outside of the realm as well.

The sword was an odd shade of deep blue, with a soulstone worked into the tang of the blade. Oathshield was a soulblade, and it had all the powers of one of those mighty weapons. It could wound and slay creatures of dark magic immune to weapons of normal steel and wood. It could tear through magical wards to slay evil wizards and wielders of dark magic. The sword gave its bearer enhanced strength, speed, accelerated healing, and protection from magic, and it could use limited healing magic on others.

These were normal powers for a soulblade, and with those powers, the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade had defended Andomhaim for nearly five centuries. Without the Swordbearers, Andomhaim would have fallen long ago, first to the wrath of the urdmordar, and then to the invasion of the Frostborn.

But Oathshield was unique.

Most soulblades had only one soulstone. Oathshield had a second worked into the pommel of the blade, and from that second soulstone came the unique power of the sword, the power of the Shield Knight.

It was a terrible power with a high cost, and Ridmark had only been forced to use it twice since Ardrhythain had given him the sword. But he felt that power waiting through his link to Oathshield, felt the sword's stern wrath.

It was sleeping now, but should he need it, Oathshield's power would explode in fury.

He looked at the others. Calliande stood near the edge of the raft, her eyes distant, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper, her green skirt rippling against her legs in the breeze. A few strands of blond hair had broken free of the bronze diadem of the Keeper and danced around her face. She had donned the mien of the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and aloof and serene, but Ridmark knew his wife well enough to see how sad she looked.

Ridmark wished he could do more for her. But as he knew all too well, grief had its own logic.

Joachim stood near his mother. He was not fond of water travel, but he was putting on a brave face, partly for Calliande, and partly not to show weakness in front of Gareth. Joachim's nurse, an old widow named Tindra, stood behind him. She did a good job with the boy, alternating between sternness and kindness as necessary.

Gareth stood with Brother Octavius. Ridmark had saved the old friar's life during the last Mhorite raid into Durandis, and the old man had become Gareth's tutor. Never one to miss a lesson, he was asking Gareth the names of the chief buildings of Tarlion. Gareth pointed them out one by one – the Citadel, the Great Cathedral, the Castra of the Swordbearers, the Tower of the Magistri, the Tower of the Keeper – and gave Octavius a brief description of each.

"Good, young Gareth, good," said the old friar. His tanned head looked like a brown egg, with a few wisps of gray hair left. "Though you likely already know quite a lot about the Tower of the Keeper."

"We do stay there when Mother or Father have business in the city," said Gareth. "Or when Lady Antenora and Sir Gavin visit." He considered. "I can always beat their son Philip at swords."

"That's because you're a year older than he is," Joachim pointed out.

Gareth was unpersuaded. "It still counts."

At last, the ferry docked below the walls of Tarlion, and Ridmark led the horses off the raft. Mistress Tindra and Brother Octavius each took their own horse. Gareth was just old enough to ride a pony of his own. A knight had to know how to ride, after all, and Ridmark had found him an older pony of placid temperament that made a good first mount. He expected Joachim to ride with Tindra, but instead, Calliande mounted her horse, and Tindra passed him up to her.

That, too, was a good sign.

Joachim settled with satisfaction in front of his mother, her arm around his waist. Gareth looked torn between wanting to ride with Calliande and pleasure at having his own pony, but he decided to remain with his own pony.

"Did you check the stirrups?" said Ridmark.

"Yes, Father," said Gareth.

"The bit is in properly?"

Gareth nodded. "Yes, Father."

"Remember to steer with the reins," said Ridmark. "Don't pull too hard, or you'll hurt the pony, and she'll turn sharply enough that you might lose your seat. And gentle taps with your heels. We're riding to the Citadel, not galloping to it."

Gareth nodded again, taking a deep breath as he adjusted the reins in his hands.

"I want a horse," announced Joachim.

"When you are old enough, young master," said Tindra. Calliande gave Joachim a faint smile, and then her distant look returned as she gazed at the northern gate of Tarlion. Perhaps her thoughts were on Joanna again. Or maybe her thoughts had gone back to the terrible battles that had been fought below Tarlion's walls.

A lot of people had died here.

Ridmark shook off the dark thoughts.

"Everyone ready?" said Ridmark.

They were, and Ridmark led the way into Tarlion.

After eight years, there were no traces left of Tarrabus Carhaine's siege walls, no hint that the Frostborn had been defeated here. Looking at the peaceful fields and meadows outside the city, it was hard to believe that hundreds of thousands of men and orcs and dwarves and other kindreds had struggled and died here. Men-at-arms in blue surcoats adorned with the red dragon of the Pendragons guarded the northern gate, and they let the Keeper of Andomhaim and the Shield Knight pass without challenge.

Beyond lay the Forum of the North, dotted with statues of long-dead knights and lords and Magistri, including a new statue commemorating all those who had died in the fighting after Imaria Shadowbearer had broken the gate. Ridmark rode through the Forum of the North and onto the Via Borealis, houses of stone lining the street. There was a good deal of traffic, with merchant wagons heading to the north and the markets in the new city Queen Mara and Prince Jager were building, messengers going about their business, and the occasional enterprising peddler with a cart selling sausages or meat rolls. Many people cheered as Calliande rode past, and she answered with a gracious nod. Ridmark's wife was beloved in Tarlion. She had healed the wounds of countless soldiers after the battle with the Frostborn, and in the eight years since she had healed many others who had come to her for help. One hundred thousand people lived in the city, and Ridmark supposed that nearly all of them knew someone whom Calliande had helped.

They rode through the Forum of the Crown, the largest market in Tarlion, and threaded their way through the stalls and the crowds of shoppers, humans and orcs and halflings and even a few dwarven merchants from Khald Tormen. From there they took the ramp that climbed the Citadel's crag and entered the fortress's vast courtyard. The Tower of the Moon rose high overhead, a white spike against the blue sky, and before them stood the basilica that served as the High King's audience hall.

Already a crowd of nobles filled the courtyard. Nearly all the nobles of Calvus had been killed or executed during the civil war, and over the last eight years, Arandar had gradually appointed new ones, most of them minor knights and men-at-arms who had distinguished themselves fighting the Frostborn. He had appointed a new Dux for Calvus soon after the defeat of the Frostborn, but the unfortunate man had gotten himself killed exploring the ancient dark elven ruins that sprawled beneath Castra Andrius.

After that, the High King had appointed Sir Cortin Lamorus as the new Dux of Calvus, much to old Corbanic Lamorus's pleasure. Ridmark thought it a good choice. Sir Cortin had served as his father's right hand during the siege of Tarlion, and he had conducted himself well during the campaigns against the Mhorites and the Qazaluuskan orcs since.

Ridmark reined up and dropped from his saddle, and a small army of pages in Pendragon tabards came to take their horses. Perhaps before the end of the year, Gareth would be serving as a page in the royal court, learning the skills of a knight from Arandar's master-at-arms. Ridmark had originally thought to send Gareth to his brother Tormark's court at Castra Arban, but it might be better for Calliande if the boy remained close...

"Lord Ridmark!"

Ridmark turned as a young man in his early twenties approached. Crown Prince Accolon Pendragon looked like his father, with the same fierce eyes, crooked beak of a nose, and thick black hair. Accolon had grown since Ridmark had first rescued him from Tarrabus Carhaine's prison all those years ago. Serving as first Ridmark's squire and then Prince Consort Jager's had seasoned him a great deal, to say nothing of the campaigns against the Mhorites and the dvargir since.

Ridmark bowed, and Tindra and Brother Octavius did so as well. "Lord Prince. It is good to see you."

"And you," said Accolon with a smile. "I'm glad Father chose Sir Cortin for the Duxarchate. The place needs a steady hand, and..."

He blinked in surprise as Calliande dismounted. Calliande had not been to Tarlion since the difficulties in her pregnancy, and she had lost enough weight during the illnesses after Joanna's death that the change in her appearance would have been stark to anyone who had not seen her in six months.

"My lady Keeper," said Accolon, recovering his poise. "It is good to see you again. It has been too long."

Her eyes were remote as she looked at him, but Calliande bowed and offered a smile. "Lord Prince. Likewise. Perhaps I should have returned sooner."

"Are you well, my lady?" said Accolon.

Calliande shrugged. "I am as well as I have any right to be."

"Of course," said Accolon. "Would you come with me? I think we'll begin as soon as all the nobles enter the hall." He offered an apologetic smile. "Best to get these things over with as soon as possible, I fear. That many men and women gathered together without food and drink will become irritable in short order."

"Especially without the drink," said Ridmark.

They followed the Crown Prince to the doors of the basilica. Ridmark offered Calliande his arm, and she smiled and threaded her arm through his, though she did not look at him or anyone else after she did.

Accolon led them into the great hall of the High King's Citadel. It was as large and wide as the Great Cathedral of Tarlion, and the stained-glass windows showed scenes from Andomhaim's history, High Kings past triumphing over the urdmordar and dark elven princes and the pagan orcs. After Arandar died, perhaps Accolon would commission a new window showing his father leading the loyalist host to victory against Tarrabus and the Enlightened.

As Keeper of Andomhaim, Calliande would stand near the High King's dais, and Ridmark and the others walked there as the nobles filed into the hall. Brother Octavius seized the opportunity to make it into a lesson, questioning Gareth about the history shown in the windows, with Joachim answering enthusiastically on the infrequent occasions when he knew the answer.

Ridmark looked at Calliande, but she said nothing, her eyes distant as she gazed at the windows.

At last the men-at-arms closed the doors to the great hall, the High King and the High Queen walked onto the dais, and silence fell over the assembled lords. Arandar had aged in the eight years since he had become High King, his hair now more gray than black, but he wore it well. The red gold Pendragon Crown rested upon his head, and the ancient sword Excalibur hung at his belt. The High Queen Cearowyn was twelve years his junior, and she looked the part as well, clad in a rich gown of blue with red trim. Arandar saw Calliande, blinked in surprise, smiled, and then walked to the edge of the dais and lifted his hands.

"My lords!" called Arandar, his voice ringing over the hall. "I thank you all for coming on this joyous day. Our realm was in grave danger from both the Enlightened and the Frostborn, and many worthy lords and knights fell in battle." He omitted to mention the traitorous lords of the Enlightened, which was likely just as well. "It has been my pleasant duty to choose worthy men from among the knights and men-at-arms of Andomhaim to hold these vacant lands in the name of the High King, and I am pleased to bestow the honor of the Duxarchate of Calvus upon Cortin, knight of the House of the Lamorii. Sir Cortin, you may approach."

Sir Cortin approached the High King's dais, followed by his wife, his children, and his father Corbanic. Cortin looked like a younger version of the weathered Constable of Tarlion, a bald keg of a man with the strength of an ox. He knelt before the dais and bowed his head.

"Who shall speak for Sir Cortin?" said Arandar.

"I shall, High King," said Corbanic

In his typical blunt speech, Corbanic outlined the virtues of his son, expounding on his victories on campaign and his valor in battle. Ridmark listened with half an ear and glanced at his sons. Gareth was solemn as usual, his eyes moving between the High King and the Constable. Even Joachim was quiet as he stood next to Tindra. He seemed overawed by the sight of all the knights and lords in their fine armor and bright surcoats. Perhaps the ceremony wouldn't be a tedium for the boy. Perhaps it would be a lasting memory.

Ridmark looked at Calliande and felt a flicker of alarm.

She was blinking rapidly, and gave a faint shake of her head as if arguing with herself. Was she going to faint? Her strength was not what it had once been. Had she pushed herself too hard too soon?

He touched her right arm, and she looked at him.

"What's wrong?" he whispered.

"I...I don't know," said Calliande.

"Are you feeling ill?" said Ridmark. "If you are, we can take you to the Tower of the Keeper."

"No, I feel fine," said Calliande. "It's the Sight."

The Sight?

"I've never seen magic like this before," said Calliande, looking in the direction of the courtyard.

"Are we under attack?" said Ridmark, glancing around the hall. If they were under attack, they were well-prepared for it. A score of Swordbearers had come to the ceremony, along with a dozen Magistri, and all the nobles and knights were veterans of various campaigns. And they also had the magic of the Keeper, against which no other power of Andomhaim could stand.

Except that Calliande might not be in a fit state, either physically or mentally, to win a fight with anyone.

"I don't know," said Calliande. She took a deep breath and looked at Arandar. "I think..."

The doors to the courtyard boomed open with a thunderclap.

A gust of wind swirled through the hall, and Corbanic abandoned his oration, whirling to face the doors. The knights and lords reached for their swords, and Arandar frowned and stepped forward.

A single man stood in the doorway, clad in a ragged brown cloak with a heavy cowl concealing his face. He was over seven feet tall, and Ridmark glimpsed the hilt of a sword at his belt.

In his right hand, the cloaked man held a long staff fashioned of red gold, its top worked into a roaring dragon's head.

***

## Chapter 2: The Guardian of Cathair Animus

Most of the time, Calliande Arban felt numb.

That was just as well. She didn't mind numbness.

Because when she was not numb, her mind cast back to that awful day six months past. The final weeks of her troubled pregnancy and the birth itself were a haze in her mind, a muddled memory of pain and exhaustion and blood, but she remembered the end with horrible clarity. She had been trying to cast yet another healing spell, trying to close the hole in Joanna's heart. A Magistria had to take the pain of a wound into herself to heal, so Calliande had felt her daughter's agony, had felt how every breath had been a torment.

That meant she had felt it as the healing spell failed and Joanna died.

When Calliande remembered that, the grief threatened to erupt from her heart and consume her mind.

She knew she was not all right. She knew that the grief had broken something inside of her and it wasn't healing.

So, Calliande did not mind numbness. At least the numbness let her come close to functioning. She knew she needed to act, to do something, to resume her duties, to do anything to take her mind from how badly she had failed her daughter, but both the grief and the numbness left her paralyzed.

But now, for the first time in six months, she felt something other than sorrow or a numb stupor.

She felt alarmed.

It was like a dash of cold water across the face. Old reflexes, old instincts, came to the forefront of her exhausted mind. Calliande had fought in countless battles in two terrible wars across the centuries, and her magic rose at her alarm, both the power of the Well of Tarlion and the mantle of the Keeper.

She looked at the figure approaching the dais.

The cloaked man walked with a heavy limp, his left leg stiff, his staff clanging against the floor with every step. The Sight rose within Calliande, and she saw the power in the sword at her husband's belt, the magic in the soulblades of the Swordbearers scattered throughout the hall, and the aura radiating from the Well of Tarlion within the Tower of the Moon.

She also saw the magic surrounding the cloaked man.

She had never seen anything quite like it. One moment it reminded her of the aura of power that had surrounded Ardrhythain. Or it reminded her of the power that had radiated from the sword of the Dragon Knight. The instant after that, it reminded her of the fiery elemental magic her apprentice Antenora wielded with centuries-honed skill.

The cloaked man stopped halfway between the doors and the High King's dais, and by then a dozen Swordbearers had placed themselves between the cloaked man and the High King, hands resting on the hilts of their soulblades. Calliande looked for Ridmark and saw him standing a few yards away, his hand grasping Oathshield's hilt.

He had put himself between her and the children and the cloaked stranger.

Another new emotion went through her.

Fear. She had brought Gareth and Joachim here. Were they about to be in danger?

The fear hardened into resolution. Grief or not, sorrow or not, she was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, charged to defend the realm and its people from dark magic. If this cloaked man tried to hurt anyone in the hall, if he tried to hurt her sons, he would regret it.

She stepped to Ridmark's side, staff ready in her right hand.

Yet while the magic around the cloaked stranger was powerful and wild, she didn't think it was dark magic.

For a moment, no one said anything.

"Greetings," said Arandar at last. He descended from the dais, his footsteps ringing against the stone floor. "I am Arandar Pendragon, the High King of Andomhaim. If you come here in peace, stranger, then you are welcome. However, it would only be polite for you to introduce yourself."

The stranger's ragged brown cowl turned towards the High King.

"Polite?" he said at last. "It is the proper courtesy?"

His voice was deep and melodious, but there was a sharp rasp to it. It sounded as if his throat had been injured years ago and it had never healed quite right. He spoke Latin, but with a strange accent that Calliande had never heard before.

"Such is the custom of the men of Andomhaim," said Arandar. "Wearing a mask, or hiding your face, is considered a sign of ill intent."

"Yes, polite," said the cloaked man. "Such things are important. Forgive me, High Kingdom of Andomhaim. I have spent a very, very long time in my own company, and I sometimes forget the importance of such matters."

He reached up with his left hand, drawing back his cowl and throwing back his ragged cloak.

A shock of astonishment went through Calliande, and a murmur rose from the lords and knights.

The man was a high elf.

Except...that didn't seem quite right.

He had the pointed ears of the elven kindred, the sharp and alien features. His eyes were an eerie shade of gold, much like the eyes of many high elves Calliande had met. Yet every high elf Calliande had ever seen possessed an ancient, ageless quality. They looked young but obviously were not.

This man looked weathered and weary. Deep lines marked his face, and his hair was the color of cold gray iron. His skin looked as if he had spent a great deal of time under a cloudless sky, and it reminded Calliande of old leather. Calliande had never seen a high elf that looked so weary and battered.

Was he a dark elf? No, that didn't seem right either. The Warden and the Traveler and the other dark elves Calliande had seen had skin the color of chalk, their eyes filled with the void. This man, this elf, reminded Calliande of a veteran soldier, or perhaps a hunter who had spent decades wandering the wilds.

"A long time," said the strange elf. "A long time since I have been here. How it has changed!"

"You have visited Tarlion before, sir?" said Arandar.

"Tarlion?" said the elf. "Is that what you call your city?" He limped forward another step, the dragon staff clanging. "No. I have not been here for fifteen thousand years. Not since it was still called Cathair Tarlias, the Tower of the Moon. I am pleased the Tower still stands. It was a lovely building. Humans." He shook his head, the gray hair sliding against his neck. "I am surprised you are still all alive."

"Why is that?" said Arandar, with just a hint of threat in his voice.

"I thought the urdmordar would have killed you all," said the elf. "I thought that for the last five centuries, ever since I first encountered your kindred."

"Might we know your name, sir?" said Arandar. A dry note entered his voice. "At least among the kings of humans and orcs, it is customary to introduce oneself."

"Yes," said the elf. He limped forward another few steps, the staff clanging as he leaned upon it. "My name is Rhodruthain, the Guardian of Cathair Animus."

Cathair Animus? Calliande had never heard the name. She knew the name of a few high elven cities, but most of them had been destroyed by the dark elves or the urdmordar, and Cathair Solas was the last city of the high elves in the world.

"Do you come in peace, Guardian Rhodruthain of Cathair Animus?" said Arandar.

Rhodruthain limped another step forward, the Swordbearers watching him. As he drew closer, Calliande saw that he wore worn leather armor reinforced with bronze studs, dusty trousers, and battered boots that looked as if they had seen many, many miles.

Her eyes were drawn to the sword on his left hip.

The sword's hilt and pommel looked as if they had been forged from gold, which was ridiculous since gold was too soft to hold an edge. Perhaps it was some metal or alloy that Calliande had never encountered. There was a symbol on the pommel that she couldn't quite make out, and to her Sight, the sword all but blazed with a strange magical power she did not recognize.

"Yes," said Rhodruthain. "I come in peace, High King of Andomhaim. I do not wish harm to you or your kingdom or your kindred, nor to any of the kindreds under the shield of your authority."

"Then I greet you in peace, Guardian Rhodruthain," said Arandar. "Have you come as an emissary of your people?"

Rhodruthain laughed at that and rubbed his throat as if laughing pained him. "No. No, I do not. My people are not at all fond of me, High King of Andomhaim. I represent only myself."

"Then what is your business with the High King of Andomhaim?" said Arandar.

"I come with a warning for you," said Rhodruthain, "and a question."

"Then what is the warning, Guardian Rhodruthain?" said Arandar.

"The New God is coming."

"The New God?" said Arandar. "I fear you are mistaken, sir. There is only one God."

"Unquestionably," said Rhodruthain. "But there are creatures in our world who have so much power that they might as well be gods to you, and some of them believe that they ought to rule over you and everything else. And a new one is coming. The New God, or so its would-be devotees like to think. So, you must be ready, High King of Andomhaim."

"Then I thank you for the warning, Guardian," said Arandar, "though greater detail would be welcome."

"In time." Rhodruthain leaned on his staff for a moment, and then straightened up. "A question, though. I wish to speak with the Keeper of Andomhaim and the Shield Knight. Are they here?"

Calliande blinked in surprise.

Rhodruthain had come to speak with her and Ridmark? Why? For that matter, how did he even know of them?

Arandar looked at her. "Keeper?"

It had been a while since she had spoken with the emissary of a foreign power. To her mild surprise, the instincts had not faded. She settled her face into the cool mask of the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and aloof, her fingers tightening against the worn wood of the Keeper's staff.

How strange that she could make herself appear so calm when she didn't feel it.

Ridmark looked at her, and Calliande gave a shallow nod.

"Stay here with the boys," he murmured to Tindra and Octavius.

Calliande walked towards the strange elf, Ridmark at her side.

Rhodruthain's weary golden eyes turned towards them, and he nodded to himself.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I see. Ardrhythain must have partially unlocked the Well of Cathair Tarlias for your use. That explains your magical aura." His eyes flicked to Ridmark. "And a unique soulblade. Ardrhythain likely forged it for you. Little wonder the urdmordar failed to destroy your kingdom. Connmar should have waited a few more years. But the young are always impatient."

Connmar? She had heard that name before somewhere. No, she had read it. It was something from the history of Andomhaim...

"You seem familiar with us, sir," said Ridmark, "but we do not have a similar advantage."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" said Rhodruthain. "But you are right. I have an unfair advantage, I am afraid. She pointed me out to you."

"She?" said Calliande.

"The Guardian," said Rhodruthain.

Ridmark frowned. "I thought you were the Guardian."

"I am the Guardian of Cathair Animus," said Rhodruthain. "I am hardly the only one. There are Guardians of other places and other kindreds. She is one of them. And she sent me to you." He stared at them, the golden eyes unblinking, and then nodded. "I see why she chose you. Yes, I do. There is grief there, terrible grief, but strength."

Calliande began to wonder if Rhodruthain was completely sane. Something in his manner reminded her of the Sculptor or perhaps the Traveler. The Traveler had been violently insane, and the Sculptor had been methodically insane, but both dark elven lords had been mad and dangerous. Yet there didn't seem to be any malice within Rhodruthain.

But Calliande had been wrong before.

"Then what do you want with us?" said Ridmark.

"Do you love your children?" said Rhodruthain.

Years of experience kept Calliande's calm mask in place, but she saw Ridmark's hand curl into a fist.

"With all my heart," said Ridmark. "Is that a threat, Guardian?"

If it was, Rhodruthain of Cathair Animus would not leave Tarlion alive.

"No," said Rhodruthain. "No, it is not a threat. It is a warning. The New God is coming, and if it arises, it will kill your children. It will kill you both. It will kill everyone in this hall, and anyone who survives will be bound in slavery." He drew himself up. "That is my mission as the Guardian of Cathair Animus. That is my task. I must keep the New God from arising. She sent me to you, and I think she chose wisely."

"Then you have come to ask for our help?" said Calliande.

"Time," said Rhodruthain.

"I'm sorry?" said Calliande.

Rhodruthain rolled his shoulders, reached up with his free hand, and cracked his neck. Calliande had seen Ridmark do something similar a thousand times while getting ready to practice with a sword or a staff or while preparing for an actual fight.

Would Rhodruthain attack them? It seemed madness. He was surrounded by a score of Swordbearers and a dozen Magistri, to say nothing of the magic Calliande could bring to bear.

But if Rhodruthain was not sane...

"Forgive me," said Rhodruthain, "but there is not time. The hour of the New God draws near, and I am the only one who sees the danger." Magic began to burn before Calliande's Sight as Rhodruthain summoned arcane power. "I do what I do because I must. Because we must save your children from the horror that will be the New God."

"Stop him!" shouted Calliande. "He's casting a spell!"

The Swordbearers yanked their soulblades from their scabbards. The soulstones worked into the tangs glimmered with white light, but the weapons did not burst into flame. Whatever Rhodruthain was doing, it wasn't dark magic. Ridmark drew Oathshield as well and stepped forward, taking the sword in both hands. Calliande called her own magic and sent a shaft of white fire at Rhodruthain. It wouldn't hurt him, but it would collapse whatever spell he was trying to cast.

But the Guardian was ready for her. He made a sharp gesture with his free hand, and a ward of fiery light appeared around him. Calliande's attack struck the ward and collapsed it, her spell and Rhodruthain's ward canceling each other out.

Rhodruthain struck the end of his staff against the ground, and magic erupted from him.

It was a simple spell of elemental air, but it was effective.

A gust of wind exploded through the great hall of the Citadel, and it knocked over the Swordbearers and knights and lords like stalks of grass. The wind caught Calliande, and she lost her balance, the staff of the Keeper clattering on the floor next to her. She saw Ridmark fall, saw his head hit the stone floor with far more force than was safe.

Fear for him flooded through her. Calliande had barely kept herself together over the last year, but without Ridmark, she would have collapsed entirely. She heard Joachim start to cry, heard shouts of alarm go through the hall.

Calliande went to one knee, seized her staff, and started casting a spell, turning the full force of her will and magic towards Rhodruthain.

But the Guardian had already finished his spell.

He struck the end of his staff against the ground, and ribbons of harsh blue light ripped from the staff and shot across the hall. One of the ribbons struck Ridmark and coiled around him, encasing him in a shell of blazing blue light. Two more shot past Calliande and struck Gareth and Joachim, and Joachim's cries came to an abrupt halt as the blue light engulfed him.

He was attacking her children!

Blind rage howled through Calliande, and she poured all her fury into her spell.

Before she could finish, one of the ribbons of blue light struck her in the chest. Blue light filled the world, even as agony erupted through her limbs, and Calliande screamed.

And then everything went black.

***

## Chapter 3: Battlefield

Images drifted through Ridmark's mind.

He saw faces from his past, defeated enemies standing before him. Gothalinzur, the urdmordar he had slain in his first year as a Swordbearer, the urdmordar who had warned him the Frostborn would return. The cold, bloodless face of the Warden, who had used Ridmark as a pawn and nearly freed himself from Urd Morlemoch. Tymandain Shadowbearer, his face half-burned from Calliande's fire, his quicksilver eyes narrowed as he ranted and raved at Ridmark. Mournacht and the Weaver, Tarrabus and Imaria, Prince Kurdulkar and the Seeker Arlmagnava, the faces of his defeated enemies drifted before his mind.

Then he remembered Calliande sobbing uncontrollably as she bent over the small, motionless form in her arms.

Pain burned through him at the sight, and then for a moment, he knew nothing more.

And then Ridmark saw...he saw...

The ocean?

It was an ocean, anyway. It stretched away in all directions as far as he could see without a trace of land.

Odd thing to dream about, that.

Once more Ridmark drifted away.

Then he saw land before him, mountains and deserts and grassy plains, rough hills and jungles and a broad, sluggish river. White ruins jutted from the earth, and he saw cities built around towering pyramids, strange scaled creatures moving through them. Orcs and humans and halflings blurred before his sight, and then he saw a proud lord of the dark elves clad in blue armor, a sword of mist and ice in his right hand.

"I am sorry to do it this way, Shield Knight of Andomhaim," said a rusty voice. Ridmark recognized it. Rhodruthain? "But it is necessary. It is to save the lives of your children. Their lives, and all the lives of the children who will ever be."

The voice and the vision faded, and Ridmark knew nothing more.

Bit by bit his mind came back to awareness.

He did not feel good.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. It had been a mild spring day, but now he was uncomfortably hot, and he felt the blazing sun overhead. His back and shoulders ached from lying on the hard ground. And by God and the apostles and all the saints, he had a headache. Ridmark had been hit in the head, more times than he wanted to remember (and despite the blows to the head he could remember them all), and this felt like a hangover combined with a sharp blow to the back of the head.

In fact, he had hit his head, hadn't he? That mad elven wizard had cast a spell, and Ridmark had fallen and hit his head...

And Calliande and the children were only a few yards away.

Alarm surged through Ridmark, and headache or no headache, he surged to his feet and reached for Oathshield's hilt.

And then sheer amazement drowned out his alarm.

Ridmark wasn't in the Citadel any more.

He wasn't in Tarlion.

In fact, he had no idea where he was, but he didn't think it was anywhere near Tarlion.

To the east the morning sun climbed its way into the sky, revealing a landscape of rocky hills and broad, shallow valleys. Tough brownish-yellow grasses grew in the valleys, and small trees dotted the rough slopes. To the west Ridmark saw a bay that opened into the wide sea, waves smashing against a rocky beach. The air smelled of salt and dust, though he also smelled smoke and...

Blood? Was that it?

He felt the back of his head. It was sore, but there was no blood back there, only sweat. Well, the blood wasn't his own. But was it Calliande's? Or the children's?

Ridmark looked around, but he saw no sign of any other living creature.

For a moment, the unreality of the situation threatened to overwhelm him. One moment he had been in the great hall of the Citadel, and the next he was...here, wherever here was. Was this a dream? No, that didn't make sense. If this was a dream, his head and his shoulders wouldn't hurt so damned much.

"Calliande?" shouted Ridmark, turning in a circle. "Gareth? Joachim?"

Only the echoes of his voice answered him.

"Rhodruthain?" Ridmark shouted. "Show yourself!"

The echoes of his voice faded away.

Ridmark's hand curled into a fist, and he forced himself to stop and think. It was entirely possible that Calliande and his sons were in danger. Before he had fallen unconscious, Ridmark had seen those ribbons of blue light strike Calliande and Joachim and Gareth. Whatever had happened to Ridmark had likely also happened to them.

So. What had happened to Ridmark?

The most probable explanation was that Rhodruthain had transported him somewhere through magic. Ardrhythain and Tymandain Shadowbearer had been able to travel instantly from place to place through magic, though the Warden had told him that humans could not travel that way without losing their sanity.

Ridmark didn't feel insane. He felt worried, confused, and very angry. Come to think of it, he knew that soulstones blocked magical travel, and he had been holding Oathshield when Rhodruthain had cast his spell...

He blinked. The sword wasn't in his hand now, and the scabbard at his hip was empty. He looked around but saw no trace of the weapon on the ground.

"Damn it," muttered Ridmark.

Had he dropped his soulblade? Finding himself in a strange land was bad enough. Finding himself in a strange land with no weapon other than the dwarven dagger at his belt was much worse. Ridmark reached for his bond with the soulblade, concentrating through his headache. His link with Oathshield meant he could sense the weapon wherever it was. Perhaps Rhodruthain had brought it with him, or stolen the sword.

Ridmark blinked.

To his surprise, Oathshield was not that far away. Maybe two or three miles away to the north? Ridmark looked in that direction and saw nothing but more rocky, scrubby hills.

No. Wait.

A few plumes of smoke rose against the blue sky in that direction, stark and black. Likely that was the source of the smoke Ridmark had smelled. And the blood, maybe?

Ridmark took a deep breath. For the next few moments, at least, his path was clear. He needed to retrieve Oathshield, and he needed to find Calliande and Gareth and Joachim. Ridmark had to assume that they had been brought here with him. Rhodruthain had said he had come to speak with the Shield Knight and the Keeper, and he had said he wanted to protect the children from this "New God" of his, whatever the hell that was.

Though Calliande and the children might be safer than Ridmark was. Calliande could find Gareth and Joachim anywhere. They were her flesh and blood, and the Sight meant she could locate them whenever she wished. She also still carried that dagger Ridmark had given her all those years ago at Dun Licinia, and she could use that to find him. It was possible that Calliande had already found the children and was looking for him even now.

A flicker of fresh unease went through Ridmark.

Calliande was not herself. She had not been herself since Joanna had died. Would she be able to pull herself together in a crisis? A year ago, Ridmark would have been utterly certain of it. Now, with the grief choking her mind like poison, he was not sure how Calliande would react to this.

That just meant Ridmark had to find Oathshield and his wife and children all the faster. Once that was accomplished, he could figure out where the hell he was, why Rhodruthain had brought him here, and what to do about it.

Ridmark turned north, looking at the distant smoke. Oathshield was in the direction of that smoke. Was he about to walk into a battle?

He supposed it was time to find out.

Ridmark took a deep breath and set off, walking with rapid strides over the rocky ground. He was surprised at how quickly the old reflexes of the Wilderland returned to him, the old habits of wariness and stealth. Ridmark had not gone alone into the wilderness since the defeat of the Frostborn, but the skills had not left him. He walked in silence, his boots making no sound against the ground, his eyes sweeping the hills for signs of enemies or tracks. Ridmark descended into one of the shallow valleys and saw a narrow stream flowing towards the ocean. That was good – they would need water if they were to survive here. Food could be found later. Ridmark did not recognize most of the plants, but if he located a bow he could hunt, and they could always try fishing in the ocean.

The smell of blood grew sharper, and as Ridmark climbed up the other side of the valley, he saw the first corpse.

A human man lay motionless next to a boulder, his blood seeping into the dirt. Ridmark took his dagger in his hand and drew closer to the corpse, watching for enemies, but nothing moved. The dead man looked a few years older than Ridmark, his body tough and lean. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth, and it looked as if he had been killed by an arrow through the chest.

Someone had pulled out the arrow.

Someone had also stolen the dead man's possessions. Ridmark saw the faint red marks of straps on the dead man's forearms and shoulders and shins. Unless Ridmark missed his guess, the dead man had been wearing armor, along with bracers and greaves and a helmet, and whoever had killed him had taken his armor and weapons.

The man could not have been dead for long. The wound in his chest leaked blood, and in this sun, a dead body would start putrefying after a few hours. Ridmark stepped back, scanning the ground, his alarm growing. If Calliande and Gareth and Joachim had landed in the middle of a battle...

Ridmark spotted the tracks in the dust. It looked as if the wounded man had staggered here and died, and his pursuers had come here to finish him off and steal his armor. And his pursuers...

He frowned.

The dead man's pursuers had not been human.

The tracks looked vaguely like the paws of rats, albeit rats the size of men. Ridmark had seen tracks like that before a long time ago when he had traveled in the Qazaluuskan Forest far to the east of Andomhaim. Had Rhodruthain's spell brought him to the lands beyond the Range of the manetaurs?

Ridmark put aside the thought and followed the paw tracks. He could worry about his location later, once he had found his family and his soulblade.

He followed the tracks and reached the top of the hill, and found himself looking at a battlefield.

A road wound its way along the hill's broad, flat top, heading to the north. The smoke came from a dozen wagons scattered along the road. A half-dozen of them had been torched, and though the flames had burned out, black smoke still billowed from the charred timbers. Dead human and orcish men lay scattered across the road, and all of them had been killed by sword blows or arrows.

Ridmark paused, surveying the scene.

The first odd thing he noticed was the animals.

The carts were big and heavy, and should have been pulled by draft horses or perhaps oxen. Instead, the animals in the traces looked like enormous, squat lizards with gray hides and stumpy legs. They had sharp black beaks for mouths, and bony shields that rose over their thick, short necks. The bony shields had not saved them, and all the animals had been killed by arrows or javelins. Ridmark had never seen creatures like them. They vaguely resembled the murrag lizards that populated the caverns of the Deeps, but Ridmark had never seen a murrag that large.

The second odd thing he noticed was the armor of the dead men.

Their armor had been fashioned of bronze.

Ridmark went to one knee next to a dead human. The man had been armored in a gleaming bronze cuirass, with bronze greaves and bronze bracers. A shield of wood and hide lay next to his left arm, and a bronze sword rested in the dust next to his hand.

Why use bronze for armor and swords? Steel was much stronger and could hold a sharper edge. Perhaps this man had been a ceremonial guard of some kind, the way the richer lords and knights of Andomhaim sometimes adorned their armor and swords with gold and gems. Yet their ceremonial armor and weapons were still made of steel.

Ridmark looked at few more of the corpses. All the humans wore bronze armor. Some of the orcs did, but many wore leather instead, thought they had axes with bronze heads and maces with stone heads. To judge from the position of the corpses, the orcs had attacked the humans. The orcs all had a strange tattoo on their faces, an inverted blue sword that covered the right cheek and jaw. Ridmark had a brand of a broken sword on the left side of his face, but he doubted the orcs' tattoos meant the same thing.

Ridmark needed a better weapon until he could find Oathshield. He disliked taking the weapons of the slain soldiers, but he needed a sword, and they no longer had any need of weapons. Ridmark lifted a bronze sword and tested the weight and grip. It was shorter than he would have liked, the balance different from his usual weapons, and he would have to make sure he didn't damage the softer metal against a cuirass of steel.

Then something caught his eye.

One of the carts had overturned, the dead lizard slumped in its traces. The cart's cargo of dozens of wooden poles had spilled across the road. Ridmark returned the bronze sword to its slain owner's hand, walked to the overturned cart, and picked up one of the poles.

He had never seen any wood quite like it. For one thing, the pole was hollow, and it looked as if it had grown that way rather than fashioned by a tool. For another, there were a series of ridges down the length of the pole, ridges that encircled it entirely. Ridmark found that the circular ridges made it easy to keep a grip on the pole.

How strong was it? Ridmark gave the pole an experimental swing against the side of the wagon. It landed with a crack, and while the pole flexed, it did not break. For all its lightness, it was much stronger than it looked.

The pole would make an admirable quarterstaff.

With his new staff in hand, Ridmark picked his way past the burning carts and the slain men, his eyes scanning the ground. As he moved forward, he saw more dead men and more dead orcs. It looked as if a running battle had taken place here. To judge from the tracks, a column of human soldiers had been escorting wagons. The human soldiers had given a good accounting of themselves, and Ridmark saw at least three times as many dead orcs as humans. But in the end, the greater number of orcs had gained the victory, and the survivors had fled to the east.

All this had likely happened while Rhodruthain had thrown open the gates of the great hall.

But who were the humans? Ridmark had traveled the length and breadth of Andomhaim, and much of the Wilderland, but he had never encountered humans who fought with bronze weapons. For that matter, he had seen dozens of tribes and nations of orcs in the Wilderland, and he had never seen an orcish nation that tattooed blue swords down the left sides of their faces.

Just where the devil had Rhodruthain sent him?

A flicker of motion caught Ridmark's eye, and he nodded to himself and kept walking, his hand tightening on the ridged surface of the staff. He might be in a strange land among strange people, but wars and battles were the same everywhere. Men fought and bled and died in battle.

And after the battle, there were always vultures looting the dead.

Ridmark took three quick steps to the left, the staff in his right hand, and a dark figure appeared from behind one of the wagons.

The creature stood about five and a half feet tall and looked like a gaunt black rat walking on its hind legs. Its black, beady eyes regarded Ridmark, and its front teeth looked like massive yellow chisels. Whiskers twitched next to its nose, and it had two ragged ears adorned with bronze and copper earrings. Its hands looked like a cross between a rat's paws and human hands, the fingers topped with long claws and thumbs that allowed the creature to grasp weapons and use tools. The creature wore leather armor, and it had a bronze sword in its right hand. A pink tail twitched back and forth behind it, as long and thick as Ridmark's arm. The smell of the creature, a mixture of greasy musk and rotting meat, flooded Ridmark's nostrils.

Ridmark had encountered creatures like this, long ago. It was called a muridach, and the muridachs dwelled in the Deeps, waging war on the kobolds and the deep orcs and the other kindreds that lived in the dark caverns. Few ever came to Andomhaim, but Ridmark had heard that the muridachs ruled vast cities in the Deeps, cities that seethed with muridachs the way a rat warren seethed with the rodents.

The creature almost certainly would not be alone, and it almost certainly would try to kill him and loot his corpse. And then eat it.

"Do you speak Latin?" said Ridmark.

The ratman tilted its head to the side and let out a chittering, squeaking laugh.

"Human tongue?" it said, its voice shockingly deep after the chittering laugh. "Few words. Not many. Orc-speak?"

"I do speak orcish," said Ridmark, switching to the language.

"The Sovereign's old tongue," said the muridach. "That is better." The Sovereign? "Are you a hoplite of King Hektor and the realm of Owyllain, human?"

"I am not," said Ridmark. "I know neither this King Hektor nor his realm of Owyllain."

The ratman let out that chittering laugh again. "Then you are indeed a renegade! Owyllain is not King Hektor's realm, but the realm of his brother. But the Master of the Arcanii murdered and killed the High King, and now the bearers of the Seven wage war against each other."

"I see," said Ridmark. He had no idea what the muridach was talking about, but he could guess what it was doing here. "And while the Seven fight each other, the muridachs grow fat upon the carrion of the battlefield?"

The muridach's whiskers twitched, and it laughed again. "Indeed! Indeed! Perhaps you think the same way, human?" It took a step closer. "That is very fine armor you wear."

Ridmark smiled and took a step to the right. "Is it? I hadn't noticed."

"It is fine armor of the dark elves," said the muridach. Ridmark glanced at the shadows on the road and noticed them shifting. "Very fine. Worthy of the Confessor himself, or one of his knights. Maybe even worthy of the old Sovereign himself! Perhaps you should give me that armor as a gift, yes? Since we are such good friends."

"I'm merely traveling," said Ridmark. "I don't suppose you have seen a woman and two children? The woman would have yellow hair and wear a green garment, and the two children would resemble her a great deal."

"No," said the muridach. "We have not seen any human females nor human whelps. Do you seek them? Perhaps you shall be reunited with them in the realm of death!"

The ratman's voice rose to roar at the final word, but Ridmark was ready.

He whirled, sweeping the strange staff before him, and as he had expected, the rest of the muridach scavengers had crept up behind him. There were three more of the creatures, all lean and gaunt and covered in greasy black fur. Like the first muridach, they all wore leather armor and carried short swords fashioned of bronze. They rushed at Ridmark, swords drawn back to stab. Likely they thought him unarmed. He was only carrying a wooden stick, after all, and a man with a stick was no threat to anyone.

Ridmark had thought the same way once. One of his father's common-born men-at-arms had taught him otherwise in a lesson that had broken no bones but left a great many bruises. Later, he had wandered the Wilderland as the Gray Knight, seeking atonement through death for his failure at Castra Marcaine. Stripped of the soulblade Heartwarden, he had used a wooden staff with an iron core as his main weapon for years.

In many ways, holding the strange staff felt like reuniting with an old friend.

Ridmark sidestepped, beat aside the stabs of the short bronze swords with a sweep of his staff, and swung again. His blow knocked the muridach on his right from its feet, and the creature went down with a shriek. Before it could recover, Ridmark drove the end of his staff into its throat with a crunch. The blow didn't kill the ratman, but it started thrashing as it tried to draw breath, and it would die before much longer.

Stunned by his sudden attack, the remaining two muridachs fell back, while the one behind him screeched in outrage and sprang forward, jaws yawning wide. Those nasty teeth were blunt, but no doubt the muridach could drive them with enough force to punch through flesh, and even if Ridmark survived the bite, he would likely die when the wound putrefied.

Best not to let it bite him, then.

Ridmark whirled again, both arms driving the blow of his staff. The blow caught the muridach in the chest as it tried to spring upon him, and the shock of the impact shot up Ridmark's arms and into his aching shoulders. But the muridach had the worse of the exchange, and the creature fell to the ground, wheezing as it tried to catch its breath. Ridmark jumped over the prone muridach and turned to face the other two ratmen.

Concern for their stunned leader did not slow them in the least, and the creatures came right at him. While concern didn't slow them, the stunned muridach's thrashing legs did, and the muridach on the left tripped. That gave Ridmark the opening he needed, and he slammed the end of his staff into the muridach's stomach. The muridach's mouth exploded open in a wheeze as the breath ripped from its lungs, and the stench of rotting meat flooded Ridmark's nostrils. He landed two sharp blows against the side of the muridach's head and heard something crack, and the ratman fell limp to the ground.

The last muridach on its feet stabbed at Ridmark, and he had no time to dodge. Instead, he stepped into the blow, trusting in his dark elven armor to protect him. The bronze blade of the muridach's sword was no match for the steel of the dark elves, and the blade rebounded from the armor without leaving a scratch. The muridach overbalanced, and Ridmark hit it in the face with the staff. The creature fell backward, and Ridmark drove the end of his staff into its throat.

The muridach leader had managed to get to its knees. The creature started to raise its short sword, its beady eyes bulging, and Ridmark hit it three times on the side of the head. On the third blow, it toppled over into the dust, blood leaking from its nose and ears.

Ridmark raised the staff and looked around, but all four muridachs were dead, and he saw no sign of any other foes.

He let out a long breath and lowered the staff.

It seemed that he had walked into the middle of someone else's war, with the bronze-armored humans fighting the blue-tattooed orcs, and the muridachs picking the bones of the slain. Well, that was not his concern. Ridmark's priority was to find Calliande and his sons. If the bronze-armored soldiers and the orcs left him alone, he would return the favor.

If they tried to harm Calliande and his sons, they would regret it.

For a moment, sick fear clutched at his heart. He and Calliande had already lost one child. Would they yet lose another? Would Ridmark lose her? God and the saints, that would be cruel. She had suffered so much over the last year.

Was she about to suffer some more?

His hand tightened against the ridged staff. There was only one cure for fear, and that was to face it. That meant retrieving Oathshield and then finding Calliande and his sons. And if Ridmark encountered a living orc or a human, perhaps he could learn something useful from them, or recruit them as allies.

Meanwhile, he could not allow fear to rule his reason. He could be of most use to his family by keeping a clear head, not by rushing off in a panic. Ridmark took a moment to search the nearest carts. He found a soldier's leather pack, loaded with hard bread and dried meat, and he took it. Ridmark also found a pair of waterskins, and he sniffed one and took a long drink from it. In this arid land, he suspected, water might be as valuable as gold.

Once he had secured the pack, he checked his link to Oathshield. The sword was still two or three miles to the north, and it hadn't moved during his fight with the muridachs.

Ridmark said a silent prayer to the Dominus Christus, asking him to watch over Calliande and Gareth and Joachim until Ridmark could find them again.

Then he set off to the north, staff in hand, eyes scanning the road and the hills for any sign of foes.

***

## Chapter 4: Fail Again

Calliande drifted through nothingness.

In a way, it was a relief. Nothingness meant she did not have to think about anything, did not have to feel anything because when she remembered things, she felt pain and sorrow and guilt.

Despite her wishes, the nothingness started to lift, and she began to remember.

Some of her memories were ancient, from centuries ago during the first war with the Frostborn. She remembered Ruth the Keeper and Kalomarus the Dragon Knight, the fury of the war against the Frostborn. Then the long sleep through the centuries beneath the Tower of Vigilance, and the second war against the Frostborn, the treachery of the Enlightened and the brutality of the civil war, the final desperate battle below the walls of Tarlion...

Ridmark.

She remembered Ridmark running through the fire to rescue her on the day she had met him, the day she had awakened powerless and lost below the Tower of Vigilance. The eight years of their marriage flashed before her mind. Before Ridmark, she had been alone. There had been friends, but she had been the Keeper of Andomhaim, alone in her duties, alone in her responsibilities, alone in her heart and in her bed. Then had come Ridmark, first the Dragon Knight and then the Shield Knight, and she was happy, so happy that he was her husband. Gareth had come, and then Joachim, and then...

Joanna.

Her thoughts were like a spinning wheel with a notch in the rim. No matter how hard she tried, her whirling mind always came back to Joanna, to the moment her daughter had died in her arms, the moment when her healing magic had failed. Calliande had sobbed in Ridmark's arms, even as she sobbed now...

Wait. She wasn't crying right now.

Instead, Calliande was lying on the rocky ground, the air hot against her face. Someone else was crying. Joachim, that was it, Joachim was crying. And there was a smell, a vile reek, a mixture of rotting flesh and something that smelled like musky fur...

"Get back!" shouted Gareth. He was trying to sound threatening, but it only came across as terrified. "I told you to get back!"

Something was frightening her children.

That thought turned her grief and numbness into wrath, and Calliande exploded back to consciousness, sitting up and calling magic to her will.

Sunlight stabbed into her eyes, and a strange scene greeted her.

She wasn't in the Citadel. For that matter, she wasn't in Tarlion. She sat in a shallow valley between low, rocky hills, a small creek trickling its way towards a sea in the distance. The sun blazed overhead in the cloudless sky. Joachim squatted next to her, crying and clutching her hand. Gareth stood before her, his small hands balled into fists, his face working as he tried to scowl.

A creature stood before them.

It looked like a man-sized black rat. It stood about Calliande's height, with vicious-looking yellow teeth, beady black eyes, and vibrating whiskers. A thick pink tail coiled and uncoiled behind it. The ratman wore leather armor, and in its right hand, it held a short sword of bronze.

Calliande had never seen a creature like that before, but a memory stirred. Ridmark had told her about his journeys before he had met her, his mad quests into the Qazaluuskan Forest to speak with the Elder Shamans of the bone orcs. During that journey, he had met and fought rat-like creatures that called themselves the...what had it been?

Muridachs, that was it. The thing standing before her was a muridach.

The ratman's black eyes shifted towards her.

"I told you to get back!" said Gareth.

"Gareth, Gareth," said Calliande, scrambling to her feet and grabbing her staff as she stood. "I'm here. Get behind me."

He was trying so hard to be brave, but he quickly stepped behind her.

The ratman stared at her.

"Who are you?" said Calliande. "Do you speak Latin?"

It was hard to make out expressions on the muridach's furred face, but it turned its head and spat in the dust. "Human words. Bah! Stupid language."

"Orcish, then?" said Calliande, changing to that language.

The muridach blinked. "The tongue of the green ones?" Its orcish was accented, but otherwise comprehensible. "Pity you soft pink ones cannot speak a proper language. But that is just as well."

"Who are you?" said Calliande again.

The muridach sniffed in her direction. "You smell...hmm, not sick, but weak. But you look young enough to bear a whelp or two yet. We shall fetch a decent price for you in Urd Maelwyn."

"Will you, now?" said Calliande. "How very flattering."

"You will come with me without a struggle, human female," said the muridach. "Else I shall inflict pain on your whelps until you comply."

Her angered hardened into something deadly.

"I'll give you one warning," said Calliande, pointing her staff at the creature. "Let us go in peace. Or else I will defend myself."

The muridach let out a high-pitched, chittering laugh, at odds to its deep voice. "With your stick? Human females are too weak to fight muridachs! Perhaps once I bite off a finger or two from your youngest whelp, you will learn to obey."

The muridach took a step towards Joachim.

A second later the muridach fell dead to the ground, smoke rising from the crater that Calliande's spell of elemental fire had blasted into its chest. Joachim and Gareth gaped at the corpse, and then looked up at her.

For a moment, no one spoke.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," said Calliande at last. "It was threatening to capture us and sell us as slaves."

"I...I understood some of what it said," said Gareth, staring at the dead muridach. "I see why Father wanted me to learn orcish."

"I didn't know there were such things as rat people," said Joachim. He was too stunned to cry.

"They're called muridachs," said Calliande, trying to bring some order to her thoughts. "I have never seen one, but your father fought them a long time ago."

"Then Father must have beaten them," said Joachim.

"Did it come back for revenge?" said Gareth.

"I..." started Calliande.

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked around.

Just where had Rhodruthain taken them?

She had traveled nearly everywhere in Andomhaim, and it didn't look like any terrain anywhere in the High King's realm. Calliande's first thought was that the hills looked like the foothills of the Lion Mountains, or maybe the hills of western Durandis, but it wasn't this dry in either Durandis or Caertigris. Rhodruthain had transported them somewhere through magic, that was obvious.

But where?

"Where's Father?" said Joachim.

Calliande looked around and realized that she could see no sign of Ridmark anywhere. For an instant sheer dread paralyzed her. Had Rhodruthain killed him? God and the saints, if Ridmark was dead, what would she do? How could she carry on without him?

Then she felt foolish. Her dagger was still at her belt. Ridmark had given that dagger to her a long time ago, and Calliande had used it to save her life from an enemy. That had given a dagger a link to him, which meant she could use it to locate him.

"Wait a moment," said Calliande, grasping the dagger's hilt. "I'll find him."

She closed her eyes, concentrated, and cast the spell.

At once she felt his presence. The spell let her get a general sense of him, and relief flooded through her. He was alive and unharmed, and he was...

She blinked a few times.

Not all that far from here, actually.

"He's about...ten or eleven miles that way, I think," said Calliande, pointing towards the far side of the valley. "That would be," she glanced at the sun, "south."

"But he's not hurt?" said Gareth.

"No," said Calliande. "He's not. We should join him at once. We..."

She looked at her sons, the realization of a problem working its way into her mind. A walk of ten miles over rough terrain did not daunt her at all, even after the strain on her health of the last year. Given how often she had to travel for her duties as Keeper, she had grown used to it. But the children?

Gareth might be able to manage it. Certainly, he would take it as a point of pride not to complain. But Joachim was only three. She doubted he could manage a ten-mile walk. She would have to carry him for at least part of the way, and they would have to rest often...

"Mother?" said Gareth.

"Yes?" said Calliande, shaken out of her thoughts.

"What happened to us?"

Now that was a good question.

"I don't know," said Calliande. An idea came to her, a way to head towards Ridmark and keep the children distracted from their fears at the same time. "But this is what we're going to do. We're going to find your father, and while we do, we'll figure out where we are and what happened to us. Are you ready to help me with that?" Both boys nodded. "Then follow me. Stay close, don't go running off, and tell me if you see anything strange."

She started across the valley, Gareth and Joachim following her. Calliande's heart screamed for her to go faster, but she kept her strides slow to match pace with the boys' shorter legs. Despite the grim situation, a flicker of amusement went through her. Maybe this was how Ridmark had felt while waiting for the others to catch up to him during their journeys to Urd Morlemoch and Dragonfall.

Urd Maelwyn, though. The dead muridach had mentioned that name. Calliande had never heard of it, but it was almost certainly the name of a dark elven city. Had the muridach been in service to a dark elven prince?

"I'm thirsty," said Joachim.

"When we stop to rest, I'll summon some ice and melt it for us to drink," said Calliande.

"Can I drink some of that water over there?" said Joachim, waving a hand at the sea.

"That's seawater," said Gareth. "It will make you sick."

"Oh." Joachim thought about that. "How did you know it was seawater?"

"Can't you smell the salt?"

Joachim wrinkled his nose. "I couldn't smell anything except the rat-monster that Mother killed. I think it really needed a bath."

"I will not argue," said Calliande. The problem of food and water weighed on her mind. Had Rhodruthain dumped them into a desert? The muridach had been here, though, and the creature didn't look starved. With the magic of elemental water, Calliande could solve the problem of drinking water, and Ridmark had considerable skill as a hunter, so they could at least survive. "But right now, I want us to figure out how we got here and why."

She needed to think, and listening to the boys' questions would help her to do that. She wanted to shield her sons from the harsh truths of life as long as she could, but they were all in danger together, and the boys had to understand that. Besides, children had a knack for asking obvious questions that cut to the heart of the matter.

"That wizard," said Joachim. "The wizard with the dragon staff. His magic brought us here."

"Rhodruthain," said Gareth. He managed to pronounce the name right. "Was he a high elf, Mother?"

"No," said Calliande. "At least, I don't think so. He wasn't like any high elf I had ever seen."

"Then he was a dark elf," said Gareth. "Like the ones you and Father fought."

"No," said Calliande. "I don't think he was a dark elf, either."

"Maybe he was a new kind of elf?" said Joachim.

Calliande opened her mouth to say there were no other kinds of elves...and then she closed it.

Maybe there were other kindreds of elves. How would Calliande know? She had traveled through all Andomhaim, much of the Wilderland, and the Range of the manetaurs, but she knew there were lands and nations beyond those. Ardrhythain had spoken of continents and civilizations beyond the sea that would be devastated if the Frostborn had prevailed.

Was this one of those continents?

That was an uneasy thought. As far as Calliande knew, no one had ever crossed the sea and survived. The navigational skill of the men of Andomhaim was not up to the task, and none of the other kindreds seemed interested in traveling by sea either. Some ships had left at various times during the history of Andomhaim, seeking new lands, but none had ever returned...

"Wait," said Calliande. "Connmar."

"What's a Connmar?" said Joachim.

"It's a name from history," said Calliande. "Connmar Pendragon, the younger brother of the High King during the war with the urdmordar. Before the Two Orders were founded, Connmar despaired of victory and believed mankind was doomed. He built a fleet, gathered his followers, and set sail. He was never seen again, nor were any of his ships, and then Ardrhythain founded the Swordbearers and the Magistri."

Gareth looked fascinated by the history. Joachim only seemed confused. Right now, Calliande supposed, it didn't matter. Though if Rhodruthain had met Connmar Pendragon at some point, that would explain how Rhodruthain knew Latin.

"But why did Rhodruthain bring us here?" said Gareth.

"A quest!" said Joachim. "He asked for the Keeper and the Shield Knight. That's Mama and Papa. He must want you to go on a quest for him." He brightened. "Like that bard sang at the High King's hall before you got sick."

Calliande suppressed a grimace at the memory. A few weeks before Joanna's premature birth, she had felt well enough to attend a banquet at the High King's Citadel, and there had been bards. One of the bards, no doubt hoping to flatter the Keeper and the Shield Knight, had sung of Calliande's first journey to Cathair Solas with Kalomarus and the Swordbearers. Not only had the bard managed to get every single detail wrong, but it also reminded Calliande of the men who had died on the journey and how the sword of the Dragon Knight had almost killed Ridmark. It had put Calliande into a foul mood, but Joachim had been enchanted.

But Joachim had a point. Rhodruthain had been looking for the Keeper and the Shield Knight.

"If he wanted Mother and Father to go on a quest," said Gareth, "maybe he should have asked politely."

"That would have been preferable," said Calliande. If Rhodruthain wanted help, this was exactly the wrong way to go about it. Why dump them here in this strange land?

And why bring the children along with them?

A shiver of fury went through Calliande. Whether well-intentioned or not, Rhodruthain had put her sons in danger, and she would not forget that. Or maybe he had intended to snatch away Calliande and Ridmark from the Citadel, leaving Gareth and Joachim behind. That might have been worse. Calliande would not know if her children were safe, and they would not know what had happened to their mother and father.

She knew firsthand what it felt like to lose her parents, and the thought that Rhodruthain might have inflicted that deliberately on her sons...

Her hand tightened against the staff of the Keeper.

Rhodruthain had caught her off guard once before. She had been weighed down with the numbness of her grief, and Calliande cursed herself as a fool for it. She had failed her daughter. She would not fail her sons. And the next time Rhodruthain showed himself, she would be ready for him.

They reached the far end of the valley and started up the slope. Joachim asked if he could rest for a bit, and Calliande nodded and let him sit. Gareth did not ask if he could rest, but he sat down nonetheless. She stood watch over them and touched the dagger again, casting the spell to find Ridmark. He was closer than he had been, maybe eight miles to the south, and he seemed to be moving in their direction. Calliande glanced at the boys, decided to give them a few more minutes, and then reached for the Sight, sweeping it around her.

She did not like what it revealed to her.

There were magical echoes around her, the fading presence of spells. Except those echoes never lasted very long, which meant that someone had used a great deal of magical power here recently. Some of the echoes were elemental, the traces of spells of fire and air and water, but others were dark, colder, and swam with corruption.

Someone had used necromantic magic nearby recently.

Calliande looked at her sons. She wanted to shield them from the cruelties that humans inflicted on each other, but there were worse things than humans loose in the world. Calliande had fought the wrath of an urdmordar, the powerful sorcery of a dark elven lord, the madness of an orcish shaman, and the corrupted shadows of the Enlightened.

Was such a creature nearby?

"I think we should keep going," said Calliande. "The sooner we find your father, the better."

And the sooner they rejoined Ridmark and his soulblade, the better chance they would have against whatever had used necromantic magic nearby.

The urgency in her voice must have reached their ears. For once, both Gareth and Joachim stood up without any complaining, and Calliande led the way up the slope, choosing her steps carefully in her long skirt. At least she had her staff to help her keep balance. She felt herself starting to sweat as she climbed, and before too much longer, she might become light-headed. As soon as they reached the top of the hill, she would use a spell of elemental water to create some ice, and then melt it with elemental fire. All three of them could drink their fill.

"Is something burning?" said Gareth. "I smell smoke."

"I think it's me," said Joachim. "It's so hot!"

"Something is burning," said Calliande, her voice grim. "When we get to the top of the hill, I'll go first."

They climbed in silence, and Calliande saw several plumes of smoke rising into the cloudless sky. Her nose also detected the familiar scent of a battlefield, a mixture of blood and dust and spilled bowels.

"What is that smell?" said Joachim, his voice a tired whine.

"A battle," said Calliande. She turned, tucked her staff into the crook of her arm, and grabbed Joachim's shoulder and Gareth's shoulder. "Listen to me carefully. I think we're in danger. Do exactly what I tell you, and don't make any noise. Do you both understand?"

The boys nodded. Gareth looked solemn. Joachim's eyes were wide and starting to brim with tears, but he nodded as well. Any other time, Calliande knew, he might have thrown a tantrum until Ridmark brought him to heel. Her husband had always been good at getting other people to follow his lead, and she had been amused (and relieved) to see that their sons were not an exception.

Ridmark wasn't here, but Joachim was holding himself together. Perhaps some of the danger of the situation had penetrated his young mind.

"All right," said Calliande. "Follow me and stay quiet."

She started up the slope, slowly, her magic and the Sight held ready. Perversely, the slope grew steeper as it reached the top, and the last few steps were a struggle.

Then Calliande found herself looking at a battlefield.

The land at the top of the hill was flat, though she saw more rocky hills stretching away to the east and the south. A road cut through the flat land, patches of scrubby grass and short trees growing here and there. The smoke came from a half-dozen of the small trees, which had been burned to charcoal. Dozens of dead orcs lay sprawled on the ground, surrounding a smaller number of slain human men.

"Are...are they all dead?" said Joachim in a small voice.

"Yes," said Calliande. She cursed Rhodruthain that her sons had to see this at such a young age, and then focused on the slain men. Most of the orcs wore leather armor, though a few had coats of bronze ring mail, and all of them had an odd tattoo of a blue sword down the left sides of their faces. The dead human men had been wearing cuirasses and helmets of bronze, spears with bronze heads in their hands. She wasn't sure, but it looked as if they had been trying to form a shield wall when they had been overwhelmed and killed.

Quite a few of the orcs looked as if they had been burned. Calliande's Sight caught the lingering aura of elemental fire over their corpses. That meant whoever had been using fire magic had been fighting on the side of the humans.

A flicker of motion caught her eye.

"Get behind me," said Calliande, and the boys obeyed.

On the other side of the road lay a large heap of piled boulders, and orcish warriors emerged from behind it, about twenty of them. They looked much like the dead orcish warriors, with deep green skin, black hair bound in topknots, thick tusks rising from their lower jaws, their features coarse and rough by human standards. The orcs all had black eyes, and those eyes were beginning to glimmer red with the battle rage of orcish blood.

All the orcs had those blue sword tattoos on the left side of their faces. They carried a mixture of swords and axes and spears, and Calliande saw with surprise that the blades had been fashioned of bronze. Why bronze? It might have been a pretty metal, but as a weapon, the alloy was inferior to steel.

One of the orcs held up a hand, and the others stopped.

"Children?" rumbled one of the warriors, speaking the orcish tongue.

"And a noblewoman," said a second.

"Her costume is strange for a woman of Owyllain," said a third.

Owyllain? Calliande had never heard that name.

"Listen to me!" Calliande shouted in orcish, and the orcs looked at her. "I only wish to pass through in peace." Had the orcs attacked Ridmark? "Let me go, and I will let you go."

The leader snorted with amusement. He was older than the others, his face and arms marked with faded scars. "And if we don't?"

"I don't want to kill you," said Calliande, "but I will."

The leader snorted. "With a stick and a dagger? Unlikely."

"She might be another damned Arcanius, Torzul," said a warrior.

"I doubt it," said Torzul. "The Arcanii don't bother with words when they can fight. Take all three of them. Archaelon wants slaves for his sorcery, so he can have them."

The tattooed orcs started forward, and Calliande attacked first.

She struck the ground with the end of her staff, unleashing a spell of elemental earth backed by the magic of the Keeper's mantle. The ground folded and heaved and knocked the orcish warriors from their feet. Bellows of fury rose from the warriors, and before they could react, Calliande cast another spell, one she had seen Morigna use many times all those years ago. White mist swept across the orcs, and any orc who breathed it fell unconscious.

"Take her!" roared Torzul, surging back to his feet. A half dozen of the orcs aimed short bows at her and Calliande cast another spell, drawing on the magic of the Well of Tarlion. A ward against weapons of metal sprang into existence before her, taking the form of a shimmering dome of translucent light, and the bronze-tipped arrows shattered against the ward.

She drew together power to strike again, and then she made a mistake.

Calliande's ward had been shaped to deflect metal weapons, and it served admirably. But it did nothing against stone or clay, and she glimpsed one of the orcs whirling something above his head.

A sling.

She started to dodge, calling more power, and that was the only thing that saved her life. The sling bullet of fired clay that would have landed in the center of her forehead instead clipped her left temple. Even so, it struck with terrific force, and pain exploded through Calliande's head and down her neck and into her back as the impact spun her around, worse than any pain she had felt since Joanna's birth had started prematurely.

She staggered back, trying to catch her balance, and found that she could not stop herself. Calliande fell backward off the edge of the hill, rolled until she struck a boulder, and stopped. She tried to pull healing magic into herself, but her thoughts were fuzzy, cloudy, and she could not seem to focus her will.

There was something hot and wet on her face. Blood, that was it.

For a moment, she wasn't aware of anything.

"Mother!" shrieked a voice. "Mother! Mother! Mother!"

Joachim, that was it.

Her sons needed her!

Calliande tried to stand, tried even to move. She had failed Joanna. She could not fail Gareth and Joachim.

But she could not summon the strength.

She heard Joachim screaming, heard Gareth shouting, the sudden sound of a fist striking flesh.

"What about the female?" said a rough voice in orcish.

"You cracked her skull, you idiot," said Torzul. "She's bleeding from her damned ears. If she doesn't die in another hour, she'll have lost her wits."

"Don't blame me!" snarled the warrior. "You saw her magic. If I hadn't hit her she'd have killed us all."

Torzul grunted, conceding the point. "True enough. Leave her there. We need to get back to Castra Chaeldon. The Thunderbolt's still out there, but Archaelon and his pet Champion can deal with him. Leave the female for the muridachs. Maybe the damned rats will appreciate a warm meal for once."

She heard Joachim's shrill, terrified cries.

Calliande struggled to reach for them. She could not fail her sons as she had failed her daughter.

But everything went black.

***

## Chapter 5: The Prisoner

Once more, Ridmark saw the signs of recent fighting along the road.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he knew what had happened. It looked as if a large force of human soldiers had been heading north, escorting dozens of those lizard-pulled carts. They had been attacked by a force of blue-tattooed orcs that struck from the east and the west simultaneously, and the attack had shattered the column. The fighting had turned into a dozen smaller battles, and one by one the less-organized orcs had overwhelmed their better-armored human foes.

Judging from the footprints, it also seemed the orcs had taken a great many captives north.

Were Calliande and the children among those captives? It seemed unlikely. Calliande could have fended off a small army by herself. Yet ill fortune could rule a battle. A single arrow that caught her by surprise...

His fingers tightened against his staff.

No, he couldn't dwell on that, not now.

He needed to find Oathshield, and once he had his soulblade, he could defend his family from nearly anything. It was also possible that Calliande and the children were still safe in Tarlion. Ridmark found he would prefer that, though the agony of not knowing their fate would be nearly intolerable.

He kept moving north, scanning the occasional wrecked cart and the boulders alongside the road for any sign of foes. Nothing moved, and he did not see any muridachs lurking among the dead. Maybe the group he had killed had been only an isolated band of scavengers.

Maybe the best looting was elsewhere.

Nevertheless, Oathshield was close. Ridmark thought the sword was only another mile to the north. He wondered why it had arrived so far away from him. It had been in his hand when Rhodruthain's spell had struck him.

Perhaps Rhodruthain was simply incompetent.

Ahead Ridmark saw a flash of red.

He paused for a moment and then realized it was a ragged banner flying from a spear driven into the middle of the road. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was a massive crimson banner adorned with the symbol of a golden helmet with a T-shaped slit for the eyes and nose and mouth. Ridmark had seen the design before somewhere. A Corinthian helmet, that was it. The ancient Greeks upon Old Earth had worn helmets like that as their city-states went to war.

Why was a Corinthian helmet used as a sigil upon a banner here?

It looked as if a last stand had taken place beneath the ragged banner. A score of dead men lay at the foot of the banner, surrounded by twice as many slain orcish warriors. Ridmark moved closer, staff ready. The dead men had finer armor than those he had seen otherwise, with inlays of gold and silver over the bronze.

One of the dead men moved, his head turning towards Ridmark.

No, he wasn't dead. He was just wounded. And he was the first living human Ridmark had seen since arriving here.

He hurried forward, stepping past the slain, and looked at the wounded man.

The man was at least sixty years old, lean and tough, the lines deep in his weathered face. An axe blow had shattered the center of his bronze cuirass, and Ridmark saw at once the wound was mortal. It was nothing short of miraculous that the man was still alive. Oathshield had limited power to heal wounds, but it wouldn't have been any use here. Calliande herself might not have been able to heal this.

The man looked at Ridmark, his eyes bloodshot. He jerked, trying to lift his bronze sword, but his limbs had no strength left.

"Can you understand me?" said Ridmark in Latin.

It took three tries for the old man to get the word out. "Water."

Ridmark nodded and knelt next to the dying man, lifting one of his waterskins to the man's lips. The man managed a few swallows and slumped back with a sigh, fresh sweat beading on his forehead.

"Thank you," he croaked. "I'm dying as a failure. Least...least I'm not dying thirsty now."

"Who are you?" said Ridmark.

The man's breathing was coming faster and shallower, and every breath seemed to pain him. "I am Sir Tyromon Amphilus, a Companion of King Hektor Pendragon of Aenesium." He spoke the title with obvious pride, despite his pain.

Hektor Pendragon? As far as Ridmark knew, there were only four living people with the right to the name of Pendragon – Arandar, his wife Cearowyn, and his children Accolon and Nyvane.

"Where am I?" said Ridmark.

Tyromon snorted. "You don't know?"

"I don't," said Ridmark.

"This is...this is the road from Aenesium to Castra Chaeldon. Go far enough north, and you'll come to the city of Cytheria and King Justin Cyros's lands," croaked Tyromon. "The damned traitor."

Ridmark had heard none of those names before and had no idea who King Justin Cyros was.

"But where am I?" said Ridmark. "What is the name of this land?"

For a moment, bewilderment overruled pain on the old knight's face. "You truly do not know?"

Ridmark shook his head.

"This is the Nine Cities, the realm of the Nine Kings of Owyllain, ruled by the Pendragon High King in the city of Aenesium," said Tyromon. "At least, it used to be. Then that harlot Talitha betrayed High King Kothlaric, and the Seven Swords appeared, and..."

Tyromon winced and closed his eyes. He went rigid, and Ridmark feared that death had claimed the old warrior.

"Who are you?" said Tyromon. "I have not long until I stand before the judgment seat of the Dominus Christus, and it seems my vision becomes clearer. You wear the armor of a dark elven lord, yet you have the brand of a coward upon your left cheek, and while you speak Latin, your accent is strange."

"My name is Ridmark Arban. I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim."

"Andomhaim?" said Tyromon, blinking. "No, impossible. The urdmordar destroyed Andomhaim long before our ancestors came here." His voice was growing fainter.

"An elven wizard called Rhodruthain brought me here," said Ridmark.

That brought a blaze of wrath to Tyromon's face. "Rhodruthain? Are you certain?"

"Entirely," said Ridmark. "He carried a staff of red gold with its end shaped into a dragon's head."

"He betrayed us," said Tyromon. "High King Kothlaric defeated the Sovereign and scattered his hosts, but the Master Talitha and the Guardian betrayed us. This damned war could have been averted."

"What happened here?" said Ridmark.

"We were betrayed," said Tyromon. "King Hektor sent us to reinforce the Arcanius Knight Archaelon at Castra Chaeldon. But that scoundrel Archaelon has betrayed us and sided with the Confessor. The Confessor's soldiers ambushed us, and we were overwhelmed. The orcs took many prisoners and carried them off to the castra. I fear...I fear for their fate. Archaelon has turned to necromancy."

He shuddered again, sweat pouring down his face.

"Listen to me," said Ridmark. "Rhodruthain brought my wife and children here as well. A blond woman in a green dress and two small boys. Have you seen them?"

"No," croaked Tyromon. "Only...one woman. Not her." His shaking hands grasped his sword hilt, reversed the weapon, and offered it to Ridmark. "Take...take my sword. Give it...give it to King Hektor. Tell him that I am sorry. Tell him that Archaelon is a traitor."

"If it is within my power, I will tell your king," said Ridmark, "and I will tell him that you died fighting as a knight should."

Tyromon sighed, slumped against the ground, and stopped breathing.

Ridmark gazed at the dead knight for a moment, and then reached down and closed his eyes. He knew nothing about Tyromon Amphilus, and nothing about this realm of the Nine Cities of Owyllain and the wars of which Sir Tyromon had spoken, but Ridmark suspected a brave and valiant knight had just passed.

He reached removed the scabbard from the old man's belt and sheathed the bronze blade. Ridmark's first priority was his wife and children. But if the opportunity came, he would make sure that Sir Tyromon's blade and final message returned to his king. And at least Ridmark had learned more about this place. He had never heard of Owyllain nor of Aenesium or any of the other cities that Tyromon had mentioned, but perhaps Calliande would know more.

First, he had to find her.

Again, Ridmark reached for his bond with the soulblade. Oathshield was less than a mile away now. He hooked Tyromon's scabbard to his belt and started forward, picking his way past the corpses that dotted the road.

After about three-quarters of a mile, Ridmark heard rough voices raised in argument.

He slowed his pace, moving from boulder to boulder to conceal his approach. The road ahead rose slightly, following the slope of the hill, and opened into a large, flat area. There didn't seem to be any cover, save for the scrubby grasses and a few short trees, but a wrecked wagon stood just at the edge of the slope. For the last few yards, Ridmark dropped to his belly and crawled forward, the staff clutched in his right hand.

The voices grew louder as he approached, and he realized they were speaking the orcish tongue.

Ridmark reached the edge of the wrecked wagon, went to one knee, and peered around the side.

A strange scene greeted his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Oathshield.

The sword jutted from the ground, the first foot and a half or so of the blade driven into the earth. It listed to the side at a faint angle, looking almost as if it had fallen there from a great height. Ridmark had always thought a soulstone or an object containing a soulstone could not be transported by magic, but evidently, Rhodruthain had managed it. Perhaps the difficulty of the spell explained why Ridmark and the sword had been scattered across the hills of Owyllain.

The second thing he saw was the naked woman with the bronze chain around her neck and her hands bound behind her back.

Her hair was blond, and for an awful instant, he was sure that Calliande had somehow been overwhelmed and taken captive.

But, no, the woman wasn't Calliande. Her hair was the wrong color, more of an ash blond than Calliande's lighter shade. For that matter, the woman looked barely twenty, young enough to have been Ridmark's daughter if he and Aelia had conceived a child in the first year of their marriage. The woman was tall and fit, with toned legs and strong arms. A gag had been stuffed into her mouth, and her green eyes were wide with fear, her chest rising and falling with the draw of her breath.

No, not fear. Rage. The woman looked furious, as if she was more enraged at the humiliation of her capture than frightened by the danger of it.

There was a strange scar on her left shoulder. It looked like a red sword, point downward, the tip pointing towards her breast.

The final thing Ridmark noticed was the nine orcish warriors standing around the soulblade and the woman, their voices raised in argument. Each orc had the blue sword tattoo upon his face. The biggest and oldest orc held the woman's chain, and from time to time gave it a vicious tug that sent the woman falling to her already bloodied knees. She glared up at him and staggered back to her feet, hate filling her green eyes.

"I say again," said the orc holding the chain. Likely he was the leader. "We are not leaving without that sword."

"Then you are welcome to take it, Vhandak!" snarled a second orc. "Go on, draw the damned thing!"

Vhandak hesitated. "One of you should do it."

"Because you know what will happen," said the second orc. "It killed Qazillis and Mhordiz."

Two dead orcs lay near Oathshield. Both dead orcish men had likely tried to pick up the soulblade. A soulblade inflicted excruciating agony on anyone who attempted to use it save for its proper bearer, and both the dead orcs had likely been stubborn enough to try and lift the sword despite the pain.

Either the agony had burst their hearts in their chests or exploded a blood vessel in their brains.

"Best to leave the thing there," said a third orc.

"Don't you understand?" snarled Vhandak, giving the chain another yank that sent the woman to her knees with a muffled cry of pain. As she fell, Ridmark saw that the bronze chain joined a collar of black steel. He had seen collars like that before. The dvargir made them to bind the magical powers of prisoners.

Which meant that the woman could use magic.

"That it's magic and it kills anyone who touches it?" said the second orc. "Aye, I understand just fine."

"That sword must be one of the Seven!" said Vhandak, jerking the chain again. This time the woman did not bother to stand.

"Don't be an idiot," snarled the third orc. "It can't be one of the Seven. All the Seven are accounted for. One of the swords wouldn't be lying atop a hill waiting for someone to pick it up."

"Then maybe it is an eighth sword," said Vhandak. The woman wobbled back to her feet, and Vhandak yanked her to her knees again. "The High King and the Guardian found seven swords in Urd Maelwyn. Why shouldn't there be an eighth?"

"Sitting on the road to Castra Chaeldon?" said the second orc, his disbelief plain. "And it doesn't look like one of the Seven. We've all seen the Sword of Water in the Lord Confessor's hands. That sword doesn't look anything like this thing. I say we take the human female back to Castra Chaeldon and let Archaelon deal with the sword, whatever the hell it is."

"Then he'll claim it for himself!" said Vhandak, growling. "Don't you see? This is our chance. If this is another of the Seven Swords, then we can claim it."

The other eight orcs burst out laughing. Ridmark suspected Vhandak's soldiers did not hold their leader in high regard.

"We?" said the third orc. "Or you, Vhandak?"

"Why not?" said Vhandak. "Why shouldn't I wield it? I've always been good to the warriors of my warband, haven't I? Why not Warlord Vhandak? We could claim a city for ourselves, lads. We could claim a kingdom for ourselves, and rule it as we please!"

"Or," said the second orc, "the Lord Confessor or King Justin or the Necromancer of Trojas will find us, kill us all, and take the sword for himself. I say we let Archaelon deal with the sword." He shrugged. "Maybe the sword will kill him and we won't have to deal with the lunatic."

Vhandak scowled, but the big orc seemed amenable to the idea. Perhaps he had been worried his men would try and bully him into picking up Oathshield himself. And that meant all Ridmark had to do was wait until the orcs left. Then he could stroll over and pick up Oathshield without any challenge.

Except the orcs would take their captive with them to Castra Chaeldon, wherever that was. Whatever the orcs intended for the woman, Ridmark doubted it was good, and he could not allow them to take her. For that matter, despite what Sir Tyromon had told Ridmark, he still knew next to nothing about this strange land, Owyllain or the Nine Cities or whatever it was called.

A local guide would be useful.

And Ridmark's conscience would not allow him to watch the orcs walk off with a helpless prisoner. Fortunately, there would be little risk in rescuing her. Once the orcs moved off, and he had Oathshield in hand once more, he could take all nine orcish warriors without much of a challenge.

"We should probably kill her first," said the second orc.

The woman's angry green eyes turned towards the orc.

"Damn it," muttered Ridmark.

"Why?" said Vhandak. "Archaelon will want her. He wants prisoners for whatever necromancy he's brewing up."

"Aye," said the second orc, "but she's too powerful. You saw how many of our men she killed. If Archaelon steals her power, what will he do then?"

Vhandak growled. "What's that to do with us?"

"Archaelon's probably going to betray the Lord Confessor," said the third orc. "Which means when he does, we'll have to kill him. He's already too powerful as it is." He jabbed a thick green finger at the bound woman. "How much worse will it be if he can throw around fireballs like the human bitch?"

Vhandak grunted again. "That's a good argument. That's a very good argument." He glared at the woman, and she glared back at him.

Ridmark saw the decision come over the orcish leader's tusked face.

Well, so much for his plan. Time to improvise.

Ridmark straightened up and walked around the wrecked wagon, letting the end of the staff rap loudly against the ground as he walked.

As one, the orcish warriors whirled to face him. The woman looked at him as well, and the green eyes went wide with surprise.

Before anyone could speak, Ridmark started shouting.

"Which one of you dogs is Vhandak?" he roared in orcish.

They stared at him.

"Well?" said Ridmark, pointing his staff at them. "Are you idiots deaf? Which one of you is Vhandak?"

"I'm Vhandak," growled the leader. "Just who the hell are you?"

"I am an emissary of the Lord Confessor," said Ridmark.

"No, you're not," said Vhandak.

"Yes, I am, fool." Ridmark tapped his chest with his free hand, gauging the position of the orcish warriors. They were between him and Oathshield. "If I am not an emissary of the Lord Confessor, then where did I get this armor?"

It was a gamble. Ridmark had never heard of this Confessor, but he had a strong suspicion than the Confessor was a dark elven noble or prince. The dark elven nobles had enjoyed hanging cruel nicknames on each other – the Warden was trapped by his own spells in Urd Morlemoch, the Traveler had never left Nightmane Forest, the Matriarch had murdered her own family to escape from the urdmordar. The title "Confessor" fit the pattern.

The gamble paid off. Vhandak and the others looked at Ridmark's dark elven armor, doubt going over their faces.

"If you are an emissary of the Lord Confessor," said Vhandak, "then why are you wearing a cloak of the gray elves?"

Gray elves? Ridmark had never heard of them. Perhaps Rhodruthain was one of them, though he hadn't worn gray.

"A man must have a cloak," said Ridmark. He took several steps towards them. "Now. Did you fulfill your mission from the Lord Confessor?"

"Mission?" snarled Vhandak. "We were sent to help that traitorous Arcanius Knight. We did."

"Not that mission," said Ridmark. "Did you find the sword?"

"Sword?" said Vhandak. "What sword?"

"The sword Oathshield," said Ridmark, taking another step closer. The woman stared at him as if he were insane. Maybe he was.

"Oathshield?" said Vhandak, and Ridmark took one more step. "Why would a sword be called an Oathshield?"

"Because it was given to the Shield Knight of Andomhaim by the archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves," said Ridmark.

They all stared at him.

"He's insane," said the third orc at last. "Why else would a man carrying a bamboo stick claim to be an emissary of the Lord Confessor?"

Bamboo? Was that the name of the ridged wood?

"Kill him and take the armor," said Vhandak. "It will make a good trophy."

Ridmark took the bamboo staff in both hands. Two of the orcs advanced, bronze swords in hand. They didn't see him or the staff as much of a threat, which was good. Ridmark waited until the last possible moment as the orcs drew back their swords to stab.

Then he moved.

The bamboo staff blurred in his hand, and the weapon smashed against the side of the nearest orc's head with a loud crack. The orc staggered, and Ridmark stepped into the stab of the second orc's sword. The blade rebounded from his dark elven armor, and Ridmark slammed his staff against the orc's leg. The orc toppled, and Ridmark shoved past him and started running.

The other orcs fanned out around him, weapons raised. Vhandak kept his grip on the woman's chain, but his right hand grasped a mace with a stone head. There was one orcish warrior between Ridmark and Oathshield, a bronze-headed axe in hand. Ridmark raced towards the orcish warrior and flicked his staff at his head. The warrior snapped up his axe in response, and Ridmark feinted left, drove his staff at the warrior's legs, and sidestepped.

Then he was clear, running past the orcs and towards Oathshield.

The orcs thundered after him in pursuit. Ridmark knew he couldn't outrun them.

"Arrows!" roared Vhandak. "Arrows, arrows! Shoot the dog before he gets away!"

Ridmark definitely couldn't outrun an arrow.

But he didn't need to outrun anyone.

He reached down and seized Oathshield's hilt with his right hand, wrenching the sword from the ground. Both soulstones in the weapon glimmered with white light, and a faint haze of white fire appeared around the blue blade. At once Ridmark felt strength and speed flood into him through his bond with the soulblade.

He turned to face the orcish warriors, Oathshield in his right hand, the bamboo staff in his left.

The orcish warriors gaped at him. They looked horrified, frightened out of all proportion to what he had just done. Perhaps they had never seen a soulblade before. Or maybe they thought Oathshield really was one of these Seven Swords, whatever they were. Vhandak was so alarmed that he dropped the woman's chain. At once she fell backward upon the ground. Ridmark wondered why she had done that, and then he realized that she was trying to get loose from the ropes around her wrists.

"Last chance," said Ridmark, lifting Oathshield. The soulblade seemed to thrum in his hand. "Turn around and..."

"Kill him!" thundered Vhandak. "Kill him and take the sword!"

The orcs charged to meet him, and Ridmark moved.

Oathshield could enhance his speed and his strength, and Ridmark drew upon that power now. He shot forward, the soulblade drawn back to stab, and his sword's point met the throat of the nearest orc. Green blood sprayed from the wound, and the orc fell dying to the ground. A second warrior lunged at him with a short bronze sword, and Ridmark swept the bamboo staff before him. The staff pushed aside the thrust of the sword, and Oathshield punched through the orc's leather armor and into his heart.

Ridmark tore through the orcish warriors, Oathshield flickering with white fire in his hand. With the sword's speed, he stayed ahead of their blows, and with its strength, his strikes punched through their armor to land killing wounds. Even their bronze swords were useless against Oathshield. A steel sword might have been able to parry a blow from a soulblade, but a bronze sword had no such luck. Twice Ridmark shattered bronze swords in the hands of their bearers, his soulblade striking through their guard to land lethal blows.

Soon only Vhandak and one of the other orcish warriors were left on their feet.

"Which one are you?" said Vhandak, backing away. "Which one of the Seven are you?"

"I don't understand," said Ridmark. "If you want to live, then tell..."

Vhandak roared and lifted his mace over his head with both hands, preparing to charge at Ridmark.

Then a bolt of fire screamed through the air and slammed into both Vhandak and the remaining orcish warrior. Both warriors erupted into flames. Burning was a horrible way to die, but the orcish warriors were dead before they hit the ground, their bodies reduced to shapes of blackened chair, greasy smoke rolling off them in waves.

The smell was horrendous.

Ridmark turned and saw the woman standing a few yards away, magical flames curling around her fingers and forearms.

Her harsh green eyes met his, and the flames around her hands brightened.

***

## Chapter 6: A New Realm

For a moment, Ridmark and the woman stared at each other.

Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed staring at her, and he rebuked himself for the thought. He was married, and she was young enough to have been his daughter. More immediately, he thought she might try to attack him. She was wielding the magic of elemental flame, much the way that Antenora did. While Oathshield could protect him, if he wasn't careful he would join the smoldering orcs lying dead on the ground.

"If I wished you harm," said Ridmark in Latin at last, "I would have gone on my way and let the orcs kill you."

The woman took a shuddering breath, and Ridmark's eyes wanted to linger on her chest. Again, he rebuked himself. He was nearly forty, not some randy young squire. He ought to have better self-control.

"I...thank you for your assistance, stranger," said the woman at last. Her voice was throaty and confident. "While I was well underway to executing my escape, your timely arrival made it much easier."

"Of course," said Ridmark in a dry voice.

"Who are you?" said the woman. If her nudity bothered her, she didn't let it show. "Are you one of the Seven?"

"I don't even know who or what the Seven are," said Ridmark, "and until this morning, I had never heard the term 'Seven Swords' in my life. My name is Ridmark Arban, and I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim."

The woman blinked. "Did you say Andomhaim?"

"I did," said Ridmark. Did she recognize the name? "Who are you?"

The woman made a little bow. It was a pleasant sight. "My name is Kalussa Pendragon of Aenesium, and I am a Sister of the Order of the Arcanii."

"Then I am pleased to meet you, Lady Kalussa," said Ridmark. "But save for your family's name, I have heard of none of those other titles or places before."

"Truly?" said Kalussa, and a thoughtful look came over her face. "Though if you claim to hail from the realm of Andomhaim...yes, that would explain much. There is a mystery here."

"There are a thousand damned mysteries here," said Ridmark, "and I would like some answers. First, though, we should find you some clothing."

Kalussa blinked and then smiled. "Yes, I imagine I am a rather distracting sight, am I not?" Ridmark could think of nothing appropriate to say to that. "It is just as well for me that orcish men rarely have any interest in human women. I think my armor...yes, they left it over there."

Kalussa walked to another overturned wagon, and Ridmark followed her, Oathshield still in hand. She had far more poise than he would have expected, given that she had just been taken captive. Of course, if she was used to wielding magic, and if she was of royal blood, then perhaps he had the self-assurance to go with that power.

Or perhaps she was terrified and was hiding it well.

"Ah!" said Kalussa. "Here we are." She bent over, and Ridmark grimaced and looked away until she straightened up. "I suspect that oaf Vhandak was planning to melt down my armor and sell it." She began to dress herself. "He ought to have run while he still had the chance."

"Clearly," said Ridmark. "Before we discuss anything else, I need to ask a question. Have you seen a woman and two children today? The woman would be about your height and size, with blond hair, and the children would have been two boys, eight years old and three years old."

"I have not," said Kalussa, adjusting her undergarments. She then donned a long crimson tunic that hung to her knees, a pair of trousers, and heavy boots. Over the tunic, she pulled on a gambeson and a leather cuirass covered in overlapping scales of bronze. It fit her well enough that Ridmark could tell it had been forged for her specifically. "You are looking for them, I expect?"

"Yes," said Ridmark.

"I see," said Kalussa. She pulled on a belt with sword and dagger, and then picked up a quiver of arrows and a short bow. "Very well. You tell me your tale of woe, Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and I shall tell you mine. I suspect that something strange is afoot."

"It is," said Ridmark. "This morning my wife, my sons, and I were at the court of the High King in Tarlion." A flicker went through Kalussa's eyes at the mention of the name of Tarlion. "An elven wizard calling himself Rhodruthain the Guardian of Cathair Animus appeared asking for the Shield Knight and the Keeper of Andomhaim..."

"Wait," said Kalussa. "Your wife is the Keeper of Andomhaim?"

"The entire time that I've known her," said Ridmark. Technically, Calliande had been the Keeper of Andomhaim since before Ridmark had been born, but he suspected Kalussa would have a hard enough time believing him as it was.

"And this elven wizard?" said Kalussa. "He called himself Rhodruthain? What did he look like?"

"Old and weary and weathered," said Ridmark. "Golden eyes, graying hair. He carried a staff of red gold with a dragon's head on the end."

"That would be him," said Kalussa. "Please continue."

"He cast a spell," said Ridmark, "and it transported me here. I suspect that my wife and children were brought here as well, and I am trying to find them. Instead, I seem to have walked into the middle of a war."

"And that sword," said Kalussa, looking at the soulblade. "Oathshield. That is yours?"

"It is," said Ridmark.

"It is not one of the Seven, plainly," said Kalussa. "What manner of blade is it?"

"A soulblade," said Ridmark.

"Then there those are elven soulstones!" said Kalussa. "I thought they might be. Where did you get such a weapon?"

"The high elven archmage Ardrhythain gave it to me," said Ridmark. "He forged the soulblades for Andomhaim to use against the urdmordar."

Kalussa said nothing, her fingers tapping against the horn and wood of her bow.

"I suppose it is a difficult story to believe," said Ridmark.

"Maybe not," said Kalussa. "Your realm of Andomhaim still stands? The urdmordar did not destroy it?"

"No," said Ridmark. "They came close, and we faced other enemies since, but Andomhaim still stands."

Kalussa gave a slow nod. "Then it seems we may be distant cousins, Ridmark Arban."

"What do you mean?"

Kalussa took a deep breath. "Do you know the name Connmar Pendragon?"

"No. Should I? Wait." A distant lesson from his childhood flickered through Ridmark's mind, a memory of listening to his tutor drone on about the history of the realm. "It was something from ancient history...yes, I remember. Connmar Pendragon. He was the High King's younger brother during the war with the urdmordar. He despaired of victory and believed that the only way to save humanity was to flee to a new land. He had many followers, and he built a great fleet of ships and set sail to the south, and he was never seen again..."

"Until now," said Kalussa in a quiet voice.

The answer clicked in Ridmark's mind.

"But Connmar's fleet wasn't lost, was it?" said Ridmark. "It came here. And you are one of his descendants."

"Connmar's fleet sailed across three thousand miles of ocean," said Kalussa, eyes distant as she recited a lesson from memory, "and they despaired of ever finding land again. But then they made landfall here in the new land of Owyllain. At his landing site, Connmar gave thanks to God and the Dominus Christus and the whole assembly of the saints, and founded the city of Aenesium and became its first King and High King over Owyllain."

"Three thousand miles?" said Ridmark, aghast. He was three thousand miles from Tarlion?

That meant he might be three thousand miles from Calliande and the children.

Then another thought occurred to him.

"Why did he name the city Aenesium?" said Ridmark.

"In honor of Aeneas," said Kalussa.

"Who was Aeneas?" said Ridmark.

"Someone from the history of Old Earth," said Kalussa. "Do you know the poem? The Aeneid?"

Ridmark had never been that interested in the history of Old Earth, but all nobles learned of it. "Yes, I think so. Aeneas was a nobleman of the city of Troy on Old Earth. When the Greeks took the city and burned it, Aeneas fled Troy with his followers. He sailed until he came to Italia, and there he founded the city of Rome, from whose Empire the High King Arthur Pendragon one day rose."

Kalussa nodded. "High King Connmar saw himself as a new Aeneas. Just as Aeneas fled the destruction of Troy at the hands of the Greeks to found the city of Rome, so did Connmar flee the destruction of Tarlion at the hands of the urdmordar to found the city of Aenesium and the realm of the Nine Cities of Owyllain." She hesitated. "Though since I am talking to you, it seems our history is incorrect." Her mouth twisted. "I suppose Connmar is remembered as a traitor and a coward in your histories."

"I don't think he's remembered much at all," said Ridmark. Calliande might know more, but from what Ridmark could recall, Connmar was not remembered as a fool. The defeat of Andomhaim at the hands of the urdmordar had seemed inevitable at the time. If anything, Connmar was remembered as a cautionary tale against trying to sail across the southern seas.

"It is ancient history by now, I deem," said Kalussa. "Five centuries have passed since Owyllain was founded. Did the Guardian Rhodruthain say why he brought you here?"

"He said that something called the New God was rising," said Ridmark, "and that it needed to be stopped."

"The New God?" said Kalussa, taken aback. "There is only one God and his Son the Dominus Christus. All other gods are either delusions or demons."

"I agree," said Ridmark. "I only report what Rhodruthain told me. What of you, Lady Kalussa? How did you come to your...previous peril?"

"Naked and tied up, you mean?" she said brightly.

"Yes." He kept himself from grimacing. She seemed less discomforted by that than he did.

Kalussa sighed. "It is a long story, so I shall condense it as best as I can. Suffice it to say, humans were not the first to rule this land. Dark elves had come here first, seeking to flee the urdmordar. One of them was called the Sovereign, brother of another dark elven lord called the Warden..."

A jolt of alarm went through Ridmark. "Wait. The Warden had a brother?"

"Apparently." Kalussa blinked at him. "You know the name of the Warden?"

"Worse than that," said Ridmark. "I met him. Twice."

"Truly?" said Kalussa, astonished. "I would think that a boast, but there is horror upon your face, not gloating."

"Where do you think I found this armor? Neither meeting was a pleasant experience," said Ridmark. "But please, continue."

"It was said that while the Warden was the greatest wizard of the dark elves," said Kalussa, "the Sovereign was the greatest warrior and captain of the dark elves, and the Warden's equal in brilliance and cunning." Ridmark did not like the sound of that at all. "By the time my ancestors arrived here, the Sovereign ruled an empire that covered most of the continent. All kindreds were either his subjects or vassals, save for the gray elves in the Illicaeryn Jungles to the south."

"Gray elves?" said Ridmark.

"So we call them," said Kalussa, "for they wear cloaks much like yours. Anyway, at first Connmar and his heirs did not come to the notice of the Sovereign. We warred against the Warlords of the orcish cities to the east, and those Warlords were only distant vassals of the Sovereign. But in time, the Sovereign turned against us, and led great hosts against Owyllain." She scowled. "That was when Rhodruthain first came among us. It was he who taught us how to use the magic of the four elements. There was resistance among us, for we thought that all magic was the province of the demons of the Adversary, but Rhodruthain proved that elemental magic was a force like gravity or the waves of the sea, neither good nor evil, and so the Order of the Arcanii was founded."

"Of whom you are one," said Ridmark.

Kalussa's lip twisted. She did not seem pleased by that fact. "Yes."

"Please, continue," said Ridmark.

"It was my uncle who defeated the Sovereign," said Kalussa. "High King Kothlaric Pendragon, the greatest High King in the history of the Nine Cities. He gathered a great alliance of orcs, xiatami, gray elves, and halflings with the aid of Talitha, Master of the Order, and together they seized Urd Maelwyn and slew the Sovereign. But within Urd Maelwyn they found seven swords of great magic and power, ancient relics of the dark elves."

"The Seven Swords I've heard so much about, I take it," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Kalussa. "In his wisdom, High King Kothlaric decided that the Seven had to be destroyed, and so he took them to Cathair Animus to seek the Guardian's counsel, for he still thought that Rhodruthain was an ally. But both Rhodruthain and the Lady Talitha betrayed him. They murdered Kothlaric by turning him to stone, and the allies of Kothlaric turned on each other. The Seven Swords fell into the hands of seven different bearers, and now each of the Seven contest for the mastery of Owyllain."

"Rhodruthain has one of the Swords, doesn't he?" said Ridmark. "He bore a golden sword with a strange symbol upon the pommel."

"We do not know for certain," said Kalussa, "but we think he has the Sword of Life." She drew herself up. "My father King Hektor has the Sword of Fire, and he seeks to use it to reunify Owyllain under the one true High King."

"And this King Justin has another?" said Ridmark.

"He is the King of Cytheria, one of the Nine Cities," said Kalussa. "He has the Sword of Earth."

Ridmark frowned. "Then he is a usurper to the title of High King?"

"No, he is the King of Cytheria," said Kalussa, and then she blinked. "Oh! I see the misunderstanding. Owyllain is a realm of Nine Cities. Each city has its own King, but all the Kings bow before the High King of Aenesium. Just as Arthur Pendragon was High King of Britannia in ancient days, with lesser kings ruling their kingdoms in his name."

"And this Confessor has another of the Seven Swords?" said Ridmark.

"You see keenly, Lord Ridmark," said Kalussa. "The Confessor bears the Sword of Water. He is a dark elven lord, and he was once the Sovereign's vassal and lieutenant. Now he thinks to rebuild his master's realm under his control, though he lacks the Sovereign's brilliance and subtlety."

"Those orcs." Ridmark nodded at Vhandak's dead warriors. "With the blue sword tattoos upon their faces. They are the Confessor's soldiers?"

Kalussa smiled in surprise. "How did you know...oh, of course. The blue swords, obviously. You are a clever man. Yes, they are the Confessor's soldiers."

"And I think you are ready," said Ridmark, "to tell me how you ended up captured here."

"King Justin is preparing a great force against my father," said Kalussa. "My father seeks to restore the true rule of the Pendragons and just government to the realm. King Justin thinks nothing of consorting with necromancers and warlocks, and he has instituted slavery in the lands he holds. He is a cruel and merciless tyrant. The main route from Cytheria to Aenesium passes by the sea, through a narrow pass guarded by the fortress of Castra Chaeldon. To prepare for the invasion, my father entrusted the castra to an Arcanius Knight named Archaelon, and bid him to hold the castra until the full power of Aenesium and the Order could march forth."

"I assume Sir Archaelon has turned traitor, then," said Ridmark.

"Yes," said Kalussa, her voice full of loathing. "He has betrayed his oaths to King Hektor and our Order and allied himself with the Confessor. My father sent a small force of hoplites and Arcanius Knights north to bring supplies to the castra. We were surrounded by the Confessor's orcs and overwhelmed." She shook her head. "I fear for the others. Sir Tyromon Amphilus was in command, and I thought I saw him rallying beneath the banner..."

"I'm afraid he's dead," said Ridmark. He gestured at the bronze sword sheathed at his belt.

"That's...that's Sir Tyromon's sword," said Kalussa. "Where did you..."

"About two miles south of here," said Ridmark. "I found him dying beneath the banner. He told me some of what happened, and asked me to return his sword to King Hektor and warn him that Archaelon had become a traitor."

"Oh," said Kalussa.

Suddenly she looked very young.

"You knew him well?" said Ridmark.

"All...all my life," said Kalussa. She took a deep breath. "He is one of my father's most trusted men. His younger brother Nicion, as well, though I liked Sir Tyromon better." She took another deep breath, pulling herself together. "Perhaps it is just as well. Sir Tyromon might have avoided whatever fate Archaelon has in mind for his prisoners."

"Prisoners?" said Ridmark, thinking of his family.

Kalussa nodded. "Archaelon's orcs took many prisoners and herded them back to Castra Chaeldon. I fear he has violated the laws of our Order and turned to necromancy, and plans to use the captives to fuel some spell. If you are looking for your family, Lord Ridmark...it is possible the orcs took them captive, and they are in Castra Chaeldon."

Ridmark said nothing, trying to think through what she had told him and what he knew. Calliande would not have been easy to overpower. The orcish warriors alone could not have done it. Yet if Archaelon had necromantic magic, he might have been able to catch her off guard.

And Calliande was not well. He feared she was still physically exhausted from the ordeal of the last year, and he knew that grief still clouded her mind. Ridmark knew, better than anyone, how grief could twist one's thinking. The thought of Calliande lost and alone in a strange land made him almost sick with fear for her.

For that matter, if the children had been transported as well, there was no guarantee they had arrived near her. Gareth and Joachim might have landed miles away. The thought of Calliande wandering alone in these rocky hills was bad enough. At least she was accustomed to danger, and knew how to take care of herself. His sons might wander until they died of thirst, or fell victim to a hidden pit or a poisonous snake, or run into the Confessor's orcs.

That thought was even worse.

"So, Lord Ridmark," said Kalussa. "What shall you do?"

"My wife has magic," said Ridmark. "It is possible she knows where I am and is heading this way, that she has already found our sons. But if she has not, if she is wounded or sick from the journey...she and the children might have been taken captive in Castra Chaeldon. It seems my best choice is to head for Castra Chaeldon."

"Mine as well," said Kalussa. "I think some of our men might have escaped the trap. I need to find them and discover their fate. And if not...if not, then someone must return to Aenesium to warn my father of what happened here, that Archaelon has sided with the Confessor or King Justin or has some mad plan to strike out on his own." She hesitated. "I suggest we accompany each other. Our goals overlap, and even with the power of your soulblade, you will have a better chance with my help."

She was right. He had seen what she had done to Vhandak, and that kind of fire magic would be useful in any fights. And Ridmark needed a local guide, someone familiar with the area. He had to find Calliande and his sons, and he would not turn away any help.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I have one question, though."

"Ask, then."

"That scar on your left shoulder," said Ridmark. "What was it? I've never seen anything like it."

She raised her eyebrows and smiled a little. "Were you taking a long look, then?"

Irritation rolled through him, irritation made all the stronger by the fact that he did find her attractive. "It was a serious question, Lady Kalussa."

"A serious answer, then," said Kalussa. "If you must know, that means I am one of the Swordborn."

"Swordborn?" said Ridmark, and then he understood. "Your father bears one of the Seven Swords."

"Yes," said Kalussa. "Apparently, the child of someone who carries one of the Seven receives a measure of the Sword's power. King Hektor bears the Sword of Fire," she gestured, and flames danced over her palm, "and so I have some affinity for the magic of elemental flame. I am also told I will be immune to the powers of the other Swords, though I have yet to test this, and frankly have no wish to do so."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "Then let's be on our way. We should have some daylight left, so best to put it to use."

"A sensible attitude," said Kalussa. "I suggest we follow the road for five miles and then head into the hills. If Archaelon is wise enough to post patrols around the castra, we shall have a better chance of eluding them."

Ridmark nodded, and they headed north along the road.

***

## Chapter 7: Thunderbolt

As many enemies of Andomhaim had discovered, often the hard way, it was difficult to kill the Keeper of Andomhaim.

The mantle of the Keeper bestowed many powers upon its bearer. One of them was the Sight, the ability to see the forces of magic, to view far-off places, to sometimes glimpse past and present and the future. A second power was raw magical strength. The mantle could empower spells, infusing them with potency that no magic of this world could resist.

A third was resiliency.

The Keeper healed quickly. Her stamina recovered faster than it should have, giving her the strength to carry the burdens of her office. It had let Calliande recover quickly from her battles against Tymandain Shadowbearer and Imaria Licinius, had helped give her the strength to rally the armies of Andomhaim and the dwarves and the manetaurs against the Frostborn.

It also let her recover from wounds that should have killed her.

Like a cracked skull, for one.

It had also let her endure things that should have killed her. Her pregnancy with Joanna might have killed her. It had gone wrong almost from the beginning. Yet Calliande had endured. And when Joanna had come early after an excruciating labor, Calliande had struggled, using healing magic to try and repair the damage to the little girl's body, to heal the hole that had grown in her heart.

And she had failed. Oh, God, she had failed Joanna. When it had mattered most, she had failed her daughter.

And she had failed again, hadn't she?

But with what?

A surge of alarm went through Calliande, and her eyes snapped open.

She let out a yelp of pain and screwed her eyes shut. The sun was blazing overhead, and it was hideously bright. It didn't help that it felt as if she had an iron spike driven into her temple. Eyes still closed, Calliande felt the left side of her head with her fingers. She felt the dried blood in her hair and on her skin. She called magic from the Well of Tarlion and cast a spell, probing her injury. Healing magic was far less effective when used on herself than someone else, but the fracture in her skull had healed. She had a nasty headache, but that would pass in a few hours as the healing magic did its work.

"Ridmark?" croaked Calliande. She opened her eyes again. This time she could keep them open, though the intensity of the sunlight made her headache worse. Calliande sat up and looked around, her hand closing around the staff of the Keeper. "Gareth? Joachim?"

She was alone on the slope of the rocky valley, her gown dusty and torn.

There was no sign of Ridmark or Gareth or Joachim.

And then, in a surge of horror, Calliande realized what had happened.

The blue-tattooed orcs had taken her children.

They might be dead.

Black emotion poured through her heart. She had failed Joanna, and now she had failed her sons. Was this the final punishment for her mistakes? That she would outlive all her children? In that terrible moment, Calliande wanted to collapse back to the ground.

No. She hadn't seen her sons die, had she? All she knew was that the orcs had taken them. Frantic, Calliande reached for the Sight, and swept it out, seeking for her sons.

She found them at once. They were about five or six miles to the northwest. The blue-tattooed orcs had made good time while she was unconscious.

Calliande might have failed Joanna, but she had not yet failed her sons.

And Ridmark? She grabbed the dagger's hilt and cast a spell. Once again, she sensed him. He was alive, and about six or seven miles to the southeast.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Oh, God, thank you. Thank you. Let me find them. Please, let me find them."

Calliande levered herself to her feet, leaning hard on the staff of the Keeper. She wiped some sweat and dust from her forehead, winced at the ache that sent through her skull, and looked around the dusty valley.

She had a decision to make, and she had to make it right now.

Should she go to join Ridmark, or should she go after the children?

If she had Ridmark's help, almost certainly they could overcome any foe and recover Gareth and Joachim from the blue-tattooed orcs. If not for that damned sling bullet, she could have wiped out the group she had fought previously, and if Ridmark had been with her, they would have won the fight.

And yet...

Calliande drew on the Sight, sending it again towards Gareth and Joachim.

She did not like what it showed her.

Her sons were heading into a haze of necromantic energy, a lingering aura of dark magic. Whoever had used the necromantic spells she had sensed earlier was nearby. Likely those blue-tattooed orcs served that wielder of dark magic.

Which meant her sons were heading for him right now.

Calliande had to go after the children first. She desperately wanted Ridmark with her, but Ridmark could defend himself, and Gareth and Joachim could not. There was no telling what a wielder of dark magic might do with two children. Calliande could think of several possibilities, and none of them were pleasant.

No. Calliande would get her children back before any of that could happen.

An old proverb flickered through her mind. Better to take a bear cub from its mother, the proverb went, then to cheat a dvargir out of his payment.

Her hand tightened against her staff.

Before she finished, Calliande would make both that bear and the dvargir look timid by comparison.

Calliande set off to the northwest, staff in hand, her Sight sweeping the landscape for any sign of danger. Her stomach rumbled, and she felt sharply hungry, hungrier than she had felt for a long time, and her throat was as dry as the dust beneath her boots. Food had held little interest during the last few months, and the last time she could remember feeling this famished had been...well, before the pregnancy had become difficult.

She couldn't do anything about the hunger, but she could do something about the thirst. Calliande drew on the magic of elemental water, pulling moisture from the ground and the air and letting it accumulate in her cupped left hand. She sipped at it as she walked, draining her cupped palm and then repeating the process all over again. It tasted tepid, but it was only a minor expenditure of magical power.

As Calliande walked, she tried to force herself to think. She had been in enough battles to know that blindly charging after an enemy was an invitation to disaster. Calliande needed a plan, but she knew hardly anything about her surroundings or what was going on.

So. What did she know?

Rhodruthain had brought her here, and he had also brought Ridmark and her children. That couldn't have been an accident. Scattering the four of them across fifteen miles might have been an accident, but Calliande knew enough about magic to guess that bringing all four of them had been deliberate. The amount of power required to travel through magic was immense, and even if Rhodruthain was not entirely sane, he would not have expended that much power without a good reason. And he had said he wanted to find the Shield Knight and the Keeper, which meant he wanted them to do something.

But what?

His spell had dropped them into the middle of a battle between the bronze-armored human warriors and the blue-tattooed orcs. The humans had lost the battle, that was obvious. Did Rhodruthain want Calliande and Ridmark to help the bronze warriors? Or did he want Calliande to deal with whoever was using necromantic magic?

But why bring the children along?

She drank another mouthful of water, and then her mouth tightened as she realized the answer.

Rhodruthain had said her children would die if this New God of his arose...which meant he had brought the children to give her something to fight for. He had deliberately put Gareth and Joachim in danger to give her motivation to fight.

Oh, she would make him regret that if she ever saw him again.

Calliande climbed up the far side of the valley and saw the northern road stretching ahead of her. More dead humans and dead orcs lay scattered across the road, bronze weapons lying near their hands. She wondered why all the fighters she had seen so far seemed to use bronze, and filed the thought away to ponder later.

Dark shapes near a wagon caught her eye, and Calliande froze.

Then she nodded to herself and started forward, holding her magic ready.

Four muridachs surrounded a wagon, rummaging through its contents. The bony-headed lizards that pulled the wagon had been killed, but the contents were intact, and muridachs were in the process of looting it.

One of the ratmen looked up as she approached, nostrils flaring, whiskers quivering.

"Muridachs!" said Calliande. "Hear me!"

All four ratmen turned to face her.

"What's this?" said one. "A human female?"

"Wandering the hills alone?" said a second. "She must be mad."

"I have some questions for you," said Calliande. "Answer them for me, and I shall allow you to go on your way."

All four muridachs loosed their chittering, gleeful laughter.

"She is a madwoman," said a third muridach.

"Take her," said the first one, probably the leader. "The Lord of Carrion has favored us this day. She does not look healthy, but she is young enough to fetch a good price in Urd Maelwyn yet. And if she is too much trouble, she will make a fine meal on the way back to the Deeps."

Before the muridachs had taken their first step, Calliande cast her spell.

The white sleeping mist rolled over the muridachs, and they fell unconscious to the ground, their bodies limp. Calliande released the spell, walked to the wagon, and took the coil of rope she had seen there. With her dagger, she cut the rope into shorter segments and used the rope to bind the wrists and ankles of the muridachs together.

Her skin crawled with revulsion as she touched them. Calliande a visceral dislike of rats, and she didn't much care for animals with scales, either. Morigna had used to tease her about it, but Morigna had usually liked animals better than most people.

Calliande wondered what Morigna would have said about Joanna. Would she have sympathized?

Or would Morigna have told Calliande to deal with her mourning and attend to her duties? Before this trip to Tarlion, Calliande had not left her home in months. Though this trip had taken her rather further than she had thought.

A happier memory flickered through her mind. Joachim was named for her father, and her father had been a fisherman. As a child, Calliande had helped him tend to his nets and the ropes on his boat.

Which meant she knew how to tie knots.

She straightened up and smiled in satisfaction. The muridachs would not break free of those knots.

A moment or so later the muridachs started waking up.

Calliande let them realize what had happened, let the panic start to set in, and then she struck her staff against the ground. An effort of elemental magic made the ground shake with a thunderclap, and four pairs of beady black eyes fixed on her with fear.

"As you might have guessed," said Calliande in a quiet voice, "this human female, sick as she may be, has magic."

"What do you want of us, witch?" said the muridach leader.

"As I told you earlier," said Calliande. "The answers to some questions." She held out her free hand, and white fire blazed around her fingers. The magic of the Well couldn't hurt the muridachs, but she doubted they knew that. "You will answer my questions, completely and truthfully."

The muridachs chittered, trying to cringe away from her.

"Am I understood?" said Calliande.

"Yes," said the leader.

"Good," said Calliande. "Now. What is your name?"

"Rynofael, human sorceress."

"Then, Rynofael," said Calliande. "Where am I?"

"The hills," said Rynofael.

Calliande sighed and rapped the end of her staff against the ground, letting white fire play up and down its length. She pointed the staff at Rynofael and watched his black eyes grow wide.

"One more time. Where," said Calliande, "am I?"

"The...the road from the human city of Aenesium to the city of Cytheria," said Rynofael.

"I see," said Calliande. "Are those cities ruled by the same king, or are they part of the same realm?"

"They were once part of the same realm," said Rynofael. "The realm of Owyllain."

"The Nine Cities," said another muridach, helpfully.

"You...do not know this?" said Rynofael. "But you are human. This is your realm."

Calliande opened her mouth to say that she had come from a distant land, and then a better idea came to her. "Like you said, I am a madwoman, and I have lost my memory. So, you are going to refresh my memory."

That seemed to resonate with the muridach leader. "Perhaps you ate some bad carrion and the parasites entered your brain. That happened to three of my brothers and two of my sisters. And my uncle. He thought he was the Lord of Carrion reborn, and believed he could fly. Alas, he could not."

"A tragedy," said Calliande.

"Yes. My brothers and sisters mourned for him as we ate his corpse at the funeral feast. It was a most solemn occasion, and he digested well."

Calliande kept the revulsion from her face. The dietary practices of the muridachs were not something she wanted to contemplate. "You said Aenesium and Cytheria were once part of the same realm, the Nine Cities of Owyllain. What happened?"

"The High King Kothlaric was murdered, and his servants claimed the Seven Swords," said Rynofael. "Now King Justin Cyros rules in Cytheria and holds the Sword of Earth. But King Hektor Pendragon rules in Aenesium with the Sword of Fire, and they wage war on each other."

Hektor Pendragon? Something that Rhodruthain had said came to Calliande's mind, connecting with something she remembered from the history of the realm. Rhodruthain had mentioned someone named Connmar. But long ago, during the war with the urdmordar, Prince Connmar Pendragon had despaired and built a fleet, sailing with his followers to seek safety in new lands. None of them had ever been seen again, and the histories of the realm said that Connmar Pendragon and his followers had likely drowned or starved, lost on the endless seas.

But Hektor Pendragon?

Calliande suspected she might have discovered what had become of Connmar and his descendants.

"The Sword of Fire and the Sword of Earth?" said Calliande. "What are those?"

"Great weapons," said Rynofael. "The dark elves forged them in the depths of time. When the High King overthrew the Sovereign, the High King found the Seven Swords in Urd Maelwyn. He was wise and sought to destroy them, for such power corrupts mortals. But his vassals and allies betrayed him and claimed the Seven, and now war among each other."

Calliande's mind blazed with curiosity. She could think of a hundred questions to ask, but she restrained herself. Likely the muridachs did not know very much about Owyllain's history, and she needed to focus on the matter at hand.

"The dead humans and orcs on the road," said Calliande. "Who were they?"

"The humans were the soldiers of King Hektor," said Rynofael, "on their way to Castra Chaeldon."

"And the orcs?" said Calliande. "The ones with the blue sword tattoos on their faces?"

A shudder went through the muridachs.

"The soldiers of the Confessor," said Rynofael.

"A dark elven lord, I assume," said Calliande.

"He was once the Sovereign's right hand," said Rynofael. "Now he thinks to take the Sovereign's place. Very dangerous. The muridachs are wise, so we stay away from him."

"One final question," said Calliande, and the ratmen tensed. "I saw the Confessor's soldiers taking captives. Where would they have taken the captives?"

"Castra Chaeldon," said Rynofael.

Calliande frowned. "Isn't Castra Chaeldon a fortress of King Hektor?"

The muridachs loosed their chittering laughs.

"It was, it was!" said Rynofael. "Held by the Arcanius Knight Archaelon."

"What is an Arcanius Knight?" said Calliande.

"The human wizards," said Rynofael. "The gray elves taught magic to the humans. Stupid thing to do. The humans are good for slaves and for eating and for nothing else." He fell silent as if fearing he had offended Calliande.

"Then why are soldiers of the Confessor going to Castra Chaeldon?" said Calliande.

Rynofael chittered with laughter. "Because Archaelon is a traitor! He has turned against King Hektor and sided with the Confessor. But he is doubly a traitor, for he has betrayed the Confessor as well. Castra Chaeldon stinks of his madness and his necromancy. He used the Confessor's soldiers to betray King Hektor, and now he has used his necromancy to betray the Confessor. He will take the slain and raise an army of the undead to make himself a King in his own right." The muridach leader sneered. "Stupid, stupid. If King Hektor does not crush him, then the Confessor shall, or King Justin, or the Necromancer of Trojas."

"I see," said Calliande.

Then her course was simple. If her sons had been taken to Castra Chaeldon, then to Castra Chaeldon she would go. And if she had to deal with this Archaelon, she would defeat him as well.

"I suppose," said Calliande, "you don't care about any of this. You just came to scavenge from the battlefield."

"The Lord of Carrion provides for his children," said Rynofael. He cringed again. "Are you going to kill us?"

"Not unless you get in my way," said Calliande. She cast a spell one by one over each of the muridachs, a simple spell of elemental fire. They flinched as she did, but the spell did not hurt them. "That will burn away the ropes holding you in another few moments. I will be gone by then. You may do as you wish, but I suggest you flee. If you do pursue me or try to hinder me, I will stop you."

"Yes, human sorceress," said Rynofael. "Yes, we shall. Thank you for our lives."

"See that you do not give me cause to regret giving them to you," said Calliande with a cold stare, and then strode off to the northwest. The spell on the ropes would free the muridachs soon enough, but Calliande thought to be long-gone by then. She suspected she had put enough of a fright into the ratmen that they would not try to pursue her.

And if they did, well...she would be ready for them.

Calliande followed the road for a while and then stepped off it, weaving through the hills that surrounded it. She suspected the road would lead right to this Castra Chaeldon, and Archaelon might have set guards to watch. Calliande reached for the Sight as she walked, sending it towards her sons. The orcs had covered a good distance while she had been talking, and they were now seven miles to the northwest. A quick spell with her dagger showed that Ridmark had not moved much during her talk with the muridachs. Perhaps he was interrogating some muridachs or orcs for information as she had. Perhaps he had found allies.

Or maybe he was fighting a battle. He was unhurt, the spell could tell her that much. She prayed to God that he would remain that way, that he would rejoin her soon. Perhaps when Ridmark found her, Calliande would have already rescued Gareth and Joachim.

She doubted it would be that simple.

Calliande walked on, from time to time calling water to her hand and drinking it. She kept hold of the Sight as well, using it to sweep the hills for danger. The Sight showed her the echoes of violence lingering over the road, the haze of the necromantic aura to the northwest.

It also showed her the approach of a dozen orcish warriors, marching out from the road in a patrol.

Calliande would be right in their path.

She stopped, turned to face them, and starting casting spells over herself. The first was a ward to turn aside weapons of metal. The second was a spell to block all missiles, and if she had possessed the wit to cast it earlier, she might not have gotten separated from her sons. Part of her magical strength went to maintain the wards, but she held the rest ready to strike.

Calliande hated using magic to kill. None of the Magistri could do it, but the Magistri only had access to the magic of the Well, and its power could only heal and defend and ward. Calliande, as Keeper of Andomhaim, could use elemental magic to call forth destruction. Healing with the magic of the Well was far more painful, but she preferred it to fighting. It was too easy to kill with magic. When Ridmark had to kill an opponent, it took the strength of his arm and his skill with a blade. When Calliande did it, all she had to do was call forth the power and concentrate.

Perhaps she could make the orcs see reason.

She planted her staff in the dust, turned to face the road, and waited.

It was a short wait.

The orcs came down the hillside, a dozen of them, armored in leather and carrying short bows, short swords at their belts. As before, each orc had a blue sword tattooed on the left his of his face. One of them spotted Calliande and shouted to his companions, and they began to converge on her. The orcish warriors lowered her bows. Likely they did not see her as a threat.

That might change if they got close enough to see the flickering aura of the warding spells around her, though the harsh sunlight would make it difficult to see.

"Hold!" said Calliande. "Soldiers of the Confessor, hear me!"

The orcs slowed, watching her with suspicion.

"I do not have any quarrel with you, not yet," said Calliande. "I know that the Confessor sent you here to assist the Arcanius Knight Archaelon as he rebels against King Hektor. Let me pass, and I will not trouble you."

Several of the orcs laughed.

"And what if we don't want to let you pass?" called one of the orcs.

"Then I will give you a greater quarrel than you can imagine," said Calliande.

This time all of the orcs laughed.

"You three, take her," said the orcish leader, gesturing to his men. "Make sure to gag her. I don't want to listen to her complain all the way to Castra Chaeldon."

The orcs advanced, and Calliande drew together her power for a spell.

And then something happened that she did not expect.

Elemental magic surged before her Sight, a spell of air and wind. Calliande turned her head in surprise just as a bolt of lightning screamed across the valley and slammed into two of the orcish soldiers. It coiled around their bronze short swords and into their flesh, and the orcs' scream was lost in the thunderclap. The blast flung the two orcs to the ground, and both were dead before the smoke started to rise from their corpses.

The orcish warriors bellowed in fury, and Calliande turned her head.

A warrior armored in bronze ran towards her.

His armor was of finer quality than those of the dead humans she had seen upon the road, with overlapping plates of bronze covering a coat of leather that hung to his knees. Bronze greaves reinforced his boots, and bronze bracers protected his forearms. He wore a helm of curious, ancient design, bronze with a T-shaped slit for the eyes and nose and mouth, its top crowned with a golden plume. Calliande thought the ancient Greeks upon Old Earth had worn helmets like that.

In his right hand was a longsword of blue dark elven steel, and small arcs of lightning twisted and snarled around his left hand.

The man had thrown the lightning bolt at the orcs...and he had already been wounded. Calliande saw the half-scabbed cuts on his arms, noted the darker spot on the right side of his torso where blood had leaked through his damaged armor. To judge from his magical aura, he had already expended most of his strength, and it would take some time for him to gather enough power to throw another lightning bolt.

But he was charging into the orcs anyway.

Calliande had to help him.

The orcs seemed to recognize the warrior in bronze armor, or perhaps they recognized that distinctive sword. It was the first weapon of dark elven steel Calliande had seen here.

The lightning bolt had been fairly distinctive as well. There could not be that many bronze-armored warriors who threw bolts of lightning in battle.

"It's the Thunderbolt!" shouted the orcish leader. "The bounty is ours! Take him!"

The orcs roared and charged the bronze-armored warrior in a mass, hoping to overwhelm him. Against one swordsman without a shield, it wasn't a bad tactic.

Against a swordsman aided by the Keeper of Andomhaim, it was suicidal.

Calliande cast a spell, calling on the magic of earth and stone. The ground beneath the charging orcs rippled and folded, knocking them from their feet. The bronze-armored warrior faltered for a second, glancing in Calliande's direction, but he seized the opening. His dark elven sword blurred, and he killed two of the orcs before they regained their footing.

But the orcish warriors were veterans of many fights. They surged back to their feet, bronze swords drawn back to stab, and charged at the warrior.

The warrior jumped backward.

Calliande blinked in surprise. He soared backward a dozen yards, hurtling over the rocky ground in a shallow arc and landing upon his feet, his blue sword snapping up in guard. The Sight had shown her what he had done. It had been a minor spell of elemental air, one that had called the wind to him, and it had carried him backward.

It was a neat trick. It also caused the orcs to charge him in a rage, and Calliande struck again, casting another spell of earth magic that knocked the orcs to the ground. The bronze-armored warrior charged forward, and he cast a spell as he did. A javelin formed of lightning appeared in his hand, and he hurled the weapon. It struck one of the orcish warriors in the chest and knocked him to the ground, and then the bronze-armored warrior was in their midst. He was a brilliant swordsman, the blade flashing back and forth as he blocked their attacks and landed killing blows. Once more Calliande knocked the orcs from their feet, and the bronze warrior finished them off, his blue blade dripping with green blood.

Silence fell over the valley, and the bronze-armored warrior regarded Calliande in silence.

"Whoever you are, sir," said Calliande in Latin, "thank you for your assistance."

The warrior thrust his sword into the earth, reached up, and drew off his helmet.

Calliande was surprised at how young the man was. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five at the most. He had a strikingly handsome face, his features strong, with gray eyes and thick black hair that now stood in sweat-sodden spikes. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, and an ugly bruise spreading across the left side of his face. The man had seen fighting, and hard fighting, today.

Then he smiled. It seemed to light up his battered face.

"Well, my lady," said the warrior with a sweeping bow, "what is an Arcanius Knight for, if not to rescue fair damsels by the side of the road?"

Calliande smiled, charmed despite her fears and the urgency of the situation. "I fear I am a little too old to be a fair damsel, but I thank you for the words nonetheless, sir knight. And I thank you even more for your timely arrival."

"I think, my lady of the strange accent," said the warrior, "you might not have needed my help at all."

"Might I know your name, sir?" said Calliande. If he was one of these Arcanius Knights that Rynofael had mentioned, he would know a great deal about Owyllain and the Nine Cities. He would also know exactly where to find Castra Chaeldon. "The orcs called you Thunderbolt, I think."

The warrior grimaced. "God and the saints, I am weary of that title. But my name is Tamlin, my lady, and I am a Knight of the Order of the Arcanii."

Calliande decided to tell him the truth and see how he would react. "And I am Calliande Arban, the Keeper of Andomhaim."

Tamlin's brows drew together in a frown. "Andomhaim? No, that's impossible. Andomhaim fell long ago. Who are you really..."

He took a step towards her, winced, and clutched at his wounded side.

Then he fell to his knees, his face going pale.

***

## Chapter 8: Order of the Arcanii

Calliande cursed and hurried forward as Tamlin fell on his side.

Just how badly had the young knight been hurt? Often, she had seen men push themselves hard in battle, taking wounds that they had barely noticed in their frenzy, only to collapse and die after the battle had been won. She didn't want to see Tamlin die. He had rushed to her aid, knowing nothing about her.

On a more practical level, if he died she would lose her best chance at finding a useful local guide.

"It's...I'm just a bit dizzy," said Tamlin.

Calliande helped him to sit up. "We need to get your armor off. Help me, please."

She set her staff next to him and helped Tamlin pull off his leather cuirass with its bronze plates. Beneath it, he wore a quilted gambeson, and the garment was drenched with blood.

"Ah, damnation," muttered Tamlin. His voice was starting to slur a little. "That last one must have hit me harder than I thought."

"Let's get this off," said Calliande, helping him with the gambeson.

"Unless you have needle, thread, and a roll of bandages hidden in your skirt," said Tamlin, his voice still slurred, "I don't think you can do much, Calliande Arban of Andomhaim."

"You might be surprised," said Calliande, running the critical eye of a physician over him. There was a nasty wound in his right side, just at the base of the ribs. It was bleeding profusely, and it was possible the blow had cracked his ribs and damaged his right lung. He had a shallow gash on his left arm, and another on his right leg, likely from a spear that had slipped beneath the edge of his armor. Lucky for him the spear hadn't gone higher at that angle, or else he wouldn't have been able to do anything with a woman except smile at her.

As she examined him, Calliande noticed three things.

The first was that he was a tremendously strong man. His right arm was a little larger than his left, as was common in right-handed swordsmen, but his torso and limbs were heavy with muscle. He had been training hard to become a warrior, likely all his life.

The second thing she noticed was the scars.

Tamlin had a lot of scars, so many that his torso looked like a map drawn in flesh by a drunken cartographer. She saw the marks of swords, daggers, and even bite marks. For such a young man, he had been in a lot of fights...and he had often been wounded.

When she looked at his back, she flinched.

Whip scars covered his back. He had been flogged at some point in his life and flogged so badly that he should have died of blood loss or sepsis.

But the scars paled in comparison to the thing on his left shoulder.

She wasn't sure if it was a scar or a birthmark. It looked a little like both, but scars and birthmarks were never that shade of pale green. A tattoo? If so, why would Tamlin have a tattoo of a downward-pointing green sword on his left shoulder. And one that looked so much like the orcish soldiers' blue facial tattoos?

Calliande could ask him later, once she was sure that he wasn't going to bleed out.

She realized that he had never encountered the healing magic of the Well of Tarlion before.

"This," said Calliande, "is going to feel a little strange."

She flexed her fingers, calling magic, and white light glimmered around her hands, visible even in the bright sunlight.

Tamlin blinked. "What are you doing?"

He started to raise a hand to stop her.

Before he could, Calliande put her hands on his temples and cast the healing spell. Tamlin went rigid, every one of his well-defined muscles clenching at once. Calliande knew that the healing spell often felt like getting dunked in freezing water.

For the Magistria casting the healing spell, it meant only pain.

She felt every one of his wounds as if they had been torn into her own flesh. The wounds in his side and leg and arm were her own, as were his cracked ribs and the damage to his lung. The bruise on his face was her own, which didn't help her headache.

But Calliande had done this a thousand times before, and she gritted her teeth and rode the pain. One by one she forced his wounds to close and heal themselves, and the pain faded.

And then it was over.

Calliande straightened up, still kneeling next to him. Tamlin collapsed to the ground with a groan, breathing hard. Calliande shook her head, shaking off the last of the pain. Healing his wounds had hurt, but it had still been nothing compared to the difficult labor she had endured with Joanna, the pain of feeling her daughter die...

No. No, she couldn't think about that now. She might fall to pieces again, and she could not do that while her sons needed her.

"My God," croaked Tamlin. He sat up and examined his wounds. Or, at least, where they should have been.

"I was able to heal the cut on your arm and the bruise on your face entirely," said Calliande. "The wounds on your leg and chest were bad enough that they'll leave scars...but I don't think a few more of those will bother you."

Tamlin prodded the new scar on his right side with a finger, and then looked at her and grinned. "Are you a goddess? Or an angel?"

That was so unexpected that Calliande laughed. "There's only one God, Sir Tamlin. And I am most definitely not an angel."

"I did know that," said Tamlin. He got to his feet, and Calliande followed suit. "But...you will forgive me some poetic license, I hope. What else is a wounded man to think when a beautiful woman appears who heals him?" He grinned at her. "Dare I ask what other requests you grant?"

She decided to ignore his flirtation. "Given that I did just save your life, I would like the answers to some questions."

"Of course," said Tamlin. The smile faded as he looked around. "But I should armor myself again, and we should not linger here. Our late friends," he glanced at the dead orcs, "will have friends of their own."

"Agreed," said Calliande. "But once we are away from here, I am going to Castra Chaeldon."

Tamlin frowned. "Really?" She handed him the gambeson, and he pulled it on. The garment was stiff with blood, and it would start to smell foul in short order, but the leather-backed bronze armor would probably peel off his scarred skin if he tried to wear it without padding. "That is not a safe place."

"No," said Calliande. "The traitor Archaelon, I assume?"

Tamlin's face darkened as Calliande helped him don the armor. "You've met him, then."

"Not yet," said Calliande, "but I intend to do so." She picked up her staff, and Tamlin retrieved his sword of dark elven steel and returned the weapon to its scabbard.

"Might I ask why?" said Tamlin. "You will face great danger."

"I have no choice," said Calliande. "I will tell you the truth, but you might find it unbelievable. As I said, I am the Keeper of Andomhaim."

They walked northwest over the hills, and as they did, she gave Tamlin a brief sketch of everything that had happened since Rhodruthain had appeared before High King Arandar's throne. Had it only been this morning? It felt as if far more time had passed.

"Then Andomhaim was not destroyed by the urdmordar?" said Tamlin at last.

"No," said Calliande. "The archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves founded the Order of the Swordbearers and the Order of the Magistri among us, and they defeated the urdmordar."

"Interesting," said Tamlin.

"Do you believe me?" said Calliande.

"I see no reason not to," said Tamlin. "Your tale is incredible, I will admit. But I need only remind myself of the fact that I can walk upright without pain to see the proof of your tale. As you may have guessed, the realm of Owyllain was founded by Connmar Pendragon when his fleet found his way to these shores five hundred years ago. We had always thought that Andomhaim was destroyed long ago...and we had no reason to think otherwise. Nor did we have any means of learning otherwise. At least three thousand miles of ocean separate Aenesium from Tarlion, and apparently, no man living has the knowledge of the sea to traverse those miles."

"Why is the city named Aenesium?" said Calliande.

"For Aeneas of the Aeneid and the Iliad," said Tamlin. "You know the poems?"

Calliande blinked and then understood the reference. "Yes, of course. Just as Aeneas fled the fall of Troy to found Rome, so did Connmar Pendragon flee what he thought was the fall of Tarlion to found the new realm of Owyllain." It was an odd thought. Andomhaim was the realm of mankind, the home of humanity on this world. The thought that there might be another civilization of humanity far from Andomhaim was a strange one.

Though perhaps it was just as well. Given how often Andomhaim had fallen into civil war, if Owyllain had been any closer perhaps the two rival High Kings would have made endless bloody war upon each other.

"Do you know of Rhodruthain?" said Calliande.

Tamlin grimaced. "All too well. He is the Guardian of Cathair Animus, a ruin of the gray elves some distance southeast of Urd Maelwyn. He had a left a strong mark on our history, both for good and for ill."

"Gray elves?" said Calliande. "I've never heard of them."

Tamlin shrugged. "That is what we call them, for they always dress in cloaks of gray. They are not dark elves, but I suspect they are not high elves, either. Once they ruled most of this land, and their ruins can be found in many places. But the Sovereign warred against their kings for millennia, and in the end, he crushed them utterly. They were driven into the jungles of Illicaeryn, and only rarely come forth."

"The Sovereign?" said Calliande.

"You do not yet know who he is?" said Tamlin.

"I have heard him mentioned," said Calliande, "along with something called the Seven, but I don't know what they are."

"Then I will tell you, Lady Calliande," said Tamlin, "as I fear they are relevant to your present difficulties. The Sovereign was a dark elven lord who ruled most of this land when Connmar Pendragon arrived, and in time, the realm of Owyllain warred against him. We would have been destroyed, but Rhodruthain came to the High King and founded the Order of the Arcanii."

"I am surprised your High King allowed it," said Calliande. "All magic is forbidden in Andomhaim, save for that of the Keeper, her apprentice, and the Magistri."

"I believe my ancestors were desperate at the time," said Tamlin in a dry voice. "And Rhodruthain did not teach us any dark magic. Only the magic of the four elements – earth, fire, air, and water. So long as we did not try to contact demons, use necromancy, or employ any form of dark magic, the Church of Owyllain decreed that we would not violate the scriptures' ban on sorcery."

"I hope not, anyway," said Calliande. "On Old Earth, save for the Keepers, the only source of magical power was through trafficking with demons. It seems the laws of nature function differently in our world. But you were speaking of the Sovereign?"

"The High King of Owyllain fought the Sovereign for centuries," said Tamlin. "About twenty years ago, High King Kothlaric assembled a great host of men, gray elves, orcs, xiatami, and halflings, and slew the Sovereign below the gates of his citadel of Urd Maelwyn. Within Urd Maelwyn, High King Kothlaric found seven ancient swords of the dark elves, swords of terrible magical power."

Calliande sighed. "I can guess what happened. There was dissension about what to do with the Seven Swords. Kothlaric and his allies fell out, and they killed him and took the Swords."

"More or less," said Tamlin. "Kothlaric, in his wisdom, realized that the Seven were too powerful for mortal hands to wield. He decided to go to Cathair Animus and seek the help of Rhodruthain to destroy them. And there he was betrayed. Rhodruthain and the Master of the Arcanii, a woman named Talitha, murdered Kothlaric and claimed the Seven. In the resultant fight, Talitha was killed, Rhodruthain escaped with one of the Seven, and when the dust settled five of the remaining six Swords fell into different hands – Kothlaric's brother King Hektor, King Justin Cyros of Cytheria, the Necromancer of Trojas, one of the Sovereign's lieutenants called the Confessor, and the Masked One of Xenorium. They have fought each other for the rule of Owyllain and the shards of the Sovereign's empire ever since."

"Which Sword did Rhodruthain take?" said Calliande. "He had a peculiar golden sword when I saw him."

"Either the Sword of Life or the Sword of Air," said Tamlin. "King Hektor has the Sword of Fire, King Justin the Sword of Earth, the Necromancer the Sword of Death, the Masked One the Sword of Shadows, and the Confessor the Sword of Water. Rhodruthain took one of the Swords, and one of them vanished. So, by the process of elimination..."

"He either has the Sword of Life or the Sword of Air," said Calliande. "I assume the Swords derive their names from their powers?"

"You are correct, my lady," said Tamlin. "King Hektor can call a firestorm on the battlefield, King Justin can open chasms to swallow his foes, and the Necromancer can summon armies of the dead. The powers of the Swords are too evenly matched, and so they have been stalemated for twenty years of war."

"Which brings us to the present, I believe," said Calliande as they reached the top of the next hill. The road snaked away to her right, the rocky hills and the ocean to her left, but she saw no sign of orcs, muridachs, or anyone else.

"Yes," said Tamlin. "King Justin is preparing to attack Aenesium with a great force, both his own men and orcish mercenaries from the armies of the orcish Warlords to the east. Castra Chaeldon guards the main road from Cytheria to Aenesium, and King Hektor gave it into the keeping of Archaelon, a knight of my order."

"Who then betrayed you and sided with the Confessor," said Calliande.

Tamlin scowled, but not at her. "Yes. He threw the Confessor's orcs at us, and we were overwhelmed. Even then, we might have held, if not for Archaelon's Champion."

"Champion?" said Calliande.

"An abomination," said Tamlin. "Archaelon has abandoned both the law of God and the covenant of our Order. The creature he calls his 'Champion' is an undead monstrosity, a thing twelve feet tall made from corpses. He has grafted bronze plates to its flesh, and it is all but invincible. It tore through our men as if they were paper. If not for the Champion, I think we could have held and repulsed the Confessor's orcs." He shook his head. "I think Archaelon has gone mad. The dark magic and the necromancy he wields has corrupted his reason. I fear he hopes to play off King Hektor, King Justin, and the Confessor against each other, and raise an army of the dead as the Necromancer of Trojas did."

"Not unless we stop him first," said Calliande.

Tamlin's expression was dubious. "Can you stop him, my lady? The histories of old said the Keepers of Andomhaim wielded great powers, but..."

"But history is often distorted in the telling," said Calliande. "But I have fought against wizards like Archaelon, not once but many times. And my husband is a great knight. The sword he wields..."

"The soulblade, you called it," said Tamlin.

"It is a powerful weapon against dark magic," said Calliande. "One blow can kill an urvaalg."

Tamlin laughed. "Nothing can kill an urvaalg in a single blow."

"A soulblade can," said Calliande. She looked up at him. "How do you think Andomhaim survived the wrath of the urdmordar?"

Tamlin said nothing for a moment. He lifted his helmet, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and put it back on. The damned thing had to be excruciating in the sunlight. Calliande reminded herself to summon some water for him to drink.

"Perhaps I shall see such a weapon yet," said Tamlin. "What is your plan?"

"My children are in Castra Chaeldon," said Calliande. "I'm going to get them back. My husband will find us, and then we'll have his help."

"You seem certain of that," said Tamlin.

"Oh, yes," said Calliande.

In truth, she wasn't nearly as confident as she seemed. Ridmark was still alive and well, she could tell that from her spells. But depending on what she saw at Castra Chaeldon, depending on how strong Archaelon's magic was and the number of his soldiers, she might have to find Ridmark and bring him with her. Or some other evil might befall him before he could find her...

No. She couldn't think like that. The fear would paralyze her, and she had to act. Gareth and Joachim needed her to act.

"I will come with you," said Tamlin. "It is possible some of our men escaped from the battle and may be wandering around the countryside." His voice hardened. "And the Confessor's orcs took many captives. I expect Archaelon plans to use them to fuel his necromancy. If I can save them, I will."

Archaelon was a necromancer, and Gareth and Joachim were in his hands...

"Then I shall be glad of your help, Sir Tamlin," said Calliande. "Which way to Castra Chaeldon?"

"This way," said Tamlin. "We won't get there before dark. Perhaps that's just as well. It might be easier to approach under cover of darkness."

They walked in silence for a moment.

"Another question," said Calliande as a thought occurred to her.

"Ask."

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'the New God is coming?'" said Calliande.

She expected Tamlin to shrug it off, or to express bafflement.

Instead, he froze, staring at her in surprise.

"What?" said Calliande. "What is it?"

"Where did you hear that?" he said.

"Rhodruthain said it," said Calliande. "In Tarlion, before he brought us here. He said the New God would arise and kill our children, and that it had to be stopped."

"I see," said Tamlin.

"You've heard it before, I gather," said Calliande.

Tamlin took a deep breath and nodded. "You probably saw the scars on my back."

"They were somewhat noticeable," said Calliande.

"When I was a slave in Urd Maelwyn," said Tamlin, "someone...important to me died. Her final words to me were that the New God was coming. I...never found out what that meant. She had some magic, many of us did. I thought it might be a prophecy or a foretelling, but I convinced myself it was only the last hallucination of a dying woman. I..."

He shook his head and fell silent.

"I don't know what it means," said Calliande, "but if I ever see Rhodruthain again, I will force him to tell me."

"You seem so confident of that," said Tamlin.

"He caught me off guard once," said Calliande, her voice quiet. "It won't happen a second time. He put my children at risk. I will call him to account for that if he is foolish enough to show himself to me."

Tamlin flashed a smile. She could tell he was trying to pull some of his charm over his disquiet. "Are all the women of Andomhaim so fierce?"

"Some of us," said Calliande. "And I would like to ask you one more question."

Tamlin nodded.

"That scar on your shoulder," said Calliande.

"Ah," said Tamlin. "I thought you would notice that. It's not a scar but a birthmark. I'm one of the Swordborn."

"Swordborn?" said Calliande, and then she understood. "Your father was one of the holders of the Seven."

Tamlin nodded. "The Swordborn are immune to the powers of the Seven, which makes us useful against them. I have some minor talents with earth magic, but my main affinity is for air magic." He tapped the sword at his belt. "Though frankly, I prefer the sword to spells."

"Earth magic?" said Calliande. "Does that mean your father was King Justin Cyros?"

Tamlin nodded. "That is correct."

"If I can ask," said Calliande, "then why are you fighting for King Hektor instead of King Justin?"

"Because Hektor Pendragon wishes to restore peace and order," said Tamlin. "Justin Cyros wants to make himself a tyrant ruling over slaves." His voice hardened. "And King Justin murdered my mother and sold me into slavery at Urd Maelwyn."

"I'm sorry," said Calliande.

Tamlin looked away, blinked, and the smile returned. "The distant past, my lady. Now I am on a quest to help the fair Keeper of Andomhaim rescue innocents from a wicked sorcerer. Perhaps the poem they make of our exploits shall be even better known than the Aeneid and the Iliad one day."

Calliande didn't care about poems. All she wanted was her children and her husband back safely. But while Tamlin seemed a troubled young man, he struck her as a capable and deadly one. He would make a valuable ally against Archaelon and his soldiers.

"Lead on, then, Sir Tamlin," said Calliande.

They continued traveling northwest.

***

## Chapter 9: Oath

Ridmark had thought he would have a great many questions for his new ally, but it turned out he spent more time answering questions as they headed north.

For it seemed that the Lady Kalussa Pendragon, Sister of the Order of the Arcanii, liked to talk.

Noblewoman or not, sorceress or not, she was still a twenty-year-old woman, and with some exceptions, Ridmark had found that twenty-year-old women enjoyed talking. That made him think of Joanna, and the thought saddened him. If Joanna had lived, perhaps in twenty years Ridmark would have been a tired old man sitting in his chair, cheered by the company and conversation of his daughter.

He pushed away the thought. Calliande and Gareth and Joachim were still among the living, God willing, and they needed his help.

"Why are you still carrying that bamboo staff?" said Kalussa.

Ridmark glanced back at her. She was fit enough to keep talking even as they made their way up the steep slope of the hill, the sun shining overhead. Her bronze armor flashed in the sunlight, which might be a problem if anyone decided to pursue them. Perhaps they could find a cloak light enough to cover the armor without causing her to pass out from heatstroke.

"Just what is bamboo?" said Ridmark. "I'd never heard of it before today. It doesn't grow in Andomhaim."

"It grows in the south, in the hills near the Illicaeryn Jungle," said Kalussa. "We use it to make bows." She tapped her own short bow, and Ridmark saw that it had indeed been made partially from bamboo. "But why are you still carrying that staff? Surely with Oathshield, you have no need of a stick."

Ridmark laughed a little. "You might be surprised. A staff makes a good weapon."

Kalussa frowned. "Not against a sword, surely."

"The orcs holding you captive thought that," said Ridmark.

Kalussa considered that and then inclined her head to concede the point.

Ridmark reached the top of the hill and looked around. He wanted to stay off the road, lest they encounter any of Archaelon's soldiers, and so far, the plan had worked. From here he could see the dusty road, and no one was moving along it, though he did see another wrecked wagon standing there. The sea was visible to the west and the rocky hills to the east. It almost seemed like he and Kalussa were alone in the world.

He knew better, though. Between the Confessor's orcs and the scavenging muridachs, sooner or later they were bound to encounter more foes. Best to be ready when they did.

"Where did you learn to fight with a staff?" said Kalussa. "It is not something that nobles learn here, and I cannot imagine that it is in Andomhaim."

"It isn't," said Ridmark, frowning down at the wagon. "When I was a boy, I boasted of my skill with the sword. My father didn't approve and had me duel one of his men-at-arms, my practice sword against his quarterstaff. I didn't break any bones, but I came away with a lot of bruises." He pointed at the wagon. "Let's see if that has any water. Between the two of us, we'll need more water before we can get to Castra Chaeldon, and the orcs might be clever enough to watch the creeks."

"Agreed," said Kalussa, and they headed towards the road.

A thought occurred to Ridmark. "Why is your armor bronze?"

Kalussa blinked. "Why would it not be?"

"Because bronze is softer than steel or iron," said Ridmark. "Steel would make for stronger weapons and armor."

"Ah, I see," said Kalussa. "I had forgotten. Iron must be abundant in Andomhaim."

"It is." Ridmark surveyed the wagon. Two more of those dead lizard-things with bony shields over their necks slumped in the traces, but the wagon was otherwise undisturbed.

"Iron is not abundant here," said Kalussa. "I believe our ancestors arrived with steel weapons and armor, but they have worn away long ago. Copper and tin are common, and so all the nations and kindreds here use weapons and armor of bronze."

"No horses here, either," said Ridmark. He walked to the back of the wagon and began searching through it. He found more waterskins and several packs of rations.

"Horses?" said Kalussa. "What is a horse?"

"An animal with hooves," said Ridmark. "Knights ride upon them in battle."

"Oh!" said Kalussa. "I remember. The histories speak of them. I think our ancestors' horses died long ago, and there are none left here. The men of Owyllain fight on foot. So do most of the other nations and kindreds. Well, the halflings of the Takai steppes fight upon the backs of struthian lizards, but the halflings are light enough for the struthians to bear their weight."

"I see," said Ridmark, considering that. In Andomhaim, the knights and men-at-arms who made up the heavy horsemen were the vanguard of any lord's army. Properly used, a charge of horsemen could break nearly any formation of foot soldiers, and all the laws of Andomhaim reflected that. Knights received benefices of lands from their lords, and from those lands, the knights were required to equip themselves with horse and armor and raise men-at-arms. Without horses, Owyllain's armies would revolve around foot soldiers, as had the armies of the ancient Romans of Old Earth.

He wondered what kind of laws and customs the Nine Cities had.

Well, it was something he could wonder about once his family was safe.

"Take these," said Ridmark, handing Kalussa a pack and a pair of waterskins.

She blinked at him. "Certainly not. I am a Sister of the Arcanii and of royal blood. I do not bear burdens."

"Then when we stop to rest, you can watch me eat and drink," said Ridmark. "I'm not carrying your food and water for you. Take them."

Kalussa glared at him, and then she smiled. "A good point. As the lord Ridmark commands." She took the pack and slung the waterskins over her shoulder. "But we will need to stop to rest at some point. It is still at least eight or nine miles to Castra Chaeldon, and the sun will go down before we can reach the fortress."

Ridmark grimaced. "Agreed." His heart screamed at the delay. Calliande and Gareth and Joachim might be captives at the fortress even now, and he wanted to run there, storm the castra, kill anyone in his path, and free them. But rushing in like a fool would only get him killed. "Let's use the rest of the sunlight to get as far as we can, and then find a place to rest. We should set out again before the sun comes up."

Kalussa nodded, adjusting the weight of her pack, and Ridmark walked past the dead lizards.

"What are those things called, anyway?" said Ridmark.

"The scutians?" said Kalussa. "The shield lizards. They are beasts of burden, and we use them to pull our wagons and our plows. They also taste quite pleasant." She sighed and patted the dead lizard on its thick, wrinkled neck. "They are good animals, quite placid, and did not deserve to die like this. It was cruel of the Confessor's soldiers to kill them out of hand."

"Yes," said Ridmark. It also made sense. If they wanted to cripple King Hektor's army over the long term, destroying the army's beasts of burden would help do it. "Let's keep moving."

Kalussa nodded, and they left the road, climbing back into the hills. Ridmark kept a watchful eye on the land around them, answering Kalussa's questions with as few words as possible. There was no sign of any more muridachs or of the Confessor's orcs. Perhaps the muridachs had taken enough plunder from the battlefield to satisfy their avarice. Perhaps the Confessor's soldiers had all withdrawn to Castra Chaeldon to defend the fortress. Ridmark didn't like that thought. It would make finding Calliande and Gareth and Joachim all the harder.

He came to a sudden stop as they approached the top of another hill.

"What is it?" said Kalussa at once, raising her bow.

Ridmark frowned and looked down at Oathshield, drawing the sword a foot or so from its scabbard. The sword shivered in his grasp, and a pale white flame danced around the blue blade.

"Why is your sword glowing like that?" said Kalussa.

"Because creatures of dark magic are near," said Ridmark. "Some of Archaelon's undead, I expect." For an instant, he had the horrible fear that Calliande and his sons had been slain and raised as undead creatures like those he had fought many times in the past.

But he didn't see anything moving nearby, save for the ripples of heat rising from the sun-warmed rocks of the hills.

"I don't see anything," said Kalussa.

"Do you have any spells to detect the presence of dark magic?" said Ridmark.

"I do," said Kalussa, "but I'm afraid I'm not very skilled with them. I cannot sense anything with the spells unless it is only a few yards away."

Not everyone, Ridmark reflected, was the Keeper of Andomhaim.

He drew Oathshield and turned in a circle, seeking for foes as the soulblade glowed with white fire.

The rippling caught his eye.

In the distance, the valleys and the hills flickered with heat, since the rocks had been in the sun all day. But some of the ripples stood out and appeared to be coming closer.

"Urvaalgs," said Ridmark, cold certainty settling over him.

Kalussa gasped. "Urvaalgs?"

Ridmark glanced at her. "You know the creatures?"

He looked back at the patterns of approaching ripples. Five of them, he thought. Maybe six. That would be hard. If Calliande had been with him, they could have disposed of all six urvaalgs in short order. He wasn't sure how useful Kalussa's magic would be in the fight. Ridmark had seen Antenora burn urvaalgs to cinders, but he doubted Kalussa had Antenora's mastery of elemental flame.

"Then we are doomed," said Kalussa in a flat voice. "It takes a group of Arcanius Knights to fight even a few urvaalgs. The two of us cannot fight five urvaalgs at once and prevail."

"Oh, yes, we can," said Ridmark. He drove the bamboo staff into the ground and took Oathshield in both hands, calling on the soulblade to fill him with strength and speed. "Stay behind me. If you can kill one of the urvaalgs with your magic, well and good. Otherwise, I would appreciate it if you could keep the creatures from surrounding me."

"What are you doing?" said Kalussa. "We must run!"

Ridmark took a deep breath and strode forward, watching the ripples of the unseen urvaalgs. Likely the creatures did not think he was any threat. Urvaalgs were more cunning than normal beasts, and the ones he had fought in Andomhaim sometimes had the wit to avoid Swordbearers.

These urvaalgs, though, had likely never encountered a Swordbearer before.

Hopefully, Ridmark could use that to his advantage.

The blurs started to converge on him, and Ridmark broke into a sprint.

Oathshield's magic surged through him and drove him onward, giving him tremendous speed, and Ridmark swung the soulblade. All his strength and speed drove the weapon, and the blade slammed into something unseen with a shock.

The urvaalg became visible as it died, a twisted creature that looked like some ghastly hybrid of ape and rabid wolf, its body covered in lank, greasy fur, its claws like daggers, its fangs a row of yellow knives in its bulging jaw. Ridmark's blow had opened its skull, and the creature fell dead to the ground as Oathshield's white fire burned through the wound. He did not hesitate but struck again at once, ripping his soulblade through another unseen urvaalg. The creature appeared and fell dead, the black slime of its blood leaking onto the stony ground.

Then the other four urvaalgs abandoned their stealth and became visible, leaping at Ridmark, howling their horrible, metallic battle cries.

He dodged, sweeping Oathshield before him, and opened the chest of another urvaalg. The creature fell dead at his feet, but Ridmark had no choice but to retreat, trying to stay out of the reach of the urvaalgs' snapping jaws and slashing claws. Without his soulblade, the urvaalgs would have overwhelmed him. Even with his soulblade, he barely kept ahead of them, and the urvaalgs did not give him an opening to strike.

Kalussa shouted, and sudden heat washed across Ridmark's face, as intense as the heat radiating from a blacksmith's forge. A cone of fire washed across the urvaalgs, setting their fur ablaze. The creatures stumbled, howling their rage, and Ridmark seized the opportunity and struck. Oathshield split the skull of the nearest urvaalg in two, and the creature toppled. The two survivors attacked, but Ridmark had an easier time fighting two urvaalgs instead of three. He dodged a sweep of claws and struck, wounding the urvaalg on his left. The creature reared back with a brassy scream, and Ridmark whirled and killed the urvaalg on his right.

The urvaalg on his left recovered, but Ridmark was faster, sinking Oathshield between its ribs and into its black heart. The creature shuddered, slid back, and collapsed to the ground.

Ridmark wrenched Oathshield free of its carcass, the white fire on the sword burning away the black slime of the urvaalgs' blood. Had it always been this hard to catch his breath after a fight? God and the saints, he was getting old.

"That was good timing," he said, wiping sweat from his eyes as he turned back to Kalussa.

She stared at him, green eyes wide. Ridmark glanced over his shoulder, wondering if more urvaalgs or something worse had appeared, and then he realized she was staring at him.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"You killed them," said Kalussa, her voice shaking a little. "You killed them all. Six urvaalgs, and you slew them alone."

"No, I didn't," said Ridmark. "You helped."

"Six urvaalgs!" said Kalussa, astonished. "I have never heard of such a feat of arms. No one in Owyllain has ever heard of such a feat of arms! Are all the Swordbearers of Andomhaim as puissant as you, Ridmark Arban?"

Ridmark shrugged. "Some are, some are not." He looked at the dead urvaalgs, sheathed Oathshield, and retrieved his staff. "Let's not linger here. Other scavengers might come."

Kalussa recovered her poise and nodded. "Yes. Urvaalgs are drawn to dark magic like maggots to carrion, and Archaelon's filthy necromancy must have summoned them. Let us continue on."

###

They walked for another hour and a half, but by then it was dark, and they had no choice but to stop, lest they blunder uselessly around the hills. For that matter, Ridmark had no wish to traverse the rough terrain at night. It would be all too easy to put a foot down wrong and break an ankle, or worse, a neck.

Ridmark chose a campsite at the base of one of the rocky hills. Several boulders stood in a loose horseshoe shape there, and the rocks would shield Ridmark and Kalussa from sight. As the sun disappeared and only two of the thirteen moons appeared overhead, it got cold, far colder than Ridmark would have expected.

"A pity there's nothing to burn for a fire," said Ridmark.

"Ah." Even in the gloom, he saw the flash of Kalussa's smile. "Fortunately, Lord Ridmark, we have no need of fuel." She rolled her hand with more flourish than was necessary as she cast the spell, and flames leaped from the ground, dancing over the rocks. The fire radiated a comfortable heat. "That should last us for most of the night, I think, so long as I tend it every so often."

Ridmark nodded. "Just as well. One of us will need to keep watch."

"After we eat, I think," said Kalussa. "It has been a long and trying day."

"Agreed." Ridmark sat down against one of the boulders with a sigh, putting his pack and waterskins next to him. His joints hadn't ached so much as the end of the day ten years ago, or even five. "I'll eat, and then take the first watch."

He expected Kalussa to sit on the other side of the fire, but to his surprise, she sat next to him. Right next to him, in fact, so close that her arm was touching his. He almost stood up and moved away, but his knees hurt, and he was tired and sitting felt pleasant. After he ate and drank, he would get up to go on watch.

"Lord Ridmark," said Kalussa. She hesitated, the fire throwing shifting shadows across her face.

"Lady Kalussa," said Ridmark.

"You did save my life," said Kalussa. She took a deep breath. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," said Ridmark. "I wouldn't have left anyone as a captive of a necromancer like Archaelon, not if I could avoid it."

"You are a great warrior," said Kalussa.

"That's very kind," said Ridmark.

"No, it isn't." The white smile flashed over her face, her green eyes glinting in the firelight. "Alas, I have never had much of a gift for flattery. But I have spent all my life around warriors. I fear Owyllain has been at war with its enemies and with itself my entire life. And never have I seen a warrior like you, Shield Knight. I would be glad to help you in your task."

"Thank you," said Ridmark.

"In any way that I can."

Ridmark nodded.

She smiled at him and then put her left hand on his right knee.

"In any way that I can," repeated Kalussa.

Suddenly he realized the point she was trying to make.

"Lady Kalussa," said Ridmark, "that isn't..."

Before he could finish the sentence, she leaned closer and kissed him hard. For a moment shock froze Ridmark's reactions. But her lips were soft and warm, and he felt himself responding to the kiss, her tongue brushing his...

Then his reason reasserted itself, and he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away.

"Stop," he said. "Stop that!"

Kalussa smiled at him. "Do you not find me pleasing to the eye, Lord Ridmark?"

He did, as it happened.

"Whether I do or not is of no consequence," said Ridmark. The kiss had addled his wits. It had also set a fire in his blood. "I am married."

"But it has been a long time," murmured Kalussa, "since you have enjoyed a woman's touch, has it not?"

"And how could you possibly know that?" said Ridmark with irritation. Too late he realized that his answer conceded the point.

"I can tell," said Kalussa. "You have a tension to you, like a spring in a clock wound too tight. You have hungry eyes." Her smile didn't waver. "Would you not wish to ease that hunger? I find you desirable."

"You only met me today," said Ridmark. "We are both in terrible danger. We only know a little about each other. And, most importantly of all, I am married. I will not dishonor you, my wife, and myself by making you my mistress."

"Mistress?" said Kalussa. "Who said anything about a mistress? I wish to become your concubine."

"My what?" said Ridmark.

Kalussa frowned, and then her eyes widened. "Oh! I understand now. You must not have the custom in your land."

Suddenly his earlier musings about the laws and customs of Owyllain seemed much more relevant.

"For God's sake, explain," said Ridmark. In Andomhaim, while it wasn't approved for a nobleman to have a mistress or two, it wasn't uncommon. There had been women who had hinted they would be happy to spend time alone with Ridmark, but it had been easy for him to make excuses without causing offense.

But now he was alone with Kalussa, he needed her help, and she was offering herself to him.

It troubled him how hard it was to refuse her.

"The realm of the Nine Cities has known war for many years," said Kalussa. "Even before Kothlaric defeated the Sovereign, we had numerous wars. Many men died in battle, and soon there were far more women than men in the realm. The scriptures say that a man can have but one wife, but with so many more women than men..."

"Some of them would rather be concubines than childless," said Ridmark. The orcs of the three baptized kingdoms had something of the same custom. They had accepted baptism, but they continued their old practices of polygamy, partly from preference, and partly because so many of their men died in battle. The orcish women of Rhaluusk, Khaluusk, and Mhorluusk would prefer to be a second or a third wife as opposed to having no children at all.

Evidently, many of the women of Owyllain thought the same.

"Yes," said Kalussa. "You see? The laws of Owyllain permit it, and we would have rights and duties to each other. And it would be a mercy to your wife, would it not? If she has wearied of sharing your bed, then another would be glad to take you in her arms. Your wife could remain in charge of your household, while I remain at your side to give you more children. And you are a great warrior. I might have only known you a day, but I can see that at once. Any woman of Owyllain would be glad to be your wife or concubine." She smiled a little. "Perhaps you think me desperately wanton, but I am not. I think rather that God has given both of us an opportunity."

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"Forgive me," said Ridmark, the pulse throbbing in his temples, "but I cannot do as you wish. Those may be the laws and customs of Owyllain, but they are not mine. I swore an oath before God and men to remain faithful to my wife until death, and I intend to keep it. You are right. I do find you pleasing to the eye, and I admire your bravery. Were circumstances different, perhaps I could think more on what you have asked of me. But they are not, and I cannot betray my wife like this. I am sorry."

Her smile vanished, and she stared at him for a moment. Perhaps she would fly into a fury. Some men and women did not take rejection well, and he knew some women developed a lasting hatred for men who had passed them over. Here, in this dangerous land, that could be disastrous.

Kalussa rose, straightened up, and offered a deep bow to him. Then she stepped back and sat down further away from him.

"Then you are a noble man as well as a brave one, Ridmark Arban," she said.

"I am sorry," said Ridmark. "I did not wish to offend you, but I cannot act otherwise."

To his surprise, she smiled. "Do you know, I am not offended? I think I would be, but...usually, I have no suitors, but that is because my father wishes me to serve as a Sister of the Order, so no man of Aenesium will approach me for fear of his displeasure. But you do not care what Hektor Pendragon thinks about anything. Why should you, when you have never met him? You instead follow the laws of God and your own conscience. A fine thing, I think...if a rare one."

"Thank you," said Ridmark. "I do not wish to be your enemy, especially since there are so many foes around us."

"Yes," said Kalussa. She sighed. "I suppose I should have broached the topic later. But sometimes if a thing is not done at once, it is never done at all." She offered him a sad smile. "But I am sorry that your wife has ceased to love you."

Ridmark frowned. "She hasn't."

"Then why has she stopped sharing your bed?"

"Because she has been sick," said Ridmark. He didn't want to talk about the last year with this bold girl, but to his surprise, he found himself speaking of it. He didn't want to talk about it, but maybe he needed to speak of it. "About...eleven months ago, now, she was with child. She has been pregnant before, and we thought we knew what to expect. But the pregnancy went bad, and she spent months confined to her bed. The child came early. A daughter. We named her Joanna. She...barely lived three days. My wife has powerful healing magic, and she tried again and again to save Joanna. Between the labor and her efforts, I don't think she slept for more than a week."

"But the child died," said Kalussa, her voice soft.

"Yes." Ridmark remembered those awful days as if they had happened yesterday. "There is no grief quite like losing a child. It was difficult for me, but it was much, much harder for Calliande. I didn't think anything could ever break her, but this did. For weeks, she refused to leave her room, refused to eat, and she was so sick. I feared that she would starve to death, or that in her grief she might slay herself." He sighed and rubbed his face. He felt tired, tired, tired, and he had felt that way for some time now. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. When we went to High King Arandar's court this morning, it was the first time she had left our domus in months. And now...this."

They sat in silence for a while.

"I am sorry about your daughter," said Kalussa.

Ridmark inclined his head.

"But if your wife is as valiant as you," said Kalussa, "and if she possesses powerful magic, then she will find you. Perhaps she had even rescued your sons already."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark.

A year ago, he would have agreed with Kalussa. But now? He wasn't sure how Calliande would handle it, especially if the boys were in danger. She might rise to the challenge. She might fall to pieces.

They lapsed into silence for a time.

"Can I confess something to you, in turn, Lord Ridmark?" said Kalussa, her voice quiet.

Ridmark blinked. He had been so drawn into his dark thoughts that he had almost forgotten she was there. Foolish of him to become so distracted when they were in danger.

"If you wish," said Ridmark. "I am not a priest, though."

Kalussa smiled, but then the expression faded. "I hate this."

Ridmark thought she referred to his rejection, but instead, she was gesturing at herself. She hated herself? No, that wasn't it. She was gesturing at her armor.

"Your armor?" said Ridmark. "It fits well enough. If..."

"No, not the armor," said Kalussa. "What it represents. I hate being a Sister of the Order of the Arcanii. I hate fighting and killing with magic."

"Very few people enjoy war," said Ridmark.

"I suppose not," said Kalussa. "But I have to fight in it because of my magic. Most women my age are either wives or concubines and have children of their own already." A deep bitterness came into her voice. "But not me, though. Not the King's Swordborn daughter. I must don armor and wield the magic of elemental flame against our foes. The King only fathered me because he needed Swordborn to fight against his foes. And because of that, no man will approach me or seek my hand."

"You're lonely," said Ridmark.

Kalussa blinked. "Yes. I would just like...someone. If I can't have a great warrior like you, then even a soft-bellied merchant, or a slow-witted craftsman so long as he was kind."

"And so long as you were smarter than him and could tell him what to do?" said Ridmark.

Kalussa blinked and then laughed. "Well, I am smarter than most people."

Ridmark laughed a little.

"What?" said Kalussa, caught between surprise and outrage. "I bare my soul to you, and it is amusing, Lord Ridmark?"

"No," said Ridmark. "It's not. I was just thinking. I have no idea what to say to you...but if my daughter had lived, I suppose I would have had a conversation like this with her one day. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," said Kalussa.

Nineteen. Exactly half his age. She really was young enough to have been his daughter. Older lords often wed younger women, but this was ridiculous.

"I don't know if it makes you feel better," said Ridmark, "but you're not the only one to feel that way. Most people who fight in a war think that. Men leave their wives and children to fight for their lords and kings, but most of them would rather be at home with their families."

"But war is the business of men," said Kalussa.

"Maybe," said Ridmark, "but I think most of the soldiers who died today would rather have been at home with their wives and children. And concubines, since that seems to be the custom in Owyllain." He shook his head. "I've had to leave my wife and children for a few months at a time, to accompany the High King of Andomhaim on campaign. I hated it and would rather have stayed at home. I would wager that most of the men who died today felt the same way."

Kalussa contemplated that for a moment.

"I had not considered that," said Kalussa.

"I know why," said Ridmark.

"Oh?"

"Because you are nineteen," said Ridmark, "and things are happening to you for the first time, and so, therefore, you must be the first woman in all of human history to experience such trials."

"You mock me, sir," said Kalussa.

"Only a little," said Ridmark, and she laughed.

"That does make me feel better, oddly enough. I shall ponder on what you have said. I think..." said Kalussa, and her mouth opened a wide yawn.

"I think," said Ridmark, "you should get some sleep." He got to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees and shoulders. "I will take the first watch."

"Maybe I should," said Kalussa. "You had a hard day of fighting..." She yawned again.

"I'm an old man," said Ridmark. "The old need less sleep than the young."

"You seem vigorous enough to me," said Kalussa with an arch smile. Before he could respond to that, she wrapped herself in her cloak and lay down by the flames. "Good night, Lord Ridmark. If you need me for anything, I shall be right here."

"I will wake you if any foes approach," said Ridmark. He knew she had met something else.

But she did not respond. She had fallen asleep already.

Ridmark stepped out of the horseshoe of boulders, carrying a waterskin and some hard bread from his pack. The chill of the night washed over him, which was just as well since the cold air would cool the fire that Kalussa had set in his blood.

"Good God," he muttered to himself.

It had been harder to deny Kalussa than he would have liked, much harder. It had been a long time since Ridmark had lain with Calliande. They had been separated for months at a time due to the campaigns of the realm against the Mhorites and the dvargir, but when they had been together, rarely more than a day or two passed without sharing a bed together. Even when Calliande had been pregnant with Gareth and then Joachim, she had been prone to bouts of intense amorousness, much to her surprise.

That felt like a long, long time ago. It seemed like a distant memory after the last year.

But some things had to be endured. This was one of them.

Ridmark closed his eyes and let out a long breath, and then realized that closing his eyes while on guard was an idiotic thing to do. He opened them again and ate and drank as he kept watch.

And as he did, he prayed over and over again for God to watch over Calliande and Gareth and Joachim, to keep them safe until he could find them again.

***

## Chapter 10: Last Words

Night fell.

Calliande wanted to press on. Her heart screamed for her to press on, to find her children and keep them safe, but she knew they had to stop. Scrambling around the hills in the darkness would be a great way to get herself killed. Tamlin kept going, but she could tell that he was exhausted.

And Calliande herself could barely keep putting one foot in front of the other.

It had been a long time since she had exerted herself like this. The mantle of the Keeper could only do so much. She had spent much of the last year in bed, and now she felt it. Her arms and legs felt like wet string. Her heart was willing, but her flesh was exhausted, and her mind counseled caution.

So they stopped to rest for the night.

"This will have to do, I'm afraid," said Tamlin. "A cold camp."

"Maybe not," said Calliande, concentrating as she forced her exhausted mind to call more magic. She worked a spell of elemental flame, and a rotating sphere of fire about six inches across appeared a few yards away. It did not give off much light, but it gave off a good deal of heat, like a fire that had died down to coals.

Tamlin blinked and then laughed. "How delightful. It will be hard to see from a distance, but it will keep us warm."

"A useful spell," said Calliande. "My apprentice devised it. She has a great deal of practice with elemental fire."

"You are a useful woman to know, my lady Calliande," said Tamlin. He glanced at the sky. Only two of the thirteen moons were out, meaning it was a dark night. "Especially since there is so little light tonight."

"It's a good sign, I think," said Calliande.

"Oh?"

"You're aware that the positions of the moons can influence spells?" said Calliande.

Tamlin nodded. "When Caelus and Aquaeus, the Moons of Air and Water, enter their apex, I can cast stronger spells while using less power."

"In eight days, Saginus and Shardus, the Moon of Blood and the Moon of Souls, will reach their apex," said Calliande. "That combination can empower necromantic spells. Whatever Archaelon intends to do, he will do it on that night."

Which meant she had eight days to rescue Gareth and Joachim from Castra Chaeldon. She prayed they would be safe until then. Hopefully, Archaelon would make sure his captives remained unharmed until that night.

"I see," said Tamlin. "Well, that is one piece of good news, at least. Many of King Hektor's hoplites were taken prisoner."

"Hoplites?" said Calliande, searching her memory. She had heard the word before, but she could not call it to mind just then.

"Citizens of the city of Aenesium," said Tamlin, "wealthy enough to equip themselves with arms and armor, and therefore required to serve on campaign." He sighed. "At least we have eight days to figure out a way to rescue the prisoners." He gestured. "Should we sit?"

"Another piece of good news," said Calliande, and she sat down with a sigh, arranging her dusty skirts around her aching legs. Tamlin had chosen a good spot for their camp, well out of sight from the road, and the light from the sphere would not travel far. Calliande gripped her dagger and cast the spell. Ridmark was still about seven miles away, but it seemed he was moving in the direction of Castra Chaeldon as well.

She took a deep breath and sent the Sight northeast, seeking her children.

They were still alive...but they were within the haze of necromantic power.

"Good news, I hope?" said Tamlin, pulling off his helmet.

"Yes," said Calliande. "Well, at least no worse news. The children still alive, and as far as I can tell, they're unhurt. My husband is safe as well. I think he's moving in the direction of Castra Chaeldon. If we're fortunate, we might find him tomorrow."

"This weapon of his, this...soulblade, you called it," said Tamlin. "Is it as powerful as you claim?"

"It is," said Calliande. "A good hit from a soulblade will kill an urvaalg, and if Archaelon raises undead creatures to throw against us, Ridmark will cut through them like a storm." And, in an emergency, Ridmark had other powers to use. Oathshield was a soulblade, but it was unique, and it granted its bearer unique powers.

But those powers came with a steep cost. Calliande hoped that Ridmark would not have to use the full power of the Shield Knight. But if it came to a choice between that and saving the children, she knew how he would choose.

"I am sorry for the misfortune that has befallen you and your family," said Tamlin. He sat next to her with a sigh, rubbing his face. "And yet, I cannot help but thank God for it."

Calliande frowned. "Why?"

"Because I would have bled to death if you had not crossed my path," said Tamlin. "I thought to save your life from the orcish soldiers." He smiled. "The dashing knight rescuing the beautiful woman from dreadful foes. Except you saved my life. And with your help, we have a far better chance of rescuing our imprisoned hoplites and bringing Archaelon to account for his treachery and his crimes." He shrugged. "I know our struggles mean nothing to you, that you wish only to save your family. But I am pleased that we can be allies."

"I mean to rescue my children," said Calliande. "But if I can aid you in the process, well and good. Necromancy is a vile abomination, an abuse of the power of magic. If it is within my power to stop Archaelon, I will do so."

"And once we are victorious," said Tamlin, "you shall be most welcome in Aenesium."

"Thank you," said Calliande automatically, but she blinked as the thought struck her. Suppose they were victorious. Suppose God granted her prayers and she and Ridmark and the boys were all reunited.

What would they do then?

They were thousands of miles from home. Rhodruthain might have been able to transport them with his magic, but Calliande could not replicate that feat. How would they possibly get back to Andomhaim? Sailing was impossible. Connmar Pendragon might have crossed the sea with his fleet five centuries ago, but Calliande suspected he had only found his way to Owyllain by accident, and she had no idea whether Andomhaim was north or south or east or west of the realm of the Nine Cities. Probably north, given how much hotter it was here, but that was not helpful. Calliande had no idea how to get back to Andomhaim.

Were they stranded here?

Calliande supposed they were. At least until she found Rhodruthain and forced him to return them to Andomhaim.

"I have said something to trouble you," said Tamlin.

"No," said Calliande. "No, you haven't. I...just realized that I am a very long way from home. Farther than I have ever been in my life, and I've made some very long journeys to strange and dangerous places. It is an...unsettling feeling."

Tamlin smiled. "Well, you are brave and beautiful and skilled with powerful magic. Truly, you will always be welcome in Aenesium, for as long as you might wish."

Calliande laughed. "That is the third time you have called me beautiful, I think. I've already saved your life. There is no need for further flattery."

"Flattery and truth," said Tamlin, "can sometimes be one and the same."

He leaned closer to her. Calliande blinked, confused, and then she realized what was happening.

His right hand closed over her left.

He was about to kiss her.

Her first reaction was sheer confusion. Why on earth would he want to kiss her? She had borne three children. She had been ill for months and weighed down with grief for months more, and she looked like a hollow shadow of herself in the mirror. Calliande felt old and tired and used-up.

Her second reaction was a flush of pleasure. Tamlin found her beautiful? Perhaps she wasn't as old and tired as she thought.

A pulse of guilt followed that. Ridmark thought her beautiful. Without him, she would have collapsed completely over the last few months.

And the thought of Ridmark brought her fourth reaction, which was a wall of blazing fury.

Just who the hell did Tamlin think he was?

"Tamlin," said Calliande. "I told you several times. I am married."

He paused. "Happily?"

"Yes," said Calliande. "There has been much grief of late...but, yes, happily. The only man I have ever known has been my husband. If I can work my will, that will be true on the day I go to my grave."

Tamlin said nothing for a moment. Calliande wondered if she had misjudged him, if his charm and bravery were a cover for a darkened heart. Would he try to force her? If he tried, she would kill him with an elemental spell. She didn't want to do it, but neither would it weigh upon her conscience. A man who tried to force one woman would undoubtedly do so again, and the next woman might not be able to defend herself as well as Calliande.

Then a flicker of shame went over Tamlin's face, and he looked away. Her words seemed to remind him of something, and for a moment he looked almost sorrowful. He moved several feet away and let out a long breath.

"That is admirable, my lady Calliande," said Tamlin. "Most admirable. I crave your pardon. I fear I got carried away in the moment."

"So long as you don't try to do it again," said Calliande, "it is forgotten. But for God's sake, Tamlin. Why?"

He blinked. "Why what?"

"I'm old enough to be your mother."

He laughed. "Only if you married very young and started having children very young. You cannot be more than thirty-five."

She was actually over two and a half centuries old, though to be fair, she had been asleep for most of that.

"You're a charming young man with a silver tongue," said Calliande, "so I imagine that finding female companionship isn't a challenge."

Tamlin looked a little embarrassed at that. "It, ah, usually isn't."

She leveled a finger at him. "What you need, Sir Tamlin, is a wife. And the sooner, the better. Otherwise, you're going to get into trouble or even more trouble than you've experienced already. Sooner or later you will offend a woman with a vengeful father or brother and...oh, I see."

"See what?" said Tamlin. His face had shifted while she had spoken.

"You used to be married, didn't you?" said Calliande.

He gazed off into the darkness for a while.

"Yes," said Tamlin at last.

"I'm sorry," said Calliande. "How did she die?"

He looked at her, a mixture of anger and sorrow going over his face. She wondered if he would tell her to mind her own business. But, then, she hadn't just tried to seduce him. And she could tell he wanted to talk about it. Sometimes a sorrow shared seemed no less painful, but at little lighter.

"I told you I was a slave in Urd Maelwyn," said Tamlin. "It was the Sovereign's stronghold, but now the Confessor rules there in imitation of his slain master. His armies have orcs and dvargir and kobolds and muridachs and other kindreds, and to keep them from squabbling, the Confessor holds amusements to keep their attention, gladiatorial games and combats and races."

Calliande nodded. "You were one of the gladiators."

"That is where I learned the sword," said Tamlin. "And the magic of elemental air, as well. The Confessor and his captains have rather...exotic tastes in gladiatorial games." His mouth twisted. "One of the slaves was a skilled physician. As you can imagine, I saw her quite often. Her name was Tysia. We actually grew up together, and she was taken as a slave at the same time I was."

"What happened to her?" said Calliande.

"She was murdered," said Tamlin in a flat voice. "One of the Confessor's creatures, an orcish warlock who had served the Sovereign and then transferred his allegiance to the Confessor. I killed him for it, but before Tysia died, she said something..."

"What did she say?" said Calliande.

"Find me again," said Tamlin. "The New God is coming."

They sat in silence for a moment, the turning sphere of fire throwing rotating shadows around them.

"Like Rhodruthain said to me," said Calliande, "before he brought me here."

"Those eight words are burned into my memory," said Tamlin. "I always wondered what she meant. Was it a warning? Was it a...a hallucination and nothing more, the final words of a delirious woman as she died? Or was it a prophecy? A vision of things to come?"

"I don't know," said Calliande. "She might have possessed a touch of the Sight. Perhaps it revealed something in her final moments, something that she wanted to tell you."

"In the scriptures," said Tamlin, "God sometimes granted visions of the prophets of ancient Israel and the first followers of the Dominus Christus's church. Perhaps he did the same for Tysia. For she was a gentle soul. It was why she was such a skilled healer. But she was fearless as well. I never did find out why Khurazalin murdered her. Spite, perhaps."

He lapsed into silence, brooding.

"If I find Rhodruthain," said Calliande, "before I force him to send my family home, I will make him tell us the secret of the New God."

"Will you?" said Tamlin, looking up at her.

"If it is within my power, yes," said Calliande.

Tamlin let out a long sigh and rubbed his face. "I can imagine what you must think of me. I tell you of my murdered wife after I try to seduce you? Do you know, I thought I would never lie with another woman after Tysia was slain? But then I happened to save King Hektor's life during a skirmish on the road after I escaped from Urd Maelwyn, and he took me into his service and I was made an Arcanius Knight. Then at the feast when he returned I danced with one of the women in his household's service. It was easy to make her laugh, and then..."

"One thing led to another," said Calliande.

"I fear so," said Tamlin. "The weakness of the flesh. Like David and Bathsheba, or Judah and Tamar, or Paris and Helen of Troy..."

"I must say," said Calliande, "for a former gladiator, you have a thorough knowledge of ancient history."

"Well, I didn't think I would become a gladiator and an Arcanius Knight," said Tamlin. "When I was a child, I was certain I would become a monk..."

Calliande could not stop herself from laughing.

"What?" said Tamlin, a hurt look on his face. "I'm telling you the woes of my past, and you're laughing?"

"Sorry, sorry," said Calliande. She took a deep breath, pulling herself together. "I do apologize. I suspect you're about to tell me that something awful happened to you. But...you only met me today, and you've already tried to seduce me, you were just telling me about your romantic conquests...and you thought you were going to be a monk as a child? God calls some men to a life of prayer and celibacy, but I am entirely certain that you are not one of them."

Tamlin blinked and then laughed. "You may have a point. Well, as a child I lived with my mother as the Monastery of St. James. She was a former Sister of the Arcanii who had been King Justin's concubine and then had fled soon after he claimed the Sword of Earth. She took shelter with the monks of St. James. Tysia and I grew up there...and then when I was nine years old King Justin arrived to claim his revenge. He slaughtered the monks and slew my mother, and Tysia and I and the rest of the survivors were sold to dvargir slavers. Eventually, we wound up together at Urd Maelwyn when the Confessor's men bought us from the dvargir."

"I am sorry," said Calliande. "That is indeed a harrowing tale."

"Thank you," said Tamlin. Again, they lapsed into silence, and then he laughed quietly.

"What is it?" said Calliande.

"I have told you of my murdered wife and mother and my past sorrows," said Tamlin. "I daresay this is one of my less successful attempts at bedding a woman."

"As much as it galls me to say this," said Calliande, "I hope they all don't end this badly."

He smiled. "As it happens, they do not."

"I think," said Calliande, rising to her feet, "that you should get some rest. I will take the first watch." Tamlin started to speak. "No, don't argue. That healing took more out of you than you know."

Tamlin tried to disagree, but a massive yawn swallowed his words. "Perhaps you are right. Wake me if there is any trouble, or when it is my turn for watch."

Calliande nodded, and Tamlin lay down and went to sleep. He fell asleep almost at once. Apparently, he had acquired the soldier's skill of sleeping anywhere. Or he had indeed been exhausted.

She felt sorry for him. Tamlin was an odd mixture of bravery, skill, gallantry, and misery. His behavior might have been a mystery to him, but it was transparent to her. He had never gotten over his mother's death or his wife's death, and now he had become a warrior like the ones from the histories he had learned as a child.

A gallant, dashing warrior...who tried to drown his sorrows in the arms of women.

Calliande had seen similar reactions before. Ridmark had lost Aelia, and he had gone to find the secret of the Frostborn. Though it wasn't in his nature to drown his sorrows in casual lechery.

She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her staff for a moment.

Ridmark. Oh, Ridmark. Calliande had failed Joanna, but she could not fail Ridmark and Gareth and Joachim. She would do whatever was necessary to save them, but at least in Tamlin, she had a capable ally.

Calliande turned her attention to the darkness around them, watching for enemies with the Sight and praying for God to watch over her family.

###

Tamlin slept, and as he slept, he dreamed.

It was a dream that he had endured before.

He walked through the passages beneath the Ring of Blood in Urd Maelwyn, the vast gladiatorial arena that the Sovereign had constructed to amuse his soldiers and slaves. The Confessor had taken it over after his master's death and continued the games.

Tamlin had started his life at the Monastery of St. James, but he had grown to manhood here, in this dark and bloody place.

He walked through the cells where the gladiators slept, where women were brought to victorious fighters. He passed through the workshops and armories where armor and weapons of every sort were stored and maintained, bronze swords and spears and axes and maces and tridents and shields. Tamlin walked through the large training rooms, the sandy floor gritting beneath his boots, and the memories of old, old pain shuddered through him. He had spent a long, long time in these training rooms, learning to fight, dueling the other gladiators, the dvargir gamemasters with their cruel whips ready to correct any mistakes in form and stance.

But not all the memories were bad. As his skill in sword and spell had grown, he had taken joy in the exercise of his talents. Tamlin had been a weak and sickly boy, but the brutal training of the dvargir gamemasters had made him into a strong man, and there was pride in that.

And he had met Tysia here again. She had been his best friend, the only other child at the monastery, an orphan his mother had rescued during her desperate flight from Justin Cyros. Tamlin had thought her killed after King Justin's attack on the monastery, but he had met here again her. And in their time apart she had grown into a woman, a beautiful woman, and he had married her.

Old pain flared through him, old but still sharp, and Tamlin's sword hand curled into a fist.

At least he had avenged her. At least he had made Khurazalin pay for what he had done. Though the pain always came back. Had Tamlin managed to seduce Calliande, the pain would have faded for a time, but it always came back.

Perhaps it was just as well. He always felt guilty after one of his liaisons. He rebuked himself for trying to seduce a married woman. He ought to have known better.

His thoughts swirling around each other, Tamlin climbed to the arena itself.

The sand of the vast central oval rasped against his boots. The tiers of stone seats rose above him, thousands of them. Tamlin had killed humans and orcs and xiatami and others while the crowds cheered around him. The looming white towers of Urd Maelwyn rose against the sky, the angles strange and subtle and wrong to human eyes, including the great tower where the Sovereign had once reigned over his empire.

The Dark Lady awaited Tamlin in the center of the oval, watching him.

She always appeared to him in the same form, that of a young woman with black hair bound in a braid and hard black eyes, a carved wooden staff in her right hand. She wore clothes of wool and worn leather, and a strange cloak of tattered strips of brown and green cloth. Tamlin had always thought the Dark Lady was a huntress, that the cloak might help her move unseen through the forest.

Though why a spirit that appeared in his dreams should need to hunt in the forest, Tamlin had no idea.

He stopped and stared at her, unease flooding through him. She had appeared to him several times over the last eight years, always before or after something of dire importance happened.

"You," said Tamlin at last.

"Yes, me," said the Dark Lady. She always spoke Latin with a peculiar, almost archaic stateliness. "One notices that your powers of observation have not waned, Tamlin Thunderbolt."

Tamlin hated that name. When he had rescued King Hektor, the king had said Tamlin had fallen upon their foes like a thunderbolt, and the name had stuck.

"Have you come to warn me?" said Tamlin. She had first appeared to him as a child, when the strain of the gladiatorial games had been too much, urging him to continue and find his revenge. After Tysia had been murdered and Tamlin had considered killing himself, the Dark Lady had appeared, convincing him to continue. And then when Sir Aegeus and Michael and the others had been brought to Urd Maelwyn as captives, she had appeared in his dreams once more, telling him to help them.

That had led to his escape from Urd Maelwyn at last.

"You met the Keeper of Andomhaim today," said the Dark Lady. Her mouth twisted with amusement. "One notes that you tried to seduce her almost at once, and failed quite spectacularly."

"She's a beautiful woman," said Tamlin. He was not proud of his behavior, but he wasn't going to defend himself to a spirit in his dreams.

"You do seem to have an eye for them," said the Dark Lady in a dry voice. "But lay aside your appetites and your sorrows, Tamlin Thunderbolt. Something of grave importance is happening, something that could destroy you and Owyllain and nations and empires of which you know nothing."

"What do you mean?" said Tamlin.

"The New God is coming," said the Dark Lady.

Tamlin felt a chill.

"What is the New God?" said Tamlin. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I, not yet," said the Dark Lady. "Nor does the Keeper. But you know why Rhodruthain brought her here." She sighed. "Though the old madman rather made a botch of it. Competence is such a rare quality, is it not? But I digress. The New God is coming, and you stand at the center of the storm. If you want to understand the final words of your wife, if you want to know why you have suffered as you have, then you must protect the Keeper of Andomhaim and her husband. Keep them both alive, Tamlin Thunderbolt. That is the task I lay upon you."

"I shall," said Tamlin. He was a Knight of the Order of the Arcanii. Protecting people was what he did. "But why?"

"Why protect them?" said the Dark Lady. "Because without their help, the New God will destroy us all."

"No," said Tamlin. "Why me? You've appeared to me since I was a child. I don't understand why."

The Dark Lady had a hard expression, but for a moment he saw pity there.

"Because you are Swordborn," said the Dark Lady, "and the Seven are bound to the New God and stand at the center of its fate. Because the choices your mother made set you upon this path even before you were born. And you must be ready."

Tamlin's eyes shot open.

For a moment, he could not remember where he was. Then he saw the glow from Calliande's sphere and remembered. She stood over him, frowning with concern. Her face looked lovely in the glow, and he thought about taking her hand and easing her down to...

Stop that.

"Are you all right?" said Calliande. "You were thrashing and shouting in your sleep."

"A nightmare, nothing more," said Tamlin, forcing lightness into his tone.

She looked dubious. Perhaps she saw through him. It was disturbing how she could do that after knowing him such a short time. Perhaps the legends of the powers of the Keeper of Andomhaim were true.

"I fear many of my experiences," said Tamlin, getting to his feet with a grunt, "lend themselves to bad dreams."

"I can understand that," said Calliande.

"Why don't you get some rest, my lady?" said Tamlin. "It is my turn at watch, I believe, and we shall likely both need to be rested tomorrow."

"No doubt," said Calliande. "Wake me if there is any danger. Good night, Sir Tamlin."

"Good night, Lady Calliande."

She lay down next to the sphere, curled up, and went to sleep almost at once. Perhaps she had been as tired as he had been. Or maybe she had been tired for a long time even before coming to Andomhaim. As lovely as she was, there were marks of recent strain upon her, and her eyes were haunted.

No doubt she, too, had experiences that gave her bad dreams.

Tamlin turned his attention to the darkness around them, watching for enemies.

***

## Chapter 11: Maledictus

"Lord Ridmark." It was Kalussa's voice, soft and insistent. "The sun is starting to come up. You wished to be awakened."

Ridmark blinked open his eyes.

His dreams had been dark and tangled. In some of them, he had wandered through the eerie ruins of Urd Morlemoch, seeking for Calliande and Gareth and Joachim. He heard them crying out for him, but he could not find them, no matter how hard he searched. In other dreams, he had pulled Kalussa to him, her green eyes shining with desire, but when he kissed her, she became Calliande, weeping over Joanna's body.

That had been enough sleep for now.

At least the waking world didn't have dreams.

Ridmark sat up with a grunt, trying not to wince. His shoulders and back ached. He was getting too damned old to sleep on the rocky ground. For that matter, he was too old to sleep on the rocky ground while wearing armor. Dark elven steel was lighter and stronger than normal steel, but it was still difficult to sleep comfortably in it.

"Anything in the night?" said Ridmark. The sky was just starting to brighten in the east.

"No," said Kalussa. She waved a hand and dismissed the fire she had summoned. "Nothing. Perhaps all our enemies likewise realized the danger of blundering about in the dark."

Ridmark nodded and got to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "How long to Castra Chaeldon from here?"

"If we set out at once," said Kalussa, "we should arrive at noon. Perhaps a little earlier."

"Just a moment," said Ridmark. Kalussa nodded, and Ridmark walked behind one of the boulders to relieve himself out of sight. His knees still felt stiff. He was indeed getting older. Though if he lived long enough, no doubt he would look back with envy at his current vigor.

Granted, at the moment, living much longer did not seem a strong possibility.

Once he had finished, Ridmark adjusted his pack, took a drink from one of his waterskins, and walked back to where they had camped. "Have you eaten yet?" Kalussa shook her head. "Let's eat while we walk. The sooner we get to Castra Chaeldon, the better."

Kalussa took a piece of bread from her pack, and Ridmark led the way up another rocky hill. The sky brightened to the east as they walked, and he had to admit that watching the sun rise over the stark hills made for a lovely sight. Ridmark had seen sunrises in many lands, but he had to admit this was one of the more beautiful ones. He wished Calliande was here to see it. Maybe she was watching it even now and wondering what had become of him. The boys would have been too young to appreciate the sight. Gareth would have woken up this early if ordered to do so, but Joachim would have pitched a fit...

"I have a question," said Kalussa.

Ridmark had been curious to see if Kalussa could eat and talk and walk at the same time. Evidently, he had underestimated her. Though he welcomed the distraction from his worries.

"Ask, then," said Ridmark.

"That brand on your face," said Kalussa. "The broken sword. Where did you get it? That is a coward's brand, but you are plainly no coward."

Once the question would have angered him, but a lot of years had passed. Ridmark supposed that time did not heal all griefs...but it did wear away a lot of the sharp edges.

"When I was your age," said Ridmark, "I was married for the first time."

Kalussa blinked. "You were married before Lady Calliande?"

Ridmark nodded. "Aelia Licinius, the eldest daughter of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland. Five years after we were married, an orcish madman named Mhalek thought he was one of the orcish blood guards reborn and led an army into Andomhaim. Mhalek murdered the leaders of our army at a parley, and I wound up in command. I defeated him, but he escaped and used a spell of blood sorcery to link his blood to that of Aelia."

"Oh," said Kalussa, her eyes widening. "So, when you struck down Mhalek, the wound also transferred to your wife as well."

Ridmark frowned. "You're familiar with the spell?"

"I have heard of it," said Kalussa. "The Maledicti often used such spells to punish slaves."

"Maledicti?" said Ridmark. It was a Latin word, and as far as he knew it referred to a curse of some kind.

"The priests of the Sovereign," said Kalussa. "Orcish warlocks that worshiped him as a god. They were devoted to him, and he taught them powerful necromancy. It is said the most powerful Maledicti were undead, and survived the Sovereign's defeat and seek to avenge their master's death." She sighed. "Of course, the Seven Swords did that anyway." She shook her head. "But why were you branded? It was not your fault."

"It wasn't," said Ridmark. "I couldn't have saved her, but it took me years to understand that. At the time, I blamed myself. I even tried to kill myself, but my friends stopped me. There was another nobleman, Tarrabus Carhaine, who had courted Aelia, but she had chosen me over him. He pushed to have me expelled from the Order of the Soulblade and the realm, and I didn't fight him. Later I realized that he had turned to the worship of the shadow of the dark elves, and wanted me out of the way to make it easier to usurp the crown of Andomhaim."

Kalussa didn't say anything for a while. Ridmark wondered if she believed him.

"I begin to suspect," she said, "that you have led an interesting life, Lord Ridmark."

Ridmark shrugged. "So people tell me."

"All right. A happier question. How did you meet Lady Calliande?"

Ridmark blinked, then laughed a little.

"Why is that a funny question?" said Kalussa.

"Because truth be told, I met her the same way that I met you," said Ridmark. "She was naked and had been taken captive by a band of orcish warriors."

Kalussa blinked. "Truly? How many women do you meet that way?"

"More than I would have expected," said Ridmark. He finished off his bread, brushed the crumbs from his hand, and took a drink of his waterskin. Kalussa started to ask another question, and Ridmark held up a hand. "Wait a moment. We're almost at the top of the hill. I want to have a look down the other side first."

Kalussa nodded, and Ridmark dropped to a crouch. He crept forward and looked over the crest of the hill, and came to a stop.

There were muridachs in the valley below.

A lot of muridachs, at least thirty or forty of them. Worse, they were coming right towards Ridmark and Kalussa. Ridmark cursed and looked around, seeking cover, but he didn't see any. There was no way they could avoid the muridachs before they drew close.

"Trouble?" said Kalussa.

"Muridachs," said Ridmark. "About forty."

Kalussa swore. "The wretched scavengers! No sooner do valiant men of Owyllain fall in battle then the muridachs come to loot the corpses."

"We can't outrun them, and we can't hide from them," said Ridmark.

"What are we going to do?" said Kalussa. "Even with my help, I don't think even the Shield Knight can overcome forty muridachs."

"We're going to bully them," said Ridmark, shifting his bamboo staff to his left hand and grasping Oathshield's hilt with his right. "Can you call magical flames around your hands? They won't need to do anything, but they should look impressive."

"Of course," said Kalussa, shouldering her bow. She struck a pose and thrust out her hands, and fires danced along her fingers and bronze bracers. "How is that?"

"Excellent," said Ridmark. "Stay close to me, and follow my lead."

He straightened up and drew Oathshield, took a deep breath, and strode over the crest of the hill and down the far slope. He heard Kalussa's sudden intake of breath at the sight of all those muridachs, but Ridmark kept walking. The ratmen had smelled Ridmark and Kalussa before they saw them, and one by one beady black eyes turned up to look at him.

"Muridachs!" roared Ridmark in orcish at the top of his lungs. "Hear me!"

They all looked at him.

"I am Ridmark Arban, Shield Knight of Andomhaim!" thundered Ridmark. "I have crossed the sea and come to Owyllain to wage war against the vile necromancer Archaelon of Castra Chaeldon." He swept Oathshield up before him in a flourishing salute, the soulstones flashing with white light, while Kalussa kept pace behind him, fire crackling up her arms. "Will you hinder my quest?"

He stopped halfway down the slope, watching the muridachs. Predators, he knew, preferred to attack weakened prey. When dealing with kindreds like the manetaurs or the tygrai or the lupivirii, it was best never to show weakness. Scavengers, on the other hand, preferred to attack from ambush or avoid fights entirely. It was easier to take from the dead than to fight the living. Ridmark suspected that the muridachs preferred to avoid direct fights. Certainly, those he had fought in the Qazaluuskan Forest all those years ago had preferred to avoid fighting in anything resembling a fair fight.

The muridachs had a hurried conversation in their own language. He saw them look at him, take in his dark elven armor and his glowing soulblade, saw them note the fire curling around Kalussa's hands. The muridachs were an alien kindred with alien expressions and emotions, but nonetheless, Ridmark saw them arrive at a consensus.

"Greetings, Shield Knight of Andomhaim," said one of the muridachs. His whiskers twitched as he spoke, his thick tail lashing with agitation. "We do not wish to oppose you, no, no. We muridachs are wise enough not take sides when the mighty go to war."

No, thought Ridmark, they were wise enough to loot the battlefield once the mighty had killed each other.

"I salute your wisdom, then," said Ridmark. "What is your name?"

The muridach leader twitched. "I am Rynofael, Strike Commander of the glorious city of Camphylon."

Ridmark glanced to the side.

"Camphylon," said Kalussa. "The chief city of the muridachs in the Deeps."

"Very good, Strike Commander Rynofael," said Ridmark. "So long as you answer a few questions for me, we can part without coming to a fight."

Rynofael shuddered, his whiskers and tail twitching. "Fine! Fine! But you must hasten. There is great danger here, Shield Knight. Great danger! The undead gather in Castra Chaeldon, and we have no wish to join Sir Archaelon's army."

"Why are you fleeing?" said Ridmark. "There are still dead hoplites and abandoned wagons on the road. Surely their bronze armor is worth stealing."

"It is," said Rynofael, "but it is folly to steal it now. Better to eat half the carcass and escape than to eat the whole carcass and fall victim to the beast that slew it." The other muridachs nodded. Evidently, this was a proverb among them.

"Then Archaelon is raising the dead as undead soldiers?" said Ridmark.

Rynofael bobbed his head. "He is, he is. Many undead. Your sword has great magic, yes? Great magic, indeed. I can smell it. Perhaps it shall let you prevail against Archaelon and his Champion. Or perhaps they shall tear you asunder. That is why we flee. There are too many great powers here. Archaelon, the Arcanii of King Hektor, the mad sorceress..."

"Mad sorceress?" said Ridmark, and a bolt of hope tore through him. "Was this mad sorceress wearing green?"

"She was," said Rynofael. "She wielded great magic, and she questioned us also. She smelled of power and madness and illness, and I fear she would kill us all."

"Where did you speak with her?" said Ridmark.

"About six miles northwest of here," said Rynofale. That would put her closer to Castra Chaeldon than Ridmark. "Have you any other questions, Shield Knight? If you and the mad sorceress seek to war against Archaelon, we want to be well away by the time the fighting starts."

"No," said Ridmark. "Go in peace." He gestured to Kalussa, and they moved to the side, leaving a clear path for the muridachs to flee. "So long as you do not raise your blade against us, I shall not raise mine against you."

"This is agreeable," said Rynofael. "Come!" He barked orders to the muridachs, and they hastened up the hillside. Ridmark's fingers tightened against Oathshield's hilt, but Rynofael and his men did not seem inclined to start a fight. The musky stench of the muridachs filled Ridmark's nostrils as they passed, and soon the creatures vanished over the far side of the hill.

"I am surprised," said Kalussa, "that they did not attack us."

"As am I," said Ridmark. "Something must have put a fright into them."

"Lady Calliande, perhaps?" said Kalussa.

"She could have done it," said Ridmark. It was the first proof he had heard that Calliande was here. If she had been questioning the muridachs...she must have been looking for either Ridmark or their sons. A cold finger of fear went down his spine. If Gareth and Joachim had been brought here as well, they might have landed far from Ridmark and Calliande. Anything could have happened to them.

No. He could not give up hope yet. Calliande had the Sight, and she could find the children anywhere. She would not give up, and neither would Ridmark.

"Come," said Ridmark. "Let's see if we can find what frightened the muridachs so much."

He led the way down the hill, the stink of the muridachs' fur lingering in the air. Ridmark sheathed Oathshield, his staff still in hand. They walked for another mile and a half, sometimes scrambling over the hills, sometimes using the road when it looked clear. With the muridachs withdrawing, Ridmark thought the road might be safer, but they still might run into the Confessor's orcs...

Oathshield trembled in its scabbard.

"Wait," said Ridmark.

"Something is moving on the road ahead," said Kalussa at the same moment.

They were atop a rocky hill overlooking the road itself. This stretch of road was clear of corpses and wagons, and Ridmark suspected they had passed the point where most of the fighting had taken place.

Yet he saw something coming up from the south.

"Take cover," said Ridmark, coming to a decision. There were several large boulders scattered across the hilltop, along with more of those tough little trees. Ridmark ducked behind one of the boulders, Kalussa crouching next to him. He watched the road and caught the morning sunlight flashing off bronze armor.

"Those are our men," said Kalussa. "They must have rallied and recovered. Maybe Sir Aegeus or Sir Tamlin is commanding them."

"Then why," said Ridmark, "are they marching with the Confessor's soldiers?"

Kalussa opened her mouth, closed it again, and a look of dawning horror started to spread across her features.

A ragged group of about fifty bronze-armored human hoplites and the Confessor's orcs marched up the road. Their movements were stiff and jerky, and even in the sunlight, Ridmark saw the blue glow in their eyes.

They were undead. Every single one of the men was undead.

"Oh," said Kalussa in a small voice. She suddenly looked very young and very frightened.

"We know how Archaelon plans to recruit his army," said Ridmark.

Another strange sight caught his eye. At the back of the mob of undead soldiers was a towering figure in a crimson robe. The robe was covered with elaborate, angular designs, and a heavy cowl concealed the face. The robed figure stood over seven feet tall, and there was something strange about it, something that Ridmark could not quite place...

Then he realized it.

The robed form wasn't walking.

It was gliding.

The robed figure floated a few inches off the ground, drifting after the undead soldiers as they marched north. As the figure drew closer, Ridmark saw that its hands were a grayish-yellow, the fingers tipped with black claws, and a pale blue haze danced around the fingers.

He wasn't sure, but the thought the thing in the robe was controlling the undead.

"Is that Archaelon?" whispered Ridmark.

Kalussa shook her head, her eyes wide. "I am not sure, but I think that is the robe of a high priest of the Maledicti."

Ridmark frowned. "Is this Maledictus serving Archaelon, or is Archaelon serving the Maledictus?"

"I do not know," said Kalussa. "Yet someone had to teach Archaelon necromancy." She shivered. "It is said that the greatest necromancers in Owyllain are the Necromancer of Trojas and the Confessor himself. But the high priests of the Maledicti are a close second."

Ridmark watched as the undead column passed, watching for any sign of Calliande and Gareth and Joachim. The thought of seeing their corpses marching with the dead, their eyes glowing with blue fire, was almost too much to bear.

But he saw no trace of them.

Soon the undead soldiers passed out of sight.

"They are heading straight to Castra Chaeldon," said Kalussa. "The Maledictus must be raising the dead of the battlefield to strengthen Archaelon."

"Undoubtedly," said Ridmark. If Calliande and the children were imprisoned within the castra, undead soldiers would make it harder for him to rescue them. "Let's continue towards Castra Chaeldon, but stay off the road. Oathshield can destroy any number of undead creatures, but I would prefer to fight on a more advantageous ground." For that matter, he did not want to fight that Maledictus until he had a better idea of the creature's powers.

"Agreed," said Kalussa, and they started northwest once more.

***

## Chapter 12: Survivors

Calliande and Tamlin set off just before dawn.

As they left the camp, Calliande again sent her Sight seeking towards her sons, and she found them at once. Gareth and Joachim had not moved during the night, and they were still within that necromantic haze. Calliande was relieved that they were alive and unharmed, but she shuddered to think of the night they must have spent in a stronghold of a renegade necromancer. Gareth would have tried to put on a brave face for his brother, but Joachim would likely have cried until exhaustion overwhelmed him.

Or until one of the other prisoners or guards had enough of his crying and decided to shut him up.

Her sons. Her poor sons. They were too young for this kind of horror.

Calliande tried not to think about it and clasped her dagger, casting the spell to find Ridmark. She found him, and she realized that he was already on the move, heading in the same direction that she was. Likely she and Tamlin would cross his path today.

That thought gave her a surge of hope. If he was alive and well, they could accomplish more together than they would otherwise. Surely together they could rescue their children.

"How far to Castra Chaeldon?" said Calliande as they climbed yet another rocky hill.

"Only a few more miles," said Tamlin, adjusting his sword belt. "We ought to reach it by noon. Faster, if we take the road."

"Best to avoid the road, though," said Calliande.

"I agree." Tamlin shook his head. "If you will forgive the observation, my lady, you do not look nearly as dangerous as you really are. Anyone coming across us will only see a lone soldier and a woman. We may draw attention we might otherwise avoid."

"Then let us endeavor to avoid it," said Calliande.

They lapsed into silence as they walked. Calliande kept hold of the Sight, sweeping it in search of any hidden foes. Yet she wrestled with a curious sensation as they walked. Calliande was tired, her muscles unused to so much exertion after her illness and bed rest. Fear for her children and husband consumed her heart, and her mind turned over endless worries.

And yet, peculiarly, she felt better than she had in a long time.

Perhaps it was the exercise. Calliande had not left their domus in months, had done little more than wander the halls, lost in her black musings. The grief for Joanna had paralyzed her, she realized. Only the dire necessity of saving her children had broken that paralysis.

Or maybe it was the urgency of her task. Calliande had spent most of her life in pursuit of urgent goals in the two wars against the Frostborn. Having a task of dire importance, even one so near to her heart, was...familiar with her. She knew how to respond to the challenge. Perhaps a soldier felt this way when returning to the battlefield after several years of peace. Calliande knew she faced a grim task, but she knew how to approach it.

The human heart was a peculiar thing. How could she feel so many contradictory things at once?

They traveled for about an hour. Tamlin, for once, did not talk, his eyes wary beneath his bronze helm as he scanned the countryside around them.

"Where did you get that sword?" said Calliande at last.

"Hmm?" said Tamlin, gazing at the hills.

"All the weapons and armor I've seen so far have been fashioned from bronze," said Calliande. "I assume that iron is rare here, but tin and copper are common."

"They are," said Tamlin. "To my knowledge, there are no iron mines in all of Owyllain. The only iron comes from trade with the dvargir, and they charge a dear price for it. Even the Sovereign equipped most of his soldiers with armor and weapons of bronze."

"Then that sword must be beyond price," said Calliande. "Where did you find it?"

"Ah." Tamlin grinned. "I didn't quite find it, you understand. The Sovereign did give weapons and armor of dark elven steel to his most trusted soldiers and servants. One of them was the chief gamemaster of the Ring of Blood, the gladiatorial arena in Urd Maelwyn. I killed him during our escape from Urd Maelwyn, and I took his sword." He grinned. "Since I had fought in the Ring without pay for years, it seemed like a just recompense. And you are right. It is a priceless weapon and extremely useful in battle. The blade bites into bronze like an axe into wood, and with it, I've won some fights I might otherwise have lost."

Calliande nodded. That thought cheered her. Ridmark had been wearing his dark elven armor when they had been transported here, and blades of regular steel had a difficult time penetrating the dark elven alloy. Likely bronze blades would find it even more difficult.

"Just as well," said Calliande. "We will need every advantage..."

Her voice trailed off.

"My lady?"

A ripple went through her Sight.

Someone had cast a spell nearby. A spell of elemental magic, she thought, like the ones that Tamlin employed in battle. It had been cast just over that ridge.

"Tamlin," said Calliande, but he frowned and held up a hand.

"Quiet for a moment, please," he said, pulling off his helmet so he could listen better. As he did, Calliande heard what he had caught his attention. It was a faint roaring sound, almost like the sea crashing against the breakers, but Calliande had heard that sound so many times she could not mistake it for anything else.

It was the sound of a battle.

"Fighting," said Tamlin, and his face grew grim as he donned his helm. "Some of our men must have survived the ambush and evaded capture. We must help them."

"Yes," said Calliande at once.

If her sons were in Castra Chaeldon, she might need an army to get them back.

"Let us hasten," said Tamlin, and she followed him as he hurried up the ridge, her staff in her right hand. She kept the Sight held close as she followed the young warrior, and again she saw the flickers of elemental magic before her. Perhaps a dozen wizards of about Tamlin's power or weaker were present in the battle, but she saw no sign of necromancy or dark magic yet.

Well, if any necromancers showed themselves, Calliande would make them regret it.

They reached the top of the ridge and looked into a broad valley that sloped towards the sea.

And a battle did indeed rage in the valley.

Calliande saw nearly two hundred and fifty human hoplites drawn up in a ring formation. Like the dead men she had seen on the road, the hoplites wore cuirasses, bracers, greaves, and helmets of bronze, many of them holding either round bronze shields or shields of wood and leather. She also saw a dozen men wearing the finer, better fitting armor and plumed helms like Tamlin's. These had to be the Arcanii Knights. Even as she watched, she saw one of the men cast a spell, flinging an icicle like a ballista bolt into his foes.

Nearly three hundred orcish warriors surrounded the ring of bronze-armored warriors, howling and jeering and shouting threats. Some of the orcs had javelins, which they flung into the ring. None of them had bows, thankfully, but Calliande saw that the men of Owyllain were not in a good position. They looked tired, while the Confessor's soldiers seemed fresh. If the orcs attacked at once, they would surround and overwhelm the bronze-armored hoplites.

"God and the saints," muttered Tamlin. "They'll be crushed."

A plan came together in Calliande's mind.

"Maybe not," she said.

###

The sounds of shouting grew louder as Ridmark hastened west, Kalussa hurrying after him.

"I knew some men must have escaped!" said Kalussa. "The Confessor's soldiers could not have taken them all. The men of Owyllain would not be so easily overcome."

"Let us hope not," said Ridmark. He had not yet seen a man of Owyllain in battle, so he did not know how well they would fight. Still, if their realm had survived against the Sovereign for so many centuries, they must have some skill at fighting.

"But they will need our help," said Kalussa. "My magic will be useful in the battle, and the power of the Shield Knight would be welcome."

Ridmark nodded but said nothing, and together they jogged up the last hill.

He found himself overlooking a broad, sandy valley that sloped towards the sea. In the center of the valley stood a ring of bronze-armored human hoplites, drawn together into a defensive formation. Around them stood nearly three hundred orcish warriors, shouting threats and brandishing weapons. There were some corpses on the ground, but not many.

"It doesn't look as if the battle has started properly yet," said Ridmark, thinking hard.

Could he even do anything to aid the men of Owyllain? Even with Oathshield, Ridmark was only one man. Perhaps it would be best to continue to Castra Chaeldon, but Ridmark did not like the thought of leaving these men to their fate. Matters of conscience aside, if Archaelon and the Maledictus had fortified themselves within Castra Chaeldon, Ridmark might find the help of the bronze-armored hoplites quite useful.

"What should we do?" said Kalussa, drawing herself up.

Ridmark drew Oathshield, feeling the sword's strength and power flow through him. "The battle hasn't started properly yet. So, we'll start it on our terms."

###

Tamlin looked dubious. "Is that going to work?"

"It should," said Calliande, listening to him with half an ear.

The rest of her attention went to gathering power for the spell.

She summoned earth magic, and drew it through the mantle of the Keeper, augmenting it and strengthening it. Calliande lacked the raw power of mighty sorcerers like the Warden and the Artificer and the Sculptor. But she could build upon her spells, layering them on each other like a builder laying rows of bricks.

Right now, she was doing that in a hurry.

"Then you'll knock them over?" said Tamlin, his grip shifting on the hilt of his dark elven sword.

"That's the plan," said Calliande. She almost sounded like Ridmark as she said it. Maybe she had picked up some of his way of thinking during eight years of marriage. "You can use the magic of elemental air, yes? Do you know a spell to make your voice louder?"

"I do, as it happens," said Tamlin. "It is most useful on the battlefield."

Calliande nodded, pulling together more power for the spell. "Good. When I cast the spell, use your own magic. Tell them to strike. That will be their best chance for breaking out of their encirclement. If they hit hard enough and fast enough, maybe they can put the orcs to flight." She concentrated, starting to shape the gathered power into a spell. "Can you make sure they all hear you at once?"

"Oh, yes," said Tamlin. "Have no fears on that account."

Calliande nodded. "You'll know when."

More power surged through her, and she wove it into her spell.

###

Ridmark strode down the hill, Oathshield in his right hand and his staff in his left hand. Kalussa followed him, fire crackling around her fingers as she called magic. Her face was tight and frightened, but she followed him without hesitation.

"Stay behind me," said Ridmark. "Try not to set me on fire."

Kalussa sniffed. "My magic goes where I wish it to go, Lord Ridmark."

"Good," said Ridmark.

The orcs hadn't seen them yet, their full attention on the bronze-armored soldiers, but Ridmark knew that would not last. Sooner or later one of the orcs would notice them, but Ridmark hoped to use that to their advantage. The orcs had encircled the human hoplites, but that had spread them into a thin ring. If Ridmark attacked the orcs, relying on Oathshield to augment his strength and speed, he could break through the ring and start the battle.

They were only a few hundred yards from the orcs now.

At one hundred yards, some of the blue-tattooed orcs started to turn, noticing the newcomers.

"Kalussa," said Ridmark. "Now."

She gestured and cast a spell. Her bolt of fire struck one of the orcish warriors and burned into his chest. The orc fell dead to the sandy ground, smoke rising from the crater where his heart had been. A cry of alarm went through the orcs, and a dozen of them whirled and charged towards Ridmark and Kalussa, bronze swords raised.

Ridmark set himself and lifted Oathshield.

###

"Something's happening," said Tamlin.

Calliande nodded, focusing on her spell. Most of her attention had gone to holding together the magical power she had summoned, but she could still see the disruption on the far side of the orcish soldiers. There was a flash and a flicker of flame, and a roar of outrage rose from the nearby orcs. Calliande saw the confusion starting to spread through the orcish warriors, the sudden alarm from the unexpected attack.

"Another of the Arcanius Knights must have escaped!" said Tamlin. "They're launching an attack from the other side. My lady, now is the time to strike!"

He was right. Calliande had hoped to gather more power for her spell, but this was the best opportunity they were likely to get. As she had learned again and again, in warfare timing was often the most important factor of all.

"Yes," said Calliande, and she raised her staff and struck the end against the ground.

The power roared out of her in a rush.

"Dear God," said Tamlin, his astonishment plain.

The spell flowed down the hillside, making it ripple like the sea in a storm. The ripple rushed into the soldiers gathered below. It flowed and parted, avoiding the human hoplites, but it slammed into the orcish warriors. The ground beneath their boots shuddered and rippled, and the spell flung the orcs from their feet.

Calliande turned to Tamlin, but he had already cast his own spell.

"Men of Owyllain!" His voice boomed over the valley, so loud that it made Calliande's ears hurt. "Now is the hour! Strike! Strike and be victorious!"

Calliande started drawing power for another spell, and Tamlin cast another of his own. He flung a lightning bolt into the mass of the orcish soldiers, and Calliande saw two of them thrown to the ground as they tried to rise. The men of Owyllain shouted and flung themselves upon the prone orcs, swords and spears rising and falling.

Tamlin hurried forward, and Calliande followed him towards the sudden melee.

###

Ridmark prepared to attack, and then several things happened at once.

A voice boomed over the valley, commanding the men of Owyllain to attack. At the same instant, one slope of the shallow valley started to ripple and fold, looking almost like a banner caught in a strong wind.

"What the devil?" said Kalussa. "Is that an earthquake? An avalanche?"

Ridmark felt himself smile.

"No," he said. "Something better."

The ripple swept into the massed soldiers. It parted and flowed around the human hoplites, leaving them untouched, but the orcish warriors were thrown from their feet.

"Now!" said Ridmark.

Kalussa nodded and started casting a spell as she ran after Ridmark.

He drew on all the strength and speed he could summon from Oathshield and attacked. A burst of speed took him to the orcish warriors, and he struck, killing three of them before they could recover their feet. Another orcish warrior hauled himself up, the blue sword tattoo on the left side of his face distorted with a roar of rage. Before Ridmark could move, one of Kalussa's bolts of fire struck the orc on the chest and flung him to the ground.

The men of Owyllain shouted and charged, throwing themselves at the stunned orcs, and Ridmark joined the melee.

###

Calliande followed Tamlin into the battle, her magic held ready

By the time they reached the fighting the formations had dissolved into chaos. The men of Owyllain had broken out of their encirclement, hammering at the Confessor's soldiers. The bronze-armored warriors had charged at the commands of the Arcanius Knights, driving at the orcs with sword and spear. Yet the orcs themselves fought back with savage ferocity. In the end, discipline would tell, and the humans seemed to have better discipline than their orcish enemies.

But until then, there was fighting to be done.

Tamlin flung himself into the battle, his blue sword a blur. He had cut down two orcs in as many heartbeats, and he turned to face a third. Calliande cast a spell, and the ground folded and heaved again, knocking more orcs from their feet. Tamlin struck down the warriors before they could recover, and as he did, one of the formations of hoplites burst free, cutting their way through the orcs.

"Thunderbolt!" called a young warrior in bronze armor. Or maybe Calliande was old enough that most soldiers looked young to her. Tamlin was tall and lean, but this man was short and stocky, with arms like a blacksmith.

"Sir Aegeus!" said Tamlin, drops of green orcish blood sliding from his blade. "Glad to see you're still alive."

"Ha!" said Aegeus. "It will take more than the rabble of the Confessor's orcs to take me down!" He peered at Calliande, and she saw the blue eyes blinking behind his bronze helmet. The Sight also revealed the aura of elemental power around him. She suspected that he was the once who had been throwing spears of ice. "And it seems you have found new friends."

"Yes," said Tamlin. "But we can discuss that later. Right now, there's a battle to be won."

But they were already winning it. The Confessor's orcs had been certain of victory, but the battle had turned against them. Already Calliande saw their morale collapsing, saw them fleeing northwest to Castra Chaeldon. She wanted to urge the hoplites to pursue. Every orc who escaped would be another orc they had to fight atop the walls of the castra. But the human soldiers were exhausted, and the orcs might have enough wit left to organize an ambush in the hills.

No, better to let them go for now.

Calliande turned as a flash of fire caught her eye. Someone was throwing bolts of elemental fire into the orcs. To her surprise, it was a young woman in bronze armor like that worn by Tamlin and Aegeus, though crafted to fit her smaller frame, fire dancing around her fingers as she called magic. It seemed the Order of the Arcanii enrolled women, just as the Magistri did in Andomhaim.

Fire flashed again, and Calliande saw a dark-haired man in blue armor, a gray cloak streaming from his shoulders, a blue sword in his right hand and a staff of odd ridged wood in his left hand. Twin soulstones burned in the sword, and she saw the bonds of power that let the soulblade make its bearer faster and stronger.

Relief, overwhelming relief, surged through Calliande, and she started to run to him.

"Ridmark!"

###

Ridmark heard his name and turned.

A woman in a dusty, tattered green dress ran towards him, a wooden staff in her left hand. Her blond hair was tied back in a ragged tail, and her lovely face had a drawn look to it, as if she had just suffered a grave illness. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and tired, with dark rings under them, but her face lit up as she saw him, and...

It was Calliande.

Ridmark hurried towards her as the orcs fled the valley, and she slammed into him with enough force that he almost fell over, her arms curling tight around his back.

"Oh, God," said Calliande. "Oh, God, Ridmark. I was so frightened that I would never see you again."

He nodded, too overcome to speak, and for a moment everything was all right.

Then he saw the dried blood on her left shoulder.

"Are the children with you?" said Ridmark.

Calliande closed her eyes, an echo of the grief that had tormented her over the last several months going over her face. "They're alive. But the orcs took them. They're in Castra Chaeldon, Ridmark."

She looked at him with apprehension, perhaps fearing that he would explode in anger or grief.

But he did neither. Not often in life did a man have absolute certainty about the proper course of action, but Ridmark did now.

"Then we're going to get them back," said Ridmark.

***

## Chapter 13: Reunion

Tamlin wasn't sure what to do next.

Sir Tyromon Amphilus had commanded the relief column, and Sir Tyromon had been an experienced knight and Companion of the King, respected by his men for his judgment and bravery. Unfortunately, Lord Ridmark said that Tyromon had been slain in the ambush, and his second in command had died as well.

That meant no one was left in command of the survivors.

At first, that hadn't been a problem. Lady Calliande had taken charge, demanding to be taken to the wounded. The hoplites had reacted with bemusement, but bemusement had quickly turned to amazement as Calliande healed a soldier who otherwise would have died of his wounds. After that, both the hoplites and the Arcanius Knights had been eager to obey her, and Calliande saved a score of men who might otherwise have succumbed to their wounds. Lord Ridmark's sword also seemed to grant him some limited healing abilities, though not as powerful as Calliande's, and he helped her with the wounded.

Tamlin felt a flicker of unease as he thought of Ridmark Arban.

He had almost made a very serious mistake. Even without magic, Ridmark would have been a formidable warrior, old enough that he had a great deal of experience, but not yet old enough that his strength had deserted him. For that matter, he clearly was an expert swordsman, and while Tamlin did not lack for self-confidence, he wasn't sure if he could take Ridmark in a straight fight.

But with that blue sword, the weapon he called Oathshield...

That sword was powerful. Perhaps even as strong as one of the Seven themselves. Tamlin sensed the power of the thing whenever he drew near. The sword was somehow alive, and he suspected it would react with fury whenever it encountered dark magic. It granted enhanced strength and speed to Ridmark, and it transformed the Shield Knight into a terror on the battlefield. He had cut his way through the orcs, and none of them had been able to touch them.

And Tamlin had attempted to seduce this man's wife?

God and the saints!

He said a silent prayer of thanks that Calliande was a woman of strong probity. Sir Aegeus and Michael had always warned Tamlin that his womanizing would get him in trouble someday, and it very nearly had.

He put aside the thought. Right now, they had more urgent problems.

Specifically, what they would do next.

Sir Tyromon and his officers were dead, and there was no one left to command the survivors. Calliande and Ridmark had gone off together a short distance away and were speaking in quiet, urgent voices. Probably they were discussing what to do about their kidnapped children.

"Perhaps we should withdraw back to Aenesium," said Sir Aegeus.

Tamlin shook off his thoughts and forced himself to pay attention.

He stood with three others. Sir Aegeus, his closest friend in the Order of the Arcanii, stood on his left. Aegeus had pulled of his helm, his red hair jagged with sweat, his broad face ruddy with exertion and heat. Next to him stood Sir Parmenio, the most senior of the other Arcanius Knights among the survivors, a thin man with a tired, worn face. By right, he should have taken command, but he had refused. He was a brave fighter but preferred to have someone tell him what to do.

Facing them stood Kalussa Pendragon, her arms folded over her chest, a scowl on her pretty face.

Tamlin had only met her a few times before, and he did not like her. She was pretty enough that he would have had no objection to sleeping with her, but that would have meant putting up with her tongue and temper, which was not worth the trade-off. She plainly thought that her royal blood, combined with her status as a Sister of the Order, gave her the right to command. In truth, Tamlin thought, she was only the daughter of one of King Hektor's concubines, and only her talent for fire magic gave her any right to be here at all.

Fortunately, he doubted any of the men would accept her as commander.

That didn't stop her from trying.

"We cannot fall back to Aenesium," said Kalussa. "We all know that King Justin is getting ready to throw his army against the walls of our city. If we leave Castra Chaeldon in the hands of Archaelon, Justin Cyros will be able to march unhindered to my father's gates."

In a less serious situation, Tamlin might have amused himself by counting how many times Kalussa managed to mention "my father" in a conversation, but the matter was too urgent for games.

Besides, Tamlin agreed with her.

"What could we do against Castra Chaeldon?" said Aegeus. "We have no siege equipment and no Arcanii with powerful earth magic. We inflicted heavy losses on the orcs, yes, but just as many escaped behind the castra's walls. God alone knows how many undead horrors Archaelon has summoned up."

"Many." Kalussa shuddered a little. "And he has a Maledictus with him. Lord Ridmark and I saw a Maledictus leading undead to the castra."

"But many of our hoplites are imprisoned inside the castra," said Tamlin. "We cannot abandon them."

"Nor should we," said Aegeus. "But we may not have the power to help them. We do not have the equipment for a siege, and we do not even have the supplies. What could we accomplish save to starve to death outside the walls?"

"Perhaps you are both right," said Parmenio. "Maybe it would be better to return to Aenesium and obtain reinforcements, and then march back to attack Archaelon."

Tamlin shook his head. "There's no time."

Kalussa raised her blond eyebrows. "And just why not, Sir Tamlin?"

"Because," said Tamlin, "we only have seven days until the moons are in the proper configuration to augment spells of necromancy. Lady Calliande thinks that Archaelon will try some a great spell of necromancy then."

"Lady Calliande," said Kalussa, glancing to where Calliande stood speaking with her husband. "Are we sure we can trust her?"

"She saved my life," said Tamlin, irritated.

"And the lives of several of my men," said Aegeus. "They would be dead now or dying in agony, if not for her magic. Aye, her tale is outlandish, I will admit. We all thought Andomhaim perished beneath the claws of the spider-devils long ago." His expression darkened. "And if Rhodruthain brought them here...yes, that is the sort of trickery and treachery that the Guardian of Cathair Animus employs."

"And it makes logical sense," said Parmenio. "Why take captives? Captives must be fed and housed. And guarded, especially when they are fighting men. Archaelon must intend to kill them in a necromantic spell." He shook his head. "He was always...odd, yes, but it is hard to believe that he has betrayed his Order, his King, and God Himself by turning to necromancy."

"And in the service of a wretch like Justin Cyros," said Kalussa.

Once again Tamlin found himself in agreement with Kalussa. It was a disquieting feeling.

"But I wonder at that," said Tamlin. "When Archaelon threw those orcs at us, he said he was betraying us in the name of King Justin. Yet those are the Confessor's soldiers we fought. The Confessor must have sent them, but perhaps Archaelon betrayed him."

"But the Confessor wants to claim all the Seven for himself as well, do not forget," said Kalussa. Was she capable of speaking without condescension? "It would please him to no end if Justin destroyed my father, or if my father destroyed the traitor. Then the Confessor could fall upon the weakened victor and claim both the Sword of Fire and the Sword of Earth for himself. To the Confessor's heartless mind, that outcome would be well worth the cost of a few hundred orcish soldiers."

"Maybe Archaelon has betrayed them both," said Aegeus. "A man must be mad to turn to necromancy, so maybe he is mad enough to try to set up his own kingdom. Maybe he thinks to set up a realm of the undead and rule over it."

"Or perhaps he is in the service of the Necromancer of Trojas," said Parmenio. "Someone had to teach him necromancy. Or maybe the Masked One of Xenorium. This is exactly the sort of cunning stratagem that the bearer of the Sword of Shadows prefers."

"No," said Kalussa. "That Maledictus taught Archaelon necromancy, I'm certain of it."

"If you really saw a Maledictus," said Tamlin.

For once, there was no condescension in her voice. "It was a Maledictus. If you had seen the creature, Sir Tamlin, you would not doubt me now."

"Perhaps not," Tamlin conceded. He remembered the fear he had felt in Khurazalin's presence.

At least until he had destroyed the vile creature and avenged Tysia.

"We can argue about Archaelon's motives until the sun goes down," said Aegeus with some exasperation. "It doesn't solve the problem of what we shall do next."

"And Archaelon's motives will matter not at all," said Tamlin, "once he is slain and Castra Chaeldon is back in our hands."

"Which we cannot achieve with the men and supplies we have left," said Aegeus.

"And that," said Tamlin, "is why we need to agree upon who is in command."

"Sir Parmenio," said Aegeus at once. "He's the most senior of us. He ought to command."

Parmenio was shaking his head before Aegeus finished. "I am ill-suited for such a role, and I have no experience leading so many men in battle. I will bring disaster on our heads."

"Then I should command," said Kalussa at once, drawing herself up.

"You?" said Aegeus and Tamlin in unison.

Kalussa scowled at them. "Why not? I have been a full Sister of the Order of the Arcanii for three years. I am a daughter of Hektor Pendragon. Ruling is in my blood."

"It might be," said Tamlin, "but has your ruling blood any experience in commanding men? Do you know how to order a marching column? How to array men for a siege?"

Kalussa blinked, her irritation obvious. "Then do you know how to do any of those things, Tamlin Thunderbolt? Spending years fighting as a gladiator in Urd Maelwyn might have taught you the sword, but I doubt it taught you any of the things you just mentioned."

"They did not," said Tamlin, looking to where Calliande stood talking with Ridmark, "but I know someone who might."

###

"It is my fault," said Calliande in a soft voice.

Ridmark recognized that expression and tone of voice. She was blaming herself for what had happened to Gareth and Joachim. He feared the blame might paralyze her, the way she had blamed herself for Joanna's death.

They could not afford that, not now.

"It is not," said Ridmark. "I am just relieved that you are alive." He brushed her left temple. "A sling bullet to the head like that...God and the saints, that's almost always fatal. Another inch of the right and you would be dead."

Calliande shook her head. "I should have seen it coming." She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain and regret. "Ridmark, I've...I've not been myself, not for a while. It's like my head has been full of fog. If I had been thinking faster, if I had been prepared..."

"Prepared?" said Ridmark.

She blinked at him.

"In what possible way," said Ridmark, "could you have been prepared for an elven wizard to march into Arandar's hall and transport us to Owyllain? Of your life before we met, I know only what you've told me, but I doubt that happened terribly often."

She smiled a little at that. "Never, in fact. I didn't think it was possible for humans to be transported that far with magic, at least without going insane. But it seems Rhodruthain figured out a way to do it."

"Rhodruthain." Ridmark took her hands in his own. "This is his fault. Not yours, not mine, but his. If he wants us to fight this New God of his, he could have asked nicely. Not snatched us and dropped us here."

"But if I had only reacted faster," said Calliande. "If had..."

He squeezed her hands. "No. Don't. I know all about blaming myself, Calliande. We already defeated the Frostborn. You can't wander the Wilderland for five years looking for them the way I did."

She stared at him, her face full of pain.

"And we don't have time to waste blaming anyone but Rhodruthain," said Ridmark. "Not when Gareth and Joachim need us."

Her face crumpled a little, and Ridmark feared he had said too much, that he had pushed her too far. But the old steel flashed in her expression, and Calliande nodded, seeming to pull herself together. The entire time that Ridmark had known her, she had refused to rest when someone needed her. After the final battle with the Frostborn, she had labored for days without sleep to heal as many of the wounded as her strength would allow.

And now her sons needed that strength.

Ridmark suspected that Archaelon might come to regret his treachery. And Rhodruthain would regret his actions, too, if Calliande ever crossed his path again. Rhodruthain had seen Calliande when she was half-broken with grief.

He had not seen the Keeper of Andomhaim in her wrath.

"You're right, of course," said Calliande. She took a deep breath. "We must act. The question is, though, what are we going to do?"

"We go to Castra Chaeldon and get our sons back," said Ridmark.

"Just like that?" said Calliande. "It won't be that easy. Between the two of us, we can deal with any undead creatures. But Archaelon and that undead warlock will have living orcish warriors. They'll have the walls of Castra Chaeldon, and Sir Tamlin said it was a strong fortress. Archaelon has that Champion creature of his that broke the hoplites. And I don't know what kind of powers Archaelon has, but I can see a necromantic aura. If he can generate an aura that powerful, he must be strong indeed."

"Perhaps we can get the hoplites and the Arcanius Knights to help," said Ridmark. "They are ready to fight, and they want to rescue their comrades that Archaelon took captive."

"I think we can persuade them," said Calliande. "But we will have to act at once. We have seven days. The moons will be in the optimal position for necromancy then. Whatever spell Archaelon is planning, he will attempt it then."

"Which means," said Ridmark, taking a deep breath, "that we have seven days before he kills Gareth and Joachim."

He said it more harshly than he intended, and he feared the impact the words would have on Calliande. But the resolve on her face only hardened, and this time he saw anger there. She had always hated those who had abused and twisted magic, even when she had lost most of her memory. Combined with the threat to their children...if Archaelon came into her power, he would not escape punishment for his crimes.

But if they failed...

No. Ridmark could not think on that. God and the saints, how many losses did a man have to endure in his life? The scriptures said that the span of a man's days was seventy years or eighty if he had the strength, and truly their time was but sorrow and trouble. Ridmark had lost many friends and family, his first wife and his lover Morigna. How many more losses would he endure before he died? Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel had wanted to live forever. They had been fools – how long could a man live before everyone he had ever loved died, and he was left to twist into a creature as cruel and as heartless as a dark elven lord?

Ridmark pushed aside the thoughts. This was no time to indulge in dark musings. Especially since Calliande's mind had been so badly harmed by grief.

"Yes," said Calliande. "Seven days, Ridmark. Seven days to stop whatever Archaelon is planning." To his surprise, she smiled a little. "We've done mad and dangerous things before, haven't we? What is one more?"

"Yes," said Ridmark. He rubbed his jaw, the stubble rasping beneath his palm. His face itched damnably, and he could have used a good shave. "Sir Tyromon's dead, and I think Sir Tamlin and Kalussa and some of the other Arcanius Knights are the closest things that the hoplites have to a leader right now. Maybe I can convince them to help us."

"Actually," murmured Calliande, "I think they want to convince us to help them."

"Really?" said Ridmark.

"Look," said Calliande.

Ridmark looked away from her and saw Kalussa, Tamlin, and two other Arcanius Knights approaching them.

###

Calliande watched the others approach.

She suspected she knew what they were going to ask.

Tamlin looked resolved, as he always did. The stocky red-haired man next to him had to be Sir Aegeus, whom Calliande had glimpsed during the fight. The older knight must be Sir Parmenio, who had no wish to command the host even though he had the right. And the young woman...

To her surprise, Calliande felt a flicker of dislike go through her.

Certainly, she had no rational reason to dislike Kalussa Pendragon. Calliande had not spoken more than a few words to her, the girl had conducted herself well during the battle, and Ridmark had said she was a young woman of surprising nerve.

No. Calliande had no rational reason to dislike Kalussa. It wasn't even the simple fact that she was younger and prettier.

It was the fact that she was younger and prettier and had spent the last day and night traveling alone with Ridmark.

The pettiness of the emotion disgusted Calliande. She trusted Ridmark. She had never doubted him while he had been away on campaign, and she ought not to start now. But it had been a long time since Calliande and Ridmark had lain together. Ridmark was a man of iron will and unyielding determination, but he was still a man of flesh and blood, a man who had not shared a bed with his wife in months.

And Kalussa was very pretty.

Perhaps in a moment of weakness, Ridmark had...

Angry at herself, Calliande pushed the idea out of her head.

"Lord Ridmark," said Tamlin with a polite bow.

"Sir Tamlin," said Ridmark. "Lady Kalussa. And I assume you are...Sir Aegeus and Sir Parmenio?"

"You have the right of it, sir," said Aegeus. He seemed cheerful, despite their grim circumstances. Sir Aegeus struck Calliande as a happy brawler, the sort of man who enjoyed a good fight just as much as getting drunk with his friends. Likely he was a bad influence on Tamlin. Or maybe Tamlin was a bad influence on him.

"Aye, Lord Ridmark," said Parmenio. He was much more reserved and collected than the others. Calliande suspected that as the oldest Arcanius Knight, he ought to have taken command of the hoplites, but he didn't seem the kind of man who liked to put himself forward. Perhaps that was just as well. A lot of harm had been done by men whose ambition exceeded their abilities.

"That sword you carry, sir," said Aegeus. "A soulblade, it is called?"

"You are correct, Sir Aegeus," said Calliande. Out of old habit, the calm reserve of the Keeper came to her. If they were going to ask the men of Owyllain for help, best not to show any weakness in front of them. And if the men of Owyllain wanted to ask for help, then it was definitely a good idea not to show any weakness. "Five centuries ago, as the urdmordar besieged Tarlion, the Keeper of Andomhaim traveled to Cathair Solas to ask help of the high elves. The archmage Ardrhythain forged the soulblades, weapons of mighty magical power, and with those weapons, we defeated the urdmordar and saved Tarlion. The Swordbearers have been the chief defenders of the realm of Andomhaim ever since."

"It is as if you wield one of the Seven Swords themselves, sir," said Parmenio.

"He does not exaggerate," said Kalussa. "I saw Lord Ridmark fight a pack of urvaalgs drawn by Archaelon's' necromantic magic. One strike from Oathshield was enough to destroy the vile beasts."

"Lady Calliande's magic was no less potent," said Tamlin. "We heard the tales of the power of the Keepers of Andomhaim in ancient days, and we have all seen the men here who would have died if not for her magic."

"We thank you for the compliments," said Ridmark. "And we have seen firsthand that the valor of the men of Owyllain is no less than the valor of the men of Andomhaim. But I wonder why you mention this now when so many more urgent matters press."

Kalussa snorted. "What my illustrious brothers in the Order have not yet mentioned is the obvious. We want you to take command of our men and lead us against Castra Chaeldon and Archaelon."

"Why?" said Ridmark.

Kalussa blinked, confused. Perhaps she had expected Ridmark to jump at the chance. "Because you are the best choice at hand. By rights, I should take command of our men." Tamlin rolled his eyes at that, and Calliande carefully kept from smiling. "But to be blunt, I have no experience of command, and I might lead our men to disaster. None of us have much experience leading armies. The stakes are too high for us to turn away help...especially help as powerful as what you and Lady Calliande offer."

Ridmark said nothing for a moment, looking at them without blinking.

"If I do this," said Ridmark, "I have two conditions."

"Name them," said Tamlin.

"First," said Ridmark, "I've told the tale of our arrival here to Lady Kalussa, and Calliande has done the same for Sir Tamlin. Presumably, the four of you know that our sons are imprisoned in Castra Chaeldon. You must tell this to no one else. The truth stays with the six of us."

Kalussa blinked again. "Why?"

"Because," said Tamlin in a quiet voice, "if Archaelon realizes that he holds the children of the Shield Knight and the Keeper, he will use them as leverage."

"Oh," said Kalussa. "I hadn't realized that."

"The gamemasters of the dark elves in Urd Maelwyn were fond of such tactics," said Tamlin.

"I can imagine," said Ridmark. "But to be blunt, Oathshield and Lady Calliande's magic are the biggest advantages we have. Archaelon was one of you. He knows your tactics and abilities, and the Maledictus with him will be familiar with the men of Owyllain. Neither one of them will know of the Shield Knight or the Keeper, and it is much harder to prepare a defense against a foe you do not understand. The less Archaelon and the Maledictus know about us, the better. Are we agreed?"

The others agreed. What Ridmark left unsaid, Calliande knew, was the possibility of a spy or a traitor among the hoplites and other knights. Or even the risk of Archaelon taking a prisoner and learning the truth of his new enemies.

"My second condition," said Ridmark. "If I am to be in command...then I will be in command. You will obey me. If I want something done, you will do it. I will listen to your counsel and any thoughts you might have. But in the end, you will do as I say. Is that understood?"

Tamlin and Aegeus frowned but nodded. Kalussa looked at Ridmark with warm approval. With more warmth than Calliande would have liked, to be honest.

"An army must have only one captain," said Parmenio. "These conditions seem reasonable to me."

"Then you all consent?" said Ridmark.

Kalussa and the other Arcanii agreed.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "Then come. We have a lot of work to do."

***

## Chapter 14: Battle Plan

Ridmark Arban, Tamlin realized, was not a man to waste time.

He strode towards the hoplites, shouting for them to gather together. Calliande followed him, and Tamlin, Aegeus, Kalussa, and Parmenio followed her. The hoplites gathered together, their decurions in front.

"Listen to me!" called Ridmark. He did have a commander's voice, loud enough to reach the ears of his soldiers. "My name is Ridmark Arban, the Shield Knight of Andomhaim." A murmur went up from the men, and Ridmark kept speaking. "I regret to say that your commander Sir Tyromon Amphilus is dead. I found him upon the road beneath the banner, mortally wounded." He lifted a sheathed bronze sword. "Sir Tyromon asked me to take this sword back to King Hektor, and to warn him of Archaelon's treachery."

Silence fell over the hoplites.

"But I think it would be better," said Ridmark, "if we brought Sir Tyromon's sword back along with the head of Archaelon and control of Castra Chaeldon. I mean to kill Archaelon, take back the fortress, and free the captives he has taken."

Silence answered him. Then one of the decurions, a grizzled veteran named Rallios, stepped forward. Tamlin knew the man. He had been a hoplite of Aenesium for nearly fifteen years and had risen to the highest rank that a commoner could achieve.

"Then you mean to take command of the men, Lord Ridmark?" said Rallios.

"I do," said Ridmark. "What is your name?"

Rallios shifted, as if bracing himself for an attack. Perhaps he thought Ridmark would try to make an example of him. "Rallios, my lord. Decurion of the Third Phalanx of Aenesium."

"I am a foreigner, a stranger to your realm," said Ridmark, "so you are probably wondering why should listen to a damned thing I have to say."

Some of the hoplites chuckled.

"Begging your pardon, lord," said Rallios, "but I was wondering just that."

"He is in command because we say he is in command," said Kalussa. Her royal imperiousness was on full display. "Sir Tyromon is dead, and someone must lead us."

"I will only say this," said Ridmark. "I am the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and Lady Calliande is the Keeper of Andomhaim. We are both sworn to defend our realm against dark magic. Well, the trickster Rhodruthain of Cathair Animus evidently thought to use us as weapons against dark magic, for he took both Lady Calliande and me from Andomhaim and brought us here against our will." Ridmark drew his soulblade, the soulstones flashing, and turned his hard blue gaze over the men. "But our oaths still hold, even if we are in a distant land. We might be foreigners here, but you are still our sundered cousins. This sword was forged to destroy creatures of dark magic, and I intend to use it against Archaelon and his servants."

"It has the power to do so," said Kalussa. "We were attacked by urvaalgs on our way here. Six of the beasts, no doubt drawn by Archaelon's necromancy. We should have been slain, but Lord Ridmark slew the beasts."

"You helped," said Ridmark. Tamlin wondered why he had said that, and then he realized the cleverness of it. Kalussa Pendragon had a reputation for both fearlessness and speaking her mind, and had never been known to dissemble on any topic. If she was willing to speak in favor of Ridmark...

"But not, I fear, by very much," said Kalussa. "All I did was distract some of the urvaalgs, but Lord Ridmark was able to kill them with single blows from his sword. It usually takes a team of Arcanius Knights to overcome a pack of urvaalgs. If his sword could do that against something as powerful as an urvaalg, imagine what it could do to Archaelon's undead or even his Champion."

Tamlin decided to strengthen her argument. "And you saw the power of Lady Calliande's magic as well." Kalussa started to glare at him, and then her face returned to calm once she realized that Tamlin agreed with her. "Not just the healing magic, without which many men would now be dead, myself among them. One spell from her knocked over the Confessor's orcs like toy soldiers."

Calliande said nothing, simply watching the hoplites, the worn wooden staff in her left hand. Despite her dust-stained clothes, she looked regal, almost queenly. Perhaps the Keeper of Andomhaim found herself leading men into battle on a regular basis.

"Well, then," said Rallios. He pulled off his helmet and raked a hand through sweaty gray hair. "If you're going to lead us...what do you command?"

"Before we do anything," said Ridmark, "I want you to tell me what happened at the ambush."

Rallios blinked. "Surely you've heard it from the Knights."

"Aye, but I want to hear it from you," said Ridmark. "You likely have more experience than most of the men here, and you cannot defeat an enemy unless you first understand him."

"That's so," said Rallios. He thought for a moment. "God and the saints, it feels like an eternity, but it's only been since yesterday morning." He shook his head and started speaking. "We were marching up the road to Castra Chaeldon, escorting the scutians and the wagons. Sir Tyromon thought we would have been to the castra by yesterday afternoon. Then we saw Sir Archaelon. He was standing on a hill overlooking the road, and he called out for us to surrender in the name of the Confessor. Said that Castra Chaeldon was his now and that if we were wise, we would submit to him. Sir Tyromon refused, and then the Confessor's orcs attacked from the gullies on either side of the road. It was hard fighting, but we would have held them off..."

He trailed off at the grim memory.

"If not for what?" said Ridmark.

"That monster of his, the thing he calls the Champion," said Rallios. "I've been fighting in the War of the Seven since I was a lad, and I've fought foes and monsters of every sort, but I've never seen a thing like this, sir. It stood twelve feet tall, and it looked as if it had been stitched together out of rotting corpses. Don't get me wrong, sir, the Confessor's fond of his undead, and I've fought against the Necromancer of Trojas's raiders, but neither one of them ever created a monster like this."

"It was a formidable foe," said Ridmark.

"It was covered in bronze," said Rallios. "Raw plates of unfinished bronze just grafted to the creature. Heavier than any living creature could bear, I think. We could not penetrate its armor, and even when we landed blows into the armor's gaps, it did nothing to the creature. How can one kill something that is already dead?" He shook his head. "That was the turning point of the battle. We could not stand against the Champion's attacks, and the Confessor's orcs poured through the breaks in our lines. We were driven back into the hills, forced to abandon the supply wagons. The other decurions and I managed to rally some of the men. Thought we had no choice but to retreat to Aenesium and tell the King what had happened. But the orcs wouldn't let us go, and we found ourselves forced to a battle here." Rallios shrugged. "Then you and Sir Tamlin and Lady Calliande and Lady Kalussa arrived. You know the rest, I think."

"I do," said Ridmark.

"So, then," said Rallios. "What will you command us to do next?"

Ridmark said nothing, his face distant, his fingers tapping against the bamboo staff in his left hand. Tamlin wondered why he carried such a useless thing. As a walking stick, maybe? Surely, he wouldn't use the staff as a weapon. There was no way a man with a staff could ever defeat a skilled swordsman.

"The first thing," said Ridmark, "is to make sure the orcs don't take us unawares. At least half of them escaped the fighting here, and they'll run right back to Castra Chaeldon. Likely they're already telling Archaelon what happened. By the time Archaelon decides to strike back, we need to be gone from here. Is there another defensible location nearby? Someplace we can reach quickly?"

"A hilltop about two miles east of here, Lord Ridmark," said Parmenio. "The sides are steep, but the hilltop is large enough that our men can rest there quite comfortably."

"Good," said Ridmark. "We'll start heading in that direction. We'll also need some scouts, men familiar with the local countryside. If you've been fighting your enemies in these hills for centuries, someone here must be familiar with them."

"I am," said Parmenio. "I hunted these hills as a boy before my magic manifested and I joined the Order."

Ridmark nodded. "Decurion Rallios, do you have any good hunters among your men?"

"About a dozen, I think," said Rallios. "Probably close to fifteen once I speak with the other decurions."

"Good." Ridmark pointed at Parmenio. "You're now in charge of the scouts. Get them patrolling the terrain north of here. If Archaelon's forces come for us again, I want to be ready."

"It will be done," said Parmenio.

"Sir Tamlin," said Ridmark. Tamlin blinked, surprised. "I want you to take fifty men and head down the road to the south. Not all the carts were looted and burned, and even the muridach scavengers couldn't have taken everything. We'll need every bit of food and water for the days ahead. Archaelon is planning something in seven days, and we will stop him by then."

No one said anything for a few moments.

"Any suggestions?" said Ridmark.

"You heard the Lord Ridmark," snapped Rallios to his men. "We've got work to do."

###

Kalussa Pendragon was not quite sure what to make of Calliande Arban.

She stayed near the Keeper of Andomhaim as the bulk of the hoplite force climbed out of the valley, crossed the road, and headed east. Ridmark had increased the number of men with Tamlin Thunderbolt from fifty to one hundred, telling them to take as many supplies as they could carry and to hurry. Kalussa knew the hill that Parmenio had chosen, and she thought it a good choice. It was large enough to hold the surviving hoplites, steep enough that an enemy force would have a hard climb, and high enough that they would have a wide view of the surrounding countryside.

In fact, they might be able to see all the way to Castra Chaeldon itself.

They crossed the road and headed east. Ridmark was deep in conversation with Sir Aegeus and Rallios. Kalussa did not much care for Aegeus. He was too blustery, and much like Sir Tamlin was entirely too fond of the sound of his own voice. Rallios, though, was a steady man. He had been a hoplite of Aenesium for years, had fought in every single one of her father's campaigns against the other bearers of the Seven Swords, to say nothing of opportunistic dvargir and kobold and muridach raiders. Frankly, her father ought to have made Rallios a knight and a Companion years ago.

But she feared her father did not often listen to her.

For now, Kalussa's attention was on Calliande.

She was an attractive woman, Kalussa decided, but the marks of her recent strain were obvious. The Keeper kept a mask of aloof serenity in place, but from time to time a faint wince went over her face as they climbed the hills. She was tired, that was plain, but she refused to show it. Kalussa found that admirable.

She decided not to speak of her conversation with Ridmark to Calliande. Lord Ridmark had told Kalussa about his grief, and she would honor his trust. Ridmark had refused her, of course...but just because he had refused once did not mean that he would not change his mind in the future.

Still. Ridmark obviously adored his wife. She had given him two sons, after all. And the relief on Ridmark's face when he had found her had made him look much less harsh. Best to stay on good terms with Calliande, then. Alienating Ridmark's wife would just as quickly alienate him.

That and Kalussa was certain that in terms of magical strength, Calliande could crush her like an insect if she happened to feel like it.

"Is something amiss?" said Calliande.

Kalussa realized that she had been staring for too long and rebuked herself.

"Actually, I have a question," said Kalussa.

"Certainly," said Calliande. "Ask."

How are you married with two sons?

A wave of fierce envy rolled through Kalussa, so strong that it surprised her. Maybe it shouldn't have. Ever since she had been a child, Kalussa had been certain of what she wanted. She wanted to marry and have sons and daughters of her own, to be the mistress of her own household. Perhaps she would wed one of the Companions of the King, a bold knight, or maybe a wealthy merchant or one of the Arcanius Knights.

Instead, her power had manifested, and she had been enrolled as one of the Sisters of the Order. Kalussa had realized that her father had sired her not out of love or even simple desire for her mother, but out of necessity to father more children with the power of the Swordborn. Kalussa understood the demands of war, understood that her powers were needed, that her father had a reason for discouraging suitors from seeking her out.

But, God and the saints, she hated it.

"What kind of magic allows you to heal like that?" said Kalussa instead. "I've never seen anything like it."

"The power is drawn from the Well of Tarlion," said Calliande. "I would teach you the healing spell, you and the other Arcanii, but it requires a link to the Well to summon the necessary magic."

"I do not recall hearing about the Well of Tarlion in the old histories," said Kalussa. She had always thought that Tarlion had been destroyed long ago, that it was a thing of ancient history. It was strange to realize that it still existed on the far side of the ocean.

"Likely because none of our mutual ancestors knew it existed," said Calliande. "My predecessors in the office of the Keeper knew that the Well was in the center of the Tower of the Moon, and they knew that it had great magical power, but they had no idea how to access it. When the Keeper went to Cathair Solas to appeal to Ardrhythain, he unlocked the Well and founded the Magistri."

"Magistri?" said Kalussa, searching her memory for the word. Sometimes the differences in the Latin that she spoke and the Latin that Calliande and Ridmark spoke were subtle, no doubt due to five centuries of separation. But she thought the word "Magistrius" meant teacher or instructor.

"The Order of the Magistri," said Calliande. "Human wizards who can draw on the magic of the Well. They use the power of the Well to heal, to ward, to learn, and to attack creatures of dark magic, but the magic of the Well will not harm a living mortal."

"Really?" said Kalussa. "Then what use are they in war? No, that was a foolish question. If they can heal and protect against creatures of dark magic, then they would be of immense use. Perhaps if we had the aid of the Magistri, we might not have spent centuries warring against the Sovereign and his creatures."

"Perhaps not," said Calliande. "With the aid of the Swordbearers and the Magistri Andomhaim defeated the urdmordar, dark elven princes, orcish hordes, and the Frostborn twice." She shook her head. "But it has also given us a temptation to seek forbidden power. That almost destroyed the realm."

Kalussa pondered that. "Perhaps Archaelon fell prey to the same temptation."

"Most likely," said Calliande. "I fear a lust for power beats in every human heart, man and woman alike. To give into that temptation invites destruction."

"Though given our war against the Sovereign," said Kalussa, "it is a pity that Owyllain does not have a Well of its own."

Calliande gave her a sharp look. "What did you say?"

Kalussa felt discomfort under that keen blue stare. Ridmark's eyes were cold and hard, but Calliande's gaze reminded her of a sharp-eyed hunting hawk. "I just wondered why Owyllain doesn't have its own Well."

"Maybe it does," said Calliande. "Ardrhythain mentioned other Wells once." She thought for a moment, and then that sharp stare turned back to Kalussa. "Lady Kalussa. Can I ask you something?"

Kalussa felt a twinge of fear. Suddenly she was certain, absolutely certain, that Calliande would ask her if she had kissed Ridmark. It wouldn't matter that Ridmark had all but shoved Kalussa to the ground to stop her. Calliande would explode with fury, directing all that magical wrath towards Kalussa, and...

"Have you ever heard anyone use the phrase 'the New God?'" said Calliande.

Kalussa blinked, taken off-guard. "I'm sorry?"

"The New God is coming," said Calliande. "Or that the New God is rising?"

Kalussa shook her head. "I haven't. There is only one God. The Warlords of the orcish cities each worship one of the old blood gods. The muridachs have their Lord of Carrion, and the kobolds and the xiatami have their own gods as well. The Sovereign had his armies worship him as a god, and the Maledicti were his priests. But I've never heard anyone talk about a New God."

"Rhodruthain mentioned the New God," said Calliande.

Kalussa scoffed "Rhodruthain is a trickster and a traitor. He taught us elemental magic and founded the Order of the Arcanii, but he helped the Master Talitha betray and murder my uncle Kothlaric and steal the Seven Swords." She scowled. And had Rhodruthain and Talitha not betrayed the great High King, then the War of the Seven would not have started, and there would be no need for Kalussa to serve as a Sister of the Order.

At least Talitha had died for her crimes.

"Cathair Animus," said Calliande. "Do you know where it is?"

"Far to the east," said Kalussa, "even further east than the Sovereign's old citadel at Urd Maelwyn. It was one of the cities of the gray elves in ancient days, but now it is a ruin, like all the cities of the gray elves."

"The gray elves," said Calliande. "Do you know anything about them?"

"Only a little," said Kalussa. "Just what I learned when studying with the Order. Once the gray elves ruled all this land, but then the Sovereign came and warred against them for many centuries before Connmar Pendragon founded Owyllain. In the end, the Sovereign defeated the gray elves, and the survivors fled into the Illicaeryn Jungle to the south." She shrugged. "I do not know if they are properly called the gray elves, but that is always what we called them, for they wear gray cloaks like Lord Ridmark's. They have kept aloof from us, but they did come to fight when the High King Kothlaric marched against the Sovereign."

"I see," said Calliande. She sighed. "I suppose I am trying to figure out a way to force Rhodruthain to send us back home. Though I need to find my children first."

Kalussa hadn't thought of that. Could Calliande force Rhodruthain to send them back? If so, that would be that. Kalussa would lose her chance to persuade Ridmark to take her as a concubine. But, well, she couldn't deny Ridmark and his family a chance to return home.

"That would be a good place to start," said Kalussa.

"Kalussa," said Calliande. "Thank you for helping Ridmark."

Kalussa blinked. "What?" Was Calliande trying to find out what had happened while they were alone together? Nothing had happened, much to Kalussa's disappointment, but as she stood so close to the powerful Keeper, Kalussa was glad that nothing had happened.

"When you helped him with the urvaalgs," said Calliande. "Six of them would have been a challenge even for a Swordbearer of his experience. Thank you."

"Oh," said Kalussa. "He is a very great warrior."

"He is," said Calliande.

Conscience seized control of Kalussa's mouth. "But...nothing happened, yes? Nothing inappropriate. Lord Ridmark behaved very gallantly. I was perfectly safe the entire time I was with him."

Calliande blinked, her confusion obvious, and then a sudden tinge of red went into her cheeks. "Ah. That wasn't what I was asking, but...yes, that is good to know."

Kalussa felt like a fool. She liked to think she approached matters of marriage and concubinage with a clear head, but clearly, she needed more practice.

###

Ridmark looked around the top of the hill, considering what to do next.

It was late afternoon, and they had reached the hilltop without incident. As Parmenio had promised, it was broad and wide, with enough room for the men to rest comfortably and a commanding view in all directions. Archaelon ought to have posted scouts here, but the hill was deserted. That thought cheered Ridmark. Archaelon was clearly a powerful necromancer if he could create something like the Champion, but perhaps he was not a capable commander.

Sir Tamlin and his men returned, bringing large quantities of supplies. The muridachs had stripped most of the dead of their bronze armor and weapons, but the muridachs had shown little interest in the food and water. The road was deserted of enemies, and Ridmark told Sir Tamlin to continue scavenging supplies from the wagons until nightfall.

Sir Parmenio's scouts began returning, reporting the surrounding hills empty of enemies. Some of the scouts had dared to go all the way to Castra Chaeldon, and they reported that the enemy had withdrawn entirely into the fortress, the Confessor's orcs and undead creatures manning the battlements. It seemed that Archaelon had decided to hole up inside the castra until the moons reached their proper configuration.

"Very well," said Ridmark as the sun went down. Calliande, Kalussa, Tamlin, Aegeus, Parmenio, Rallios, and the other decurions had all gathered around him. "We shall camp here for the night, and then march the rest of the way to Castra Chaeldon."

"And then?" said Tamlin.

"And then we will lay siege to the castra," said Ridmark, "and decide how we shall deal with the traitor and free the captives." He looked at Rallios. "We'll need sentinels."

The decurion nodded. "I'll see to it."

"Sir Parmenio," said Ridmark, "we'll want some scouts out." He looked at the sky. "How many moons out tonight?"

"Four," said Calliande. She must have done the calculation in her head.

Ridmark nodded. "Good. That will give them enough light to see by. Have them watch the road and the approaches to the hill. If the enemy comes for us, we'll want an advance warning."

"I'll see it done, Lord Ridmark," said Parmenio.

Kalussa and Calliande busied themselves by using their spells to set magical fires or conjure balls of magic flame to keep the chill at bay. Ridmark did a few circuits of his makeshift camp, making sure everything was satisfactory.

Then he gave the charge of the camp to Tamlin, went near one of the whirling spheres of fire Calliande had summoned, and lay down to go to sleep.

A few moments later someone lay down next to him.

His first alarmed reaction was that it was Kalussa. But to his relief, it was Calliande. She rolled up her green cloak to serve as a pillow and settled next to him with a sigh, gazing up at the sky.

They lay in silence for a while. Ridmark had not spent this much time lying next to Calliande since she had grown ill. At first, she had been too sick, and then she had been too broken with grief. She hadn't wanted company, not anyone, and she had refused to let the children see her like that.

He turned his head and saw that she was lying on her side, her head resting against the rolled cloak as she watched him.

"What are you thinking?" she said in a quiet voice.

"I am thinking," said Ridmark, "that I have been in Owyllain two days, and I already have an army."

She smiled a little. "Maybe if we're here long enough, you'll be the new High King of Owyllain."

"God and the apostles, I hope not." He hesitated. "The boys..."

Her eyelids fluttered as she drew on the Sight.

"They're still alive," said Calliande. "Healthy, too, as far as I can tell. But they haven't moved. They're still in Castra Chaeldon, still in the middle of that necromantic aura."

"Then you're right," said Ridmark. "They'll be safe for another seven days." Nearly six now, he supposed.

"Yes," whispered Calliande. "Safe. But I think about what it must be like for them, what's happening to them...God and the saints, Ridmark. It tears me up. I didn't think I could know any more sorrow and fear than I already did, but I just have to think of them in some lightless dungeon cell, and..."

He took her hand. "We'll get them out." Her fingers felt thin and cold against his own. "One way or another, we're killing Archaelon and getting them out."

Calliande took a shuddering breath, and he saw the strain as she pulled herself together. "Yes. Yes...do you think we can win, Ridmark?"

"We have a fair chance," said Ridmark. "Two hundred and fifty men in bronze armor doesn't seem like much, but they're all veterans. And Archaelon isn't expecting a Swordbearer and the Keeper of Andomhaim to walk up to his gate. If we hit him hard enough, we'll be able to take him. He might be a powerful necromancer, but he's still a wizard, and Oathshield will tear through any defenses he raises around himself."

"You almost make me believe it," said Calliande. She tried to smile. "Certainly, you made Tamlin and Aegeus and Rallios and the others believe it."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "I just hope I am not leading them to their deaths."

Because if he had to choose between their lives and the lives of his children, he knew how he would choose. But it wasn't as if the hoplites and the Arcanii didn't have a stake in this fight as well. Archaelon had betrayed them. Their comrades were prisoners within Castra Chaeldon. Their city would come under attack from Justin Cyros or the Confessor if Archaelon held the castra.

"You certainly convinced Kalussa," said Calliande. "She respects you so much she was prepared to argue with every other Arcanius Knight here."

Ridmark grimaced. "She respects me a little too much."

"What do you mean?"

Ridmark sighed. He hadn't wanted to discuss this with her, but neither would his conscience allow him to keep it from her. "She explained how the men of Owyllain have a tradition of concubinage similiar to the orcs of the three baptized kingdoms, and she volunteered to take up that role."

He expected Calliande to get angry, or to laugh it off.

Instead, she only looked sad.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "So that's was what she meant. I thought she looked a little embarrassed."

Ridmark frowned. "I refused her, of course." Did she think he had slept with Kalussa? The idea stung more than he would have thought.

"I know," said Calliande. "I'm...I'm sorry, though."

"For what?" said Ridmark.

Calliande closed her eyes and opened them again. "For not...for not being very attentive to you lately. For making it harder to refuse her than it might otherwise have been."

She looked so miserable that he wanted to pull her close, but he didn't. She never liked to look weak when in public as the Keeper of Andomhaim.

"You have been ill," said Ridmark in a quiet voice, "and in mourning."

"So have you," said Calliande. "In mourning, I mean. She was your daughter too."

They lay in silence for a moment.

"Yes," said Ridmark. "But the blow was harder for you."

"I know," said Calliande. She closed her eyes again. "I've not...I've not been well lately. Not at all. But I can't dwell on that now. You need me. Gareth and Joachim need me." She opened her eyes, and some of the old fire was there. "I can't fail them the way I failed Joanna."

Ridmark wanted to tell her that she hadn't failed Joanna, that no one could have saved their daughter. But he had tried to tell her that, and she had refused to listen, sinking further into her grief. Right now, though, she had a mission. She had a purpose.

Archaelon was about to meet the woman who had challenged Tymandain Shadowbearer to his face and survived.

Assuming Ridmark didn't kill him first.

"Ridmark," whispered Calliande. "I love you."

"I love you."

"And I just wanted to say," said Calliande, "that without you, this would have..."

A half-dozen yards away one of the hoplites strolled to the edge of the hilltop, dropped the front of his trousers, and relieved himself down the slope with a groan of relief.

Calliande's hand flew to her mouth, and to his amazement, Ridmark saw that she was fighting down a laugh.

"That was ill-timed," said Ridmark.

She smiled. "Not for that hoplite."

Now it was Ridmark's turn to hold back a laugh.

"I think what I was going to say," said Calliande, "was that I am getting too old to sleep on the ground. Or in the middle of a soldiers' camp."

"Try to get some sleep," said Ridmark. "We'll need to be rested tomorrow."

She followed his advice.

Ridmark stared at the sky, wondering if he would be able to sleep with so many fears clogging his mind.

But to his surprise, he felt asleep almost at once.

His sons would need him to be rested tomorrow.

Ridmark awoke with a jolt as shouting filled his ears.

He surged to his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees and shoulders, his hand falling to Oathshield's hilt on reflex. Calliande was up almost as fast, white light playing around her hands. Ridmark looked around. It was just before dawn, the eastern sky brightening over the rocky hills.

"Lord Ridmark!"

Ridmark turned as Parmenio ran over, breathing hard.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"The enemy comes," said Parmenio.

***

## Chapter 15: Counterstrike

Tamlin had slept in his armor, so he needed only to don his helmet and wrap his sword belt around his waist.

As he did, he watched Ridmark Arban.

The Shield Knight could fight, that much was obvious, but Tamlin knew there was a long distance between keeping one's head in a fight and keeping one's head while commanding men in battle. Yet while Ridmark looked grim, he looked no grimmer than he usually did.

It seemed that the Shield Knight was used to this kind of thing.

Tamlin followed Ridmark, Calliande, and Sir Parmenio as they walked to the northern edge of the hilltop. Around him them camp awoke as men got to their feet, checking armor and shields and adjusting their sword belts. Sir Aegeus jogged over to join Tamlin, bronze helmet in one hand and his shield on his left arm.

"Looks like we're due for another fight," said Tamlin.

Aegeus grinned. "Good. It's been too long."

Tamlin laughed. "Yes, a whole day. It's a wonder you didn't go mad with boredom. Pity I rescued you from Urd Maelwyn. You'd never have been bored then."

Aegeus snorted. "Aye, then I would have been the champion of the gladiatorial games, not you."

Tamlin grinned back, but his good humor faded as he saw the scouts waiting at the northern edge of the hill. Once of the scouts had taken a wound to the shoulder, blood trickling down his arm. Calliande stepped forward, white light flaring around her fingers as she put her hand on the scout's temple. The hoplite flinched, and Calliande grimaced, but his wound vanished as she stepped back.

Rallios and Kalussa jogged over, Kalussa tugging at her armor.

"What have you found?" said Ridmark.

"A large force of orcish warriors and undead are coming this way," said Parmenio.

"How many?" said Rallios.

"About three hundred, I think," said the scout that Calliande had healed.

"About a hundred orcs, and maybe two hundred undead," said Parmenio. "Three miles to the northwest, and they are coming straight for us."

Ridmark looked to his wife. "Calliande?"

She drew herself up, took a deep breath, and a dreamy, vacant expression came over her face, almost as if she had put herself into a trance. Her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes darted back and forth, looking at something no one else could see. This had to be the spell or the power she had called the Sight, which seemed to let her see both magical auras and far-off places.

Her expression came back into focus.

"Yes," she said. "He's exactly right. There are about two hundred undead creatures three and a half miles to the northwest, and they're heading right for us. I think they'll be here in another quarter of an hour at the most."

Ridmark nodded. "Sir Parmenio, what's the terrain like to the northwest?"

Parmenio pointed at the rocky hills. "They will almost certainly have to travel up that valley. It's the only place a large force can move with any speed. Then they will swarm up the hill and attack us."

"I see," said Ridmark. He tapped his fingers against the bamboo staff. "What I wouldn't give for some horses just now."

It took Tamlin a moment to remember what horses were.

"It seems our best option is to remain here," said Rallios. "We have the high ground, and they will have to come to us."

"Or," said Tamlin, "they'll wait at the foot of the hill and keep us here. Or they want to hold us in place until Archaelon can summon a larger force to deal with us."

"Is the Champion with the undead?" said Ridmark.

"We didn't see it among the undead or the orcish warriors," said Parmenio.

"I don't think any of the undead are individually that powerful," said Calliande. "I suspect the Champion would have stood out among them like a tree among the grass."

Ridmark nodded again. "Of the Arcanii we have with us, how many of them can use fire magic?"

"Myself and two others," said Kalussa.

"My lord, we must act now," said Rallios.

"I know," said Ridmark. "Decurion, select fifty men and have them accompany Lady Calliande and me. Kalussa, get those other two Arcanius Knights and have them join us immediately." Kalussa nodded and ran off. Tamlin wondered how he got the imperious young woman to obey him so quickly. "Decurion, you're going to take a hundred men and head to the right side of the valley. Conceal yourselves below the crest of the hill. Sir Tamlin, take the remaining men and go to the left side of the valley. Conceal yourselves there."

"And what are you going to do, sir?" said Rallios.

"We're going to go to the middle of the valley and wait for the enemy," said Ridmark.

Tamlin frowned. "Even with your sword, Lady Calliande's magic, and the fire of the Knights, fifty men will be quickly overwhelmed."

"No," said Ridmark, "I don't think we will."

Aegeus frowned. "I salute your confidence, sir, but even I think it might be misplaced."

"It's not," said Calliande. "The undead will come first. Do you not see? The orcish warriors will hang back and let the undead attack in the first wave. Why risk getting killed when the undead can do all the work for you?"

"And Lady Calliande and I are uniquely suited to deal with undead," said Ridmark. "The undead are also uniquely vulnerable to fire magic, I recall."

"It burns away the necromantic magic upon them," said Calliande. "And many undead creatures are desiccated anyway and vulnerable to fire."

Ridmark nodded. "We'll pin the undead in place. Eventually, the orcs will move to attack. When they do, Sir Tamlin and Decurion Rallios will attack from the left and the right. We'll hit them from three sides at once, and either destroy them or force them to flee back to Castra Chaeldon."

Rallios grunted in approval. "Well, the more we kill out here, they fewer we'll have to kill upon the walls of Castra Chaeldon."

"Exactly," said Ridmark. "We don't have much time. Go!"

###

Calliande followed Ridmark as they strode into the valley, fifty hoplites walking behind them. Ridmark had left his staff on the hilltop and instead carried Oathshield, the blade starting to flicker with white fire as the undead drew nearer. Kalussa walked next to Calliande, and the Sight revealed the harsh aura of elemental fire as the younger woman prepared her magic. Two Arcanius Knights walked with Kalussa, both young men about Tamlin's age, though they lacked Tamlin's easy confidence. Nevertheless, both Knights glowed with the harsh power of elemental flame to her Sight as they held their magic ready.

She thought about what Ridmark had told her, how Kalussa had approached him. Despite that, Calliande found that she could not dislike Kalussa, though she was nonetheless furious with the girl's temerity. Bravery counted for a great deal, and Kalussa was marching to face a mob of undead without flinching.

Later. Once her sons were safe, she could worry about such things.

The valley was narrower and steeper than the place where they had fought the Confessor's orcs, though the ground was still sandy. Ridmark glanced up to the left and to the right. Nothing was visible there, but if Calliande reached for the Sight, she saw the arcane auras around the Arcanius Knights waiting with the concealed hoplites.

She also saw the corrupted necromantic aura around the approaching undead and the distant shimmer of dark power around Castra Chaeldon.

A moment later, she saw the undead with her eyes of flesh.

The undead came first, hundreds of them. Most of them looked ancient and desiccated, withered corpses draped in crumbling flesh, greening bronze swords in their bony hands and corroding bronze cuirasses on their torsos. Some were far fresher, either men who had been killed in the ambush on the road, or orcish warriors or muridachs who had fallen in the fighting. All the undead had an eerie blue glow in their unblinking eyes, and pale blue fires danced around their heads and shoulders.

It reminded Calliande of watching the revenants of the Frostborn host advance out of the darkness, and she shivered with the memory. The revenants had been able to kill with a touch, turning their opponents' blood to ice, but these undead lacked that power.

Still, Archaelon must have been a strong necromancer indeed if he had been able to raise so many undead in such a short time.

"You were right, Lady Calliande," said Kalussa, peering at the advancing undead. "All the orcish warriors are behind the undead."

Ridmark nodded. "No sense getting yourself killed when you have undead slaves to do your killing for you." He looked at Calliande. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she said, the staff of the Keeper crackling with white fires. Again, she felt a peculiar sort of calm fall over her. No, calm wasn't right the quite word. Nor was it contentment.

In a way, it was like a relief. This was a battle she knew how to fight.

"Good." Ridmark turned to Kalussa and the other Arcanii. "Stay with Lady Calliande. When she attacks, you'll know that it is time to strike."

One of the Knights opened his mouth, but Kalussa, of course, made sure she had the last word. "We shall be ready."

Ridmark nodded and stepped past them to join the hoplites, who had formed themselves into a line to face the approaching undead, each man standing with shield raised and sword ready. "Stand fast until I give the word to attack. We'll let the Keeper and the Arcanii strike first."

The men waited. The undead creatures continued their steady advance. They did not rush, but neither would they ever tire. That was the danger of fighting undead, even minor undead creatures like these. They would never grow weary as living men would, and while they were not immune to normal weapons, the only way to destroy them was to take off their heads or to smash them into immobility.

Yet as she looked them, Calliande saw the bonds of necromantic magic upon them, necromantic magic vulnerable to the power of the Well of Tarlion.

She wondered if an arsonist felt this way at the moment he threw a torch into a barn.

Calliande was ready. She drew herself up, pulling all the power of the Well that she could hold and feeding it through the magic of the Keeper's mantle.

Then she shouted, struck the end of her staff against the ground, and thrust out her hand.

White fire exploded from her palm, swelling into a wall of white flame fifty feet across and ten feet high. Kalussa shouted in alarm as it rushed forward, but the white fire passed through her and the hoplites and Ridmark without harming them. The power of the Well of Tarlion would not harm living mortals.

The same could not be said of the undead.

The wall of white fire crashed into them like a wave smashing into the shore. At once a score of undead collapsed, the white fire drowning about the blue. A dozen more staggered, the magic of the Well fighting against the necromantic power animating them.

Kalussa snarled and cast a spell, and the other two Arcanii followed suit. Three bolts of whirling flame sped over the helmets of the hoplites and landed amid the advancing undead. The walking corpses went up in flames, the elemental magic devouring them.

"Now!" Ridmark's voice rang over the valley. "At them!"

He lifted Oathshield and charged, the soulblade blazing with white fire, and Calliande started another spell as the hoplites charged after him.

###

Oathshield thrummed in Ridmark's hands, the soulblade's power rising in fury as he drew near the undead. It had been forged to destroy creatures of dark magic, and the blade burned with white fire as the undead approached, the sword's anger manifesting as power.

Ridmark charged at the undead, and the hoplites followed suit.

He reached the enemy first, thanks to the enhanced speed granted by the soulblade, and attacked. Oathshield blazed as he whipped it around in a sideways swing, and the strength granted by the soulblade let him take the head from an undead creature. It staggered and collapsed, the blue fire in its eyes and on its shoulders vanishing, and before it had touched the ground, Ridmark struck again.

He had destroyed five of the undead before the rest of the hoplites caught up to him. Oathshield was the perfect weapon for this kind of fight, and the undead fell before Ridmark like wheat before the harvester's scythe. He did not even need to land heavy blows upon the undead, just strike them long enough for Oathshield's power to shatter the dark magic.

As the hoplites crashed into the undead, Calliande cast another spell, throwing another broad wall of white fire into the enemy. The fury of her magic destroyed another score of the undead. Kalussa and the Arcanii continued their attack, throwing darts of fire into the undead creatures. Their magic wasn't anywhere near as powerful as Calliande's, but the three Arcanii kept up a contest barrage of elemental fire. Ridmark had feared they might lack Calliande's fine control, but none of the fiery bolts struck the hoplites, instead landing with unerring accuracy on the undead.

Ridmark ducked under the grasping fingers of an undead hoplite, drove Oathshield home, and ripped the sword free to face another. Part of his mind noted that the hoplites were fighting with vigor, even with elation. The men of Owyllain must have faced undead countless times during their war with the Sovereign. Undead soldiers had been one of the favored weapons of dark elven lords and princes.

But this was the first time the men of Owyllain had faced undead creatures with the aid of a Swordbearer and the Keeper of Andomhaim. Perhaps the men of Andomhaim had shown something of the same elation the first time the new-made Swordbearers had lifted their soulblades against the urdmordar besieging Tarlion.

Another wave of white fire tore into the undead. Ridmark cut down another, and another, and still another, and looked around for fresh foes.

But he saw none. The onslaught of bronze and magic and soulblade had destroyed all the undead creatures.

The orcish warriors, though, might prove more challenging foes.

As Sir Parmenio and his scouts had predicted, a hundred of the Confessor's orcs advanced behind the undead. Like the other orcish warriors that Ridmark had seen, the orcs all bore a tattoo of a downward-facing blue sword upon the left side of their faces, which he now knew represented the Sword of Water that the Confessor had claimed. Perhaps the orcs received the tattoo when they entered the Confessor's service. The orcish warriors wore leather armor for the most part, with a scaly look that made Ridmark wonder if the leather had come from the hide of a scutian lizard, though some of the larger orcs had bronze cuirasses and helmets. They carried a mixture of bronze swords, axes, and stone-headed maces.

With a roar, the orcish warriors charged, their weapons raised, their black eyes glimmering with the crimson haze of orcish battle rage.

"Hold!" shouted Ridmark as the hoplites rushed to meet the orcs. "Hold, damn you! A line! Now, now!" The hoplites fell back, reforming their line. Kalussa and the other two Arcanii started to throw bolts of fire into the orcs. Ridmark shot a look back over his shoulder and saw Calliande standing with the three Arcanii. "Calliande!"

She nodded and began a spell of her own, white fire braiding with purple flames around her hands and staff.

Ridmark whirled to face the charging orcs and raised Oathshield in both hands. Behind him the hoplites shifted, uneasy in the face of the orcish charge. Any moment now...

Then the ground heaved and flowed, rippling like water. As she had during the previous battle, Calliande sent a spell of earth magic hurtling towards the orcs. The ripples flowed around the hoplites but merged together in a single massive wave as they rushed towards the orcish warriors. The ground beneath their orcs' boots heaved and snapped like a banner in a gale, and most of the warriors were knocked from their feet.

"Now!" shouted Ridmark. "Attack!"

He raced forward, drawing on Oathshield for speed and strength, and struck. He killed three orcs before they could recover, their bodies falling back to the ground. A fourth lunged at him, stabbing with a bronze sword, and Ridmark made no effort to dodge, trusting in his dark elven armor to absorb the blow. The sword's point scraped off his armor without leaving a scratch, and Ridmark used that time to line up a fatal blow, sending the orc's body collapsing to the ground.

By then the charge of hoplites smashed into the reeling orcs, and fighting raged around Ridmark. Calliande's magic had stunned the orcs, but they recovered swiftly, fighting with wild ferocity. Ridmark parried the chop of an axe, sidestepped, and drove Oathshield forward. The orc's leather armor proved no match for Oathshield's point, and the soulblade found the orc's heart.

Ridmark ripped his blade free and wheeled to face another foe.

###

"That's it," said Tamlin. "It's time."

Once again, he had been astonished by the magic that the Keeper had unleashed. It would have taken a team of Arcanii working in concert to destroy that many undead at once, but Calliande had done so by herself with seeming ease.

But watching Ridmark Arban with that sword in his hand was like watching a storm. The Shield Knight had torn through the undead with ease, moving far faster than a man his age should have been able to move. For that matter, he had been moving faster than any man should have been able to move.

The orcs put up more of a fight than the undead. Yet Calliande's magic knocked them from their feet, and Ridmark ripped through them, the soulblade still burning with white fire.

Still, they needed help. And matters had gone as Ridmark had predicted. The orcish warriors were pinned in place fighting against him and the hoplites.

Which meant this was the perfect moment to attack from the flanks.

"About time!" said Aegeus, grinning at he raised his sword. "I never liked to sit out a fight!"

"Charge!" shouted Tamlin at the top of his lungs, and he ran forward down the slope of the hill. Behind him a hundred hoplites rose from concealment and charged, shouting battle cries in the name of God and King Hektor. Tamlin sprinted down the slope as fast as he could manage while keeping his footing, calling magical power for a spell as he did so. On the far side of the valley, he saw old Rallios leading his hoplites in a charge as well.

The orcs were about to be attacked on three sides at once, and they knew it. One of the orcish warriors screamed a command, and they started to turn, trying to array themselves to face the newcomers.

But by then, Tamlin had his spell ready.

He lifted his left hand as he ran, and a bolt of lightning arced from his palm and slammed into the orcs, coiling around two of them. The orcish warriors were thrown to the ground, fires erupting from their clothes and armor from the intense heat of the lightning bolt.

"For God and King Hektor!" roared Tamlin, and he leaped into the gap left by the two slain orcs, attacking with his sword of dark elven steel. It was a magnificent weapon, sharper and stronger than any blade of bronze. The dvargir gamemaster had seemed quite fond of it, though the sword hadn't saved him from Tamlin and the others as they escaped the gladiatorial pits of Urd Maelwyn.

But Tamlin would put it to good use.

He cut down an orcish warrior, the fine sword biting into his neck. Tamlin ripped the blade free and parried the attack of another warrior, bronze clanging against dark elven steel. He started to prepare another attack, and then a shard of ice the size of a ballista bolt slammed into the orc, pinning his corpse to the ground. Sir Aegeus charged into the battle, bellowing at the top of his lungs, and an instant later the rest of the hoplites attacked, swords rising and falling.

Tamlin glimpsed Rallios's men pouring down the slope and into the orcs, and then he had no more time for anything but fighting. An orcish warrior came at him, roaring in fury, and Tamlin parried once, twice, three times. On the third attack, the warrior overextended himself. The gamemasters of the Ring of Blood would have beaten the orc for such an error. Tamlin was not nearly so cruel.

Instead, he simply killed the orc, driving his sword through the hole in the warrior's defenses. Another orc came at him, and by then Tamlin had recovered some of his magical strength. He flung out his left hand, and arcs of blue-white lightning leaped from his fingers and struck the warrior. The orc stumbled with a roar, and Tamlin's sword found his throat.

He fought on, carving a path through the enemy.

###

Ridmark struck down another orcish warrior, green blood flying from the wound. He wrenched Oathshield free and looked for another foe, wishing that he had a spare moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

But the battle was over.

Most of the orcs had been killed, crushed by the attackers coming from three directions at once. The rest had turned and fled, streaming towards the direction of the road leading to Castra Chaeldon.

"Rallios!" shouted Ridmark, looking around for Calliande. For a moment, he could not find her, and then he saw her kneeling next to a wounded hoplite, white light glimmering around her hands as she cast a healing spell. Of course, she would be tending the wounded. That was what she always did after a battle. "Rallios!"

"Here, Lord Ridmark," said the decurion, jogging over. Green blood dripped from his sword, and there was more spattered across his cuirass and shield. "It seems we are victorious."

"For now," said Ridmark. "Get the men together. Once Calliande has helped those who can be helped, we are going to march at once."

Rallios nodded. "Immediately?"

"As soon as it is possible," said Ridmark. "You know as well as I do that whoever takes the initiative in battle is likely to win. We have been reacting to Archaelon so far. It is time to make him react to us. I want to be outside the gates of Castra Chaeldon before sundown."

"It shall be done," said Rallios, and he turned and started bawling orders.

The men ceased their pursuit of the orcs and started to form up.

###

Calliande straightened up with a sigh, her back aching. When she healed people in Tarlion, she usually brought a stool with her, but there were no such luxuries here.

"On your feet, hoplite of Aenesium," said Calliande. "I fear your soldiering days are not yet done."

The hoplite, a young man of not more than twenty-five, got to his feet, rolling his left arm in wonder. His shield had splintered beneath an orcish axe, and the blow had opened his arm from shoulder to wrist. It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn't bled to death.

"Thank you, my lady," said the young soldier. "I...I was certain I would lose the arm."

"Not today," said Calliande.

"Truly, God sent you to us in our hour of need," said the soldier.

Rallios's voice boomed out, calling for the men to assemble for the march. The hoplite gave an awkward bow and turned to join his comrades.

Calliande turned and saw Kalussa staring at her with an uncertain expression.

"What is it?" said Calliande.

"When you do that," said Kalussa, "when you heal them...does it hurt? You always grimace as you do."

"It does," said Calliande. "To heal them, I have to take the pain of the wounds into myself."

"That means," said Kalussa, "you have to...feel the wounds as if they were your own?"

Calliande nodded. "The pain does pass."

"God and the saints!" said Kalussa. "I don't know if I could manage that. How many times have you healed wounds like that?"

Calliande shrugged. "I don't know. Thousands, likely. I've been doing it since before you were born, I think."

Centuries before Kalussa had been born, in fact, but that was a tale for another time.

"What an astonishing thing," said Kalussa. "Your realm of Andomhaim must be very strong, if your soldiers can be healed of their hurts."

"Not all wounds can be healed," said Calliande in a quiet voice. Nine men had died in the fighting, and eighteen had been wounded. Of them, Calliande had been able to help fourteen. The rest had been too badly hurt for her magic to help and had died of their wounds.

She thought again of Joanna.

No, not all wounds could be healed.

"Come," said Calliande. "I think we are heading for Castra Chaeldon next."

###

Kalussa followed Calliande, her emotions unsettled.

She had been frightened of the older woman at first, and some of the fear was still there. Yet now that emotion was mixed with something else.

Calliande had awed her.

So many of those wounded men should have died, but Calliande had saved them.

Perhaps Calliande would consent to take her as an apprentice. She had magic beyond anything the Order possessed. In time, perhaps Kalussa could become both Ridmark's concubine and Calliande's apprentice. Would that not be the best for everyone? She could bear Ridmark's children as Calliande had, and help the Keeper in her noble work of healing the wounded.

Kalussa pushed thought out of her head. The battlefield was not the place for such musings, and she knew the fighting was not yet over.

But as she looked at the hoplites, she was certain of one thing.

The force had started out under the command of poor Sir Tyromon Amphilus, but after that skirmish, it was now the army of the Shield Knight and the Keeper.

***

## Chapter 16: Castra Chaeldon

The hoplites marched for the next four hours.

Ridmark sent out Sir Parmenio and his hunters again, telling them to trail the fleeing orcish soldiers and to watch for ambushes. Once Archaelon realized that his attack had failed, he might launch another one. Or the surviving orcs, perhaps possessing better tactical skills than their master, might try to prepare an ambush themselves.

But neither new forces nor ambushes showed themselves. The scouts reported that nothing moved in the hills around the road and that the surviving orcs from the valley were making straight for Castra Chaeldon.

At the moment, nothing was going wrong.

That gave Ridmark time to consider all the many things that might go wrong.

His sons were at the foremost of his thoughts. While Calliande knew they were alive and healthy, any number of other torments might have befallen them. His rebellious mind kept conjuring grisly image after grisly image. Ridmark had seen many, many people die, had come across many dead bodies, and his fears kept applying those memories to his sons.

For the most part, he succeeded in pushing those thoughts from his mind, but still they came.

When he wasn't thinking about Gareth and Joachim, his thoughts turned to the problem of the fortress. Based on what Rallios and Tamlin had told him, Castra Chaeldon was a strong fortress, capable of withstanding a large army. Ridmark didn't have a large army. He had two hundred and fifty men, a dozen Arcanius Knights, and enough supplies to feed them for a few weeks.

But he also had the magic of the Keeper on his side, along with Oathshield's power. No matter how powerful Archaelon had become, Ridmark suspected the traitorous Arcanius Knight wasn't prepared to face the Keeper of Andomhaim and a Swordbearer. Hopefully, they could give Archaelon some nasty surprises.

He glanced back to where Calliande walked with Rallios, asking him questions about the practice of medicine in the realm of Owyllain. The seasoned decurion had a surprising store of knowledge on the subject. Perhaps considering the number of battles he had survived, maybe it wasn't all that surprising. Kalussa walked next to Calliande.

Ridmark frowned.

If they lived through this, he suspected he was going to have a problem with Kalussa.

He wasn't going to take her as his concubine. It didn't matter if Kalussa was insistent, it didn't matter if it was the custom of the men of Owyllain, and it didn't matter if Ridmark hadn't slept with Calliande for months. A man should have one wife before God, and that was that. Ridmark had sworn before God, Brother Caius, and witnesses (well, just Third, but the principle stood) to be faithful to Calliande until death, and he intended to keep that oath.

He had not expected for Calliande to react with resigned sadness when he told her of Kalussa's offer. She should have reacted with either anger or amusement, or maybe both. But resigned sadness...did she expect Ridmark to accept Kalussa's offer?

He was surprised how much her resignation hurt.

And that led to another set of problems.

Specifically, that Ridmark and his family might be stuck in Owyllain for a long time.

What would they do then?

If they were successful and they liberated Castra Chaeldon and freed the prisoners, the logical thing to do then would be to accompany Tamlin and the others back to Aenesium. Among the orcish nations that practiced polygamy and concubinage, it was common for headmen and kings to exchange daughters (and occasionally unwanted sisters) as wives to secure friendships. Suppose King Hektor wanted to make a friend of the powerful stranger who had come to his land and offered Kalussa as a concubine? It was what the girl clearly wanted anyway, and no doubt she would contrive to have her father make the offer.

When Ridmark refused, he might make a very dangerous enemy in Hektor Pendragon.

The logical thing to do was to find Kalussa a husband, especially she had flat-out told Ridmark she wanted one. Someone much younger than Ridmark, preferably. Sir Tamlin seemed like a womanizer, but neither he and Kalussa appeared to like each other very much. Sometimes hostility could mask attraction, but between the two of them, Ridmark suspected, the hostility only masked more hostility.

He laughed a little at the absurdity of his own thoughts. He was a knight and a Swordbearer, not a matchmaker. Ridmark had far more immediate problems.

Such as how to get his sons out of Castra Chaeldon.

And how to do it without getting the hoplites killed.

Ridmark looked at the rows of marching bronze-armored hoplites. They were good soldiers – well-drilled, calm in battle, experienced with their duties. The decurions had only to give an order once for it to be carried out. By rights, a lord or knight of Owyllain ought to have been commanding them, but instead, it had fallen to Ridmark.

But if he had to choose between their lives and the lives of his sons...

Ridmark prayed to God he would not face a choice like that. He would not be strong enough for such a trial. A man had to know his weaknesses, and that would be one of his.

Boots crunched against the road, and he turned to see Calliande, Rallios, Tamlin, Kalussa, and Parmenio approaching. Ridmark wanted to talk to Calliande alone, to tell her that he would not take Kalussa or any other woman as a concubine regardless of the circumstances, but that would have to wait.

He had to save Gareth and Joachim first. Everything else could wait until that had been accomplished.

"I reckon we are about a half mile from Castra Chaeldon, Lord Ridmark," said Rallios. He nodded towards the hills to the north. "Any moment now we should see the top of the keep."

"Any sign of raiders?" said Ridmark.

"None," said Parmenio. "It looks as if Archaelon has pulled all his forces into the castra."

"He might not know that we are coming," said Tamlin. "We followed the surviving orcs so quickly. Archaelon will have learned of the battle by now, but he might not realize that we are marching right on their heels."

"Maybe," said Ridmark. He looked at Calliande. "Or he's planning a magical attack."

"If he is, I don't see it yet," said Calliande, her voice distant as she drew on the Sight. "Nothing has changed. But the necromancy around Castra Chaeldon is powerful. I am certain Archaelon is preparing a powerful spell. And it will likely be finished in six days when the moons are in the proper configuration."

"Perhaps we could rush the fortress and seize the gates before the enemy responds," said Tamlin.

Parmenio shook his head. "Likely not, Sir Tamlin. The scouts saw watchers on the walls, and the gates were closed."

"We'll need to have a look before we can make any decisions," said Ridmark. In the distance, he saw battlements rising over the horizon. "And I think that time has come."

He walked ahead of the main column, the others following him, and took his first look at Castra Chaeldon.

Ridmark had entertained the faint hope that the fortress would not be as strong as Tamlin and Kalussa and the others had said. The men of Owyllain no longer had the knowledge to forge iron and steel, thanks to the lack of iron in this new land. Perhaps their knowledge of stonework and engineering had declined as well, and Castra Chaeldon would not be a match for the fortresses of Tarlion.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if the engineers of Owyllain were equal to those of Andomhaim.

A large hill rose before them, the road climbing to its peak. The castra occupied most of the hilltop, the road running alongside its eastern wall before it continued its northward path to King Justin's city of Cytheria. The wall itself stood twenty feet high, topped with battlements, and Ridmark saw orcish warriors standing guard. He also saw undead creatures patrolling the walls. The courtyard was large, and at its far end rose a massive octagonal tower, nearly a hundred and fifty feet tall and twice as wide. It was a strong fortress, and a small force could hold it against nearly ten times its number. Ridmark would not have wanted to attack it with anything less than five thousand men.

He had two hundred and fifty.

But he did not think that Archaelon had that many living warriors.

"There seem to be more undead creatures than living orcs upon the walls," said Tamlin.

"You're right," said Calliande. "There are...about twice as many undead as living men." She shuddered. "And far more within the courtyard and the keep itself."

"That works to our advantage," said Ridmark. "We'll have a better chance against minor undead than we will against the Confessor's orcs." Though that did not consider the Champion. "How many orcs ambushed you?"

"About five or six hundred, I would reckon," said Rallios.

"In the last two days, we might have killed half of them," said Aegeus.

Kalussa frowned. "Aye, we did. That still means they might have more warriors than we do."

"And undead," said Parmenio.

"And the walls," said Aegeus.

Ridmark resisted the urge to thank them for pointing out the obvious. "Is there an escape tunnel? Castras like these are often built with a secret exit so the lord can escape a siege."

"There is," said Rallios, pointing at the octagonal keep. "On the western face of the hill. A long flight of stairs climbs to the dungeons below the keep. Unfortunately, every commander of Castra Chaeldon knows about the secret tunnel. Archaelon will have placed guards there, and might even have had time to construct traps."

"If he's smart, he will have blocked it off entirely," said Ridmark, thinking. "All right. This is what we're going to do. Decurion Rallios, draw up the men on the road. Make sure they stay out of bowshot of the walls. I want to have a closer look at the castra before we decide what to do."

"And what are we going to do?" said Tamlin. "We have no siege engines. We have no wood to construct scaling ladders. Even if we did, we could not storm the castra. They have more men than we do."

Before Ridmark could answer, Calliande smiled.

"There's more than one way to break a wall, Tamlin Thunderbolt," she said. "And I know a few of them."

Tamlin opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. Perhaps he was thinking of the spells that Calliande had used in battle, how she had made the ground ripple and fold. Maybe he had realized what such a spell might do to a stone wall that was in its path.

Rallios turned and started shouting orders to the hoplites, who drew themselves up on the road. At least the sun was sliding away to the west and would soon be blocked by the hills. Ridmark watched the castra as the hoplites moved. The orcs had seen the new arrivals, but they had not responded. He knew that would not last. The only question was how Archaelon would react. Would he launch a sortie from the gate? Or try to attack with magic?

Or would he sit inside the walls and wait out the clock? That was what Ridmark would have done in his place.

Especially if Archaelon's spell in six days would make him unconquerable.

Ridmark waited as Rallios got the men lined up and in place. His sons were in there, somewhere. He felt the overwhelming urge to draw Oathshield, unleash the power of the Shield Knight, and smash his way into the castra. For a moment he considered doing it but dismissed the thought with reluctance. Charging in like that was foolish. Oathshield could give him tremendous power, but the power of the Shield Knight carried a sharp price, and even then, it would not guarantee victory.

No. Ridmark had to proceed carefully. Too much was at stake.

Ridmark looked back at the hoplites. Once they were in position, he would take a few of the others and take a walk around the perimeter of the castra, examining the defenses. Perhaps a course of action would suggest itself.

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "I think something's happening."

He looked at her, expecting to see her using the Sight, but her eyes were focused on the ramparts over the gate. The orcs were moving, and Ridmark saw an orcish warrior in bronze armor leap upon the battlements.

"Men of Owyllain!"

The orc's voice boomed over the road, echoing off the hills as he spoke in Latin.

"Hear me!" roared the orc. "Lord Archaelon invites the commander of your host to a parley!"

"What the devil?" said Tamlin.

"Why would Archaelon want to parley?" said Kalussa. "He knows full well that he is a traitor and that his life is forfeit should he fall into our hands."

"Perhaps he thinks to beg for mercy," said Aegeus.

"I rather doubt that," said Ridmark. The answer came to him. "No. It's curiosity."

"About what?" said Parmenio.

Kalussa let out a quiet laugh. "About why we're still alive."

"And about Lady Calliande, I fear," said Ridmark.

The orcish herald on the wall repeated his invitation.

"Archaelon probably expected his orcs and his undead to wipe you out," said Ridmark. "Instead, we're at his gates. He must be wondering what went wrong. The survivors from the battle would have told him about Calliande's magic and my sword. He's facing unknown foes, and he needs to learn more about them." He rubbed his chin. "The less he knows about us, the better. If he doesn't understand our capabilities, the more likely he is to make a mistake."

The orcish herald repeated his request a third time.

"Then you will refuse him?" said Kalussa.

"Of course not," said Ridmark. "This is our chance to learn more about him." Calliande had the Sight, and if she could take a good look at Archaelon with it, she might be able to learn a great deal about their enemy. "The more we know about his powers, the better chance we have." He looked at Calliande. "Can you make my voice louder?"

She nodded and stepped closer, casting a spell. The air in front of Ridmark rippled a moment.

"Lord Archaelon invites the commander of your host to a parley!" roared the orcish herald. The warrior had to have lungs like the bellows of a blacksmith.

"Hear me!" said Ridmark. Calliande's magic amplified his voice, sending it booming like a thunderclap over the castra. The orcish herald and the other warriors looked in his direction. "I command this host! I am willing to meet for this parley. What are the terms of parley?"

"Lord Archaelon shall send an emissary to meet with you," said the herald. "The emissary shall await you halfway between the walls and your host, and he shall pledge not to harm you or kill you. Three guards shall come with the emissary."

"Three shall accompany me as well," said Ridmark, his mind racing. Calliande would need to come, obviously. Even if Archaelon was not coming forth himself, she still might be able to learn something useful. As for the other two, Ridmark decided on Sir Tamlin and Kalussa. Tamlin was the best fighter among the men of Owyllain, and his lightning spell would be useful if Archaelon attempted treachery. And if Archaelon decided to throw undead at them, Kalussa's fire magic would prove useful.

"So be it," said the herald. "Approach, and the emissary shall meet you halfway between your host and the gate of Castra Chaeldon."

The herald disappeared back below the battlements.

"Decurion," said Ridmark to Rallios, "you're in charge until I get back. Calliande, Tamlin, Kalussa, come with me."

Kalussa frowned. "And if it is a trap?"

Tamlin grinned at her. "Then we shall make them regret their treachery."

Kalussa scowled at him but nodded.

"Come," said Ridmark. He tapped his bamboo staff against the ground a few times. Better to take that weapon and be underestimated rather than marching up to the gates with Oathshield blazing away in his fists. Tamlin gave him an askance look, which only confirmed Ridmark's judgment.

He led the way towards the gates of Castra Chaeldon. Ridmark started to feel an itching feeling as they came within bow range as if his skin braced itself for the searing bite of an arrow at any moment. But while the orcs on the walls stared down at him, none of them raised bows or javelins.

A small postern door within the main gate swung open, and three orcish warriors in bronze armor emerged, swords in hand. After them came a tall figure in an elaborate red robe, head bowed within a voluminous cowl, hands hidden within the flowing sleeves.

Kalussa sucked in a startled breath, and Ridmark's fingers tightened against his staff.

The figure was not walking, but gliding a few inches off the ground as it approached them.

It was the Maledictus that he and Kalussa had seen earlier.

"Ridmark," said Calliande in a low voice. "That creature in the red robe."

"A Maledictus," said Kalussa.

"It's undead," said Calliande, "and wrapped in warding spells. I also think it's a powerful wizard."

"How powerful?" said Ridmark.

Calliande did not take her eyes from the Maledictus. "Powerful enough to at least have given Mournacht or maybe the Sculptor a challenge."

Ridmark frowned at the mention of their old enemies. Both had been defeated, but Mournacht of Kothluusk and the dark elven lord called the Sculptor had been powerful sorcerers, and Ridmark had nearly been killed fighting them. If the undead orc in the red robe had been strong enough to challenge them...

Tamlin let out a sharp hiss. Ridmark looked at the younger man and saw that his face had gone white beneath his bronze helm, the fingers of his sword hand opening and closing over and over again.

"It can't be," muttered Tamlin. "It can't."

"Tamlin?" whispered Calliande. "What is it?"

The hooded Maledictus drew to a stop a few yards away and began to speak. The creature's voice was deep and clear, and it spoke in excellent Latin.

"Greetings," said the Maledictus. Tamlin flinched at the voice, his eyes narrowing. "I seek to speak with the commander of the force waiting on the road below. I assume he is among you?"

"I am," said Ridmark. He took a step forward, staff in his left hand, his right hand ready to seize Oathshield's hilt at the first sign of attack.

The robed creature did not raise its head. "And who might you be, sir? While I know all the prominent lords and knights of Owyllain, I fear you are unknown to me."

"My name is Ridmark Arban," said Ridmark. "Who are you?"

The Maledictus lifted its head and gazed at him. Proximity failed to improve its features. Leathery yellow-gray flesh clung to its tusked skull. Its eye sockets were empty, but harsh blue flames danced in their depths. Oathshield trembled upon Ridmark's hip as it reacted to the dark magic within the creature.

"My name is Khurazalin," said the undead creature. His lips did not move, his yellowed teeth clamped firmly together, but Ridmark heard the deep voice nonetheless. "Once a priest of the great Sovereign, and now a prophet of the new order to come."

"You," said Tamlin.

His voice was flat and hard, stripped of its usual bravado, and now filled with loathing.

The withered face turned towards Tamlin.

"You've met?" said Ridmark.

"He killed my wife in Urd Maelwyn," said Tamlin, "but I killed him. I cut his throat and watched him die." His sword hand kept opening and closing. "How did you survive? What black sorcery allowed you to return as this...this thing?"

"Foolish boy," said Khurazalin, his voice calm. "Do you not yet understand? Death has no hold over the high priests of the Maledicti, for we are beyond death. Your wife had to die, and you still do not understand why. You have blundered into matters beyond your understanding."

Tamlin's face contorted with rage, and he started to step forward.

Ridmark held out his staff, and it bumped into Tamlin's chest.

The younger man turned his furious glare towards Ridmark.

"Don't," said Ridmark. "This is a parley."

"You don't understand," said Tamlin. "He killed my wife."

Ridmark understood just fine. Mhalek had killed Aelia, and Imaria and the Weaver had murdered Morigna. Ridmark knew exactly what was going through Tamlin's head and heart. He had almost gotten himself killed at Dun Licinia trying to avenge Morigna's death. If Calliande hadn't been there to save his life, he would have died.

"You killed him once," said Ridmark, "and he clearly used necromancy to cheat death and come back again. If this parley goes bad, you'll get the chance to kill him again. But if you attack him now, you'll probably get yourself killed for nothing and a lot of other men with you. How will that avenge your wife?"

Tamlin blinked and took a shuddering breath. Then he nodded and stepped back, though his eyes remained locked on the undead warlock.

"You speak wisdom, Ridmark Arban," said Khurazalin. "Have you no title? No lands? You speak Latin, but your accent is strange. You do not sound like a man of the Nine Cities of Owyllain."

Ridmark shrugged. "I travel around."

"Indeed." Amusement entered that deep voice. "And you travel with a high elven weapon of exceeding potency at your side."

Khurazalin was very well informed.

Ridmark shrugged again. "The roads are full of dangers. Bandits, urvaalgs, undead orcs, priests of false gods. A man has to be prepared."

"Interesting indeed," said Khurazalin. "You must be from one of the other human civilizations. Andomhaim, perhaps? Andomhaim would have been destroyed long ago, but if they appealed to the high elves for help...yes, perhaps they might have survived to reach the present day. And now a man of Andomhaim stands before us as the War of the Seven approaches its crisis. A most curious coincidence." The deep voice hardened. "I do not like coincidences, Ridmark Arban."

"Such as finding yourself face to face with a man whose wife you murdered?" said Ridmark.

"That, among others," said Khurazalin.

"Tell me," said Ridmark. "Was this parley your idea, or Archaelon's?"

The robed shoulders shrugged. Odd that an undead creature would keep the gestures of the living. "It was my idea, but the Lord Archaelon agreed to it. He commands here. I merely advise."

"If it was your idea," said Ridmark, "why did you want to parley?"

Again, the undead creature shrugged. "Curiosity, mostly. I confess it is a vice of mine. The force of hoplites should have been destroyed, and they should not have been able to withstand that many undead soldiers at once."

"It is traditional," said Ridmark, "to exchange offers at parleys."

"Is it?" Once more Khurazalin sounded amused. "Very well. I suppose there is no harm in the effort. What, then, is your offer?"

"I know you have a great many captives in your fortress," said Ridmark. "I also know you're planning to kill them all in six days for Archaelon to work some great spell of necromancy."

"This is correct," said Khurazalin.

"What is the nature of the spell?" said Ridmark.

"There is no harm in you knowing, since you cannot stop it," said Khurazalin. "In his research Archaelon has discovered how to reproduce some of the powers of the Sword of Death. The Sword of Death, as you may or may not know, grants its bearer tremendous powers over the undead. Archaelon has discovered how to mimic some of those powers. He plans to raise a vast host of the undead, march to Aenesium with them, overthrow King Hektor, and make himself into the new High King of Owyllain. It is an unlikely plan, of course, but it does not hinder my purpose and may even assist it."

"And what is your purpose?" said Ridmark.

"All in good time," said Khurazalin. "First, what is your offer?"

"Surrender all your prisoners to us," said Ridmark. "Every single one you have gathered within Castra Chaeldon. If you do that, we'll permit you, Archaelon, and your soldiers to leave. Go back to the Confessor or to King Justin or whoever it is you really serve."

"Alas," said Khurazalin, "given the scant number of soldiers behind you, the large number of undead in Castra Chaeldon, and the strength of the walls, I am afraid that I must decline. Rather, I will extend an offer to you."

"Oh?" said Ridmark. "And just what is that?"

"Join us."

"And why should I do that?"

"Because," said Khurazalin, "the New God is coming."

Ridmark said nothing, but Tamlin flinched as if he had been slapped. Evidently the words had particular meaning to him. Ridmark would have to ask about that after the parley.

"This New God," said Ridmark. "What is it?"

"The future master of this world," said Khurazalin. "Its advent is imminent. It shall rule this world and all within it, and all mortals shall be its slaves. Nothing you can do will stop its arrival. Better to bow down now and pledge your souls to the New God, for it shall reward you when it rises in power."

"There is only one God," said Ridmark.

"Yes, your human God and his Dominus Christus," said Khurazalin. "A distant and dusty myth of the ancient past from another world. The New God will rise in majesty and power, and you shall bow to him, Ridmark Arban. You shall either do so willingly and with joy, or unwillingly with horror and regret."

"I rather doubt that," said Ridmark, "so I am going to decline your offer."

"As you wish," said Khurazalin. "Do as you will. You cannot hinder us, and you cannot stop us. Perhaps you shall have a few moments to regret your folly before Archaelon's undead army kills you all."

He turned to go, but Tamlin stepped forward. The orcish warriors escorting Khurazalin tensed, as did Ridmark, but Tamlin only took the one step.

"One question," snapped Tamlin.

The blue fire in the empty, dead eyes turned to Tamlin. "Ask."

"You were a priest of the Sovereign until the High King Kothlaric slew your false god," said Tamlin. "Then why transfer your allegiance to this New God?"

Khurazalin said nothing, and then the undead orc laughed.

"The Sovereign is dead, is he not?" said Khurazalin. "Your great and noble Kothlaric Pendragon slew him in battle. But the New God shall be invincible and immortal, and it shall rule this world for eternity. Perhaps we shall see each other in the coming battle, Sir Tamlin. We have a score to settle, do we not?"

He turned and glided towards the gate, the orcish warriors falling in around him. Khurazalin passed through the postern door, and it closed behind him and his escorts.

"Come," said Ridmark. "We've done all we can do here."

"And what are we going to do now, pray?" said Tamlin. His voice was angry, but he was glaring at the closed gate.

"We have a battle to plan," said Ridmark.

***

## Chapter 17: Earth Magic

"You were married?" said Kalussa, her astonishment plain.

Tamlin did not want to talk about Tysia with anyone, and he certainly did not want to talk about her with someone like Kalussa Pendragon. Yet for once, there was no mockery in her tone, no arrogant condescension. She only looked sad.

"Yes," said Tamlin.

He did not intend to say anything more. Ridmark and Calliande led the way back to the waiting hoplites. Both seemed lost in thought, considering what Khurazalin had said to them. Perhaps they feared what would become of their children in the hands of a creature like the Maledictus.

To his surprise, Tamlin kept speaking.

"Her name was Tysia," said Tamlin. "She was a slave in the Ring of Blood at Urd Maelwyn. Her task was to tend the wounds of the gladiatorial fighters. We had known each other as children. We both grew up at the Monastery of St. James, but then the dvargir slavers attacked it. I thought she had been killed in that attack with my mother." He remembered his mother's final horrified expression, frozen forever in stone by the power of the Sword of Earth. "So, when we saw each other again in Urd Maelwyn..."

"Naturally, you feel in love and married," said Kalussa. Sympathy from Kalussa was a new experience. Tamlin had saved her father's life, but Kalussa had made it quite clear that she didn't like him and considered him a reprehensible lecher.

"Yes," said Tamlin.

"Why did Khurazalin kill her?" said Kalussa.

"I don't know," said Tamlin. "To this day, I do not know." At the time, it had seemed almost random, as if Khurazalin had decided to amuse himself by killing a random slave. "Then you know what happened next. Sir Aegeus and Michael and the others were taken captive and brought to Urd Maelwyn as slaves. We escaped, and I killed Khurazalin in the process."

He shook his head. Tamlin had thought that killing Khurazalin would ease the pain of Tysia's loss. It hadn't. He looked at Ridmark and felt a flicker of resentment. The Shield Knight was married to Calliande. Likely he was so confident because he had never known the pain of losing a wife to murder. If he had really understood, he would have let Tamlin attack Khurazalin.

Tamlin pushed aside the thought. It was an unworthy one, and attacking Khurazalin might have led to their deaths.

"The New God," said Kalussa. "You must know what it is."

"Hmm?" said Tamlin.

"You flinched quite violently when he mentioned the New God," said Kalussa.

"I don't know," said Tamlin. "I think...I think my wife knew."

"Find me again," said Tysia in his memory once more. "The New God is coming."

"How would she have known?" said Kalussa.

"I don't know," said Tamlin.

"Perhaps Khurazalin killed her because she knew something about this New God," said Kalussa.

Tysia's final words to him had been about the New God. Calliande had said that the Guardian of Cathair Animus had spoken to her of the New God before he had brought her here. And now the Maledictus Khurazalin said he had changed his allegiance to the New God.

Just was the hell was going on here?

"I don't know," said Tamlin at last.

"Perhaps we shall have some answers when Archaelon is defeated," said Kalussa.

Tamlin didn't know.

He just hoped Ridmark had a good plan because Tamlin could not think of a way to get into the fortress.

They returned to the hoplites, Aegeus, Parmenio, and Rallios walking to join them.

###

"Tamlin," said Aegeus. "That wasn't...that looked like Khurazalin."

"Aye," said Tamlin, his voice grim.

Calliande looked at the young Arcanius Knight. Tamlin's gray eyes were like knives, his fury plain as he glared at everything and nothing. Despite her own worries, her heart went out to him. She had seen what the loss of Aelia and the loss of Morigna had done to Ridmark all those years ago, and it must have been an immense effort for Tamlin to hold himself back from attacking Khurazalin.

She sympathized with him, but she would not let that stop her.

Her concern lay with those who were still alive...which, God willing, included her sons.

"But you killed him," said Aegeus. "You fed him three feet of that dark elven sword of yours."

"Aye," said Tamlin, still grim.

"Khurazalin is undead," said Calliande. "When Sir Tamlin killed him, Khurazalin's necromancy must have brought him back as...as whatever he is now." Her Sight had seen the aura of power wrapped around the undead orcish warlock. Calliande could have defeated Khurazalin in a battle, but it would have been a close thing, and it would have taken the entirety of her attention and power.

Rallios grunted. "Then we seem to have found Archaelon's teacher in the ways of necromancy."

"Aye," said Kalussa. "But it doesn't matter how Archaelon learned necromancy, and it doesn't matter whether he commands here or if he is Khurazalin's puppet. What matters is what we do next."

"Agreed," said Parmenio.

"Well, our course is obvious," said Aegeus. "We lay siege to Castra Chaeldon."

"To what end, though?" said Kalussa. "We cannot storm the walls."

Tamlin nodded. "We lack both ladders and enough men for a siege or an assault."

"We cannot starve them out, either," said Parmenio. "The storehouses of Castra Chaeldon hold months of supplies. We have barely a few weeks of food among us."

"Perhaps we can send a messenger to Aenesium," said Kalussa, "asking my father to send reinforcements. He cannot let Castra Chaeldon remain in Archaelon's hands. Or else King Justin shall arrive at the gates of Aenesium before the end of the year."

"Even the fastest messenger would take five days to reach Aenesium from Castra Chaeldon," said Rallios. "It would take even longer for reinforcements to reach Castra Chaeldon. Even if all goes well, it will take a minimum of twelve days for King Hektor to send help, most likely two weeks."

"It is safe to say that we do not have two weeks," said Tamlin. "We have six days until Archaelon can cast this necromantic ritual of his, and he will be far harder to defeat then."

"Then what are we to do?" said Aegeus. "We cannot starve them out. We cannot storm the castra. We cannot wait for reinforcements. As loath as I am to leave our comrades in Archaelon's hands, it is possible that we do not have any other choice. Perhaps we should retreat to Aenesium and return with help."

"If we do that," said Kalussa, "almost certainly Archaelon will kill the captives to fuel his necromancy."

Kalussa, Tamlin, Rallios, and Parmenio all started arguing.

Ridmark caught Calliande's eye, and she nodded. She knew exactly what he was doing. He often let people have their say, letting them argue and then suggesting what he wanted to do anyway. Calliande was surprised at how often it worked. It had worked on her more than once, come to think of it.

"There is," said Ridmark into their argument, "another way."

All four of them looked at him.

"You have a clever strategy, then?" said Tamlin, with just a hint of disbelief.

"Not terribly clever, no," said Ridmark, "but simple, and they won't see it coming."

"What is it, then?" said Tamlin.

"Lady Calliande will rip a breach in the outer wall," said Ridmark.

Silence answered him.

"Aye," said Rallios at last, "that would be nice, but if we're wishing for things, we might as well wish that we could fly over the wall or for all of Archaelon's soldiers to drop dead."

"I'd wish for a room full of beautiful women," said Aegeus, "and a skin of wine that never ran dry."

Kalussa rolled her eyes.

"I cannot make you fly," said Calliande, "and nor can I kill all of Archaelon's soldiers, but I can breach the wall."

They stared at her for a moment.

"You're serious," said Kalussa.

Tamlin grinned. "Aye, but should it be so surprising? Remember our fights with the orcs? Her magic made the ground fold and ripple like a cloak in the wind. Imagine what that would to the foundations of the curtain wall."

Rallios opened his mouth, closed it again, and then frowned. "That...could work. Is that possible, Lady Calliande?"

"It is," said Calliande. "I've done it before. With three walls at once, as it happened." Granted, as it turned out she hadn't needed to rip that hole in the three siege walls encircling Tarlion, but they had won the battle, so it didn't matter.

Aegeus blinked. "God and the saints. I could think of a dozen battles where that would have proven useful."

"You're not that old, sir knight," said Rallios in a dry voice. "I can think of half a hundred." His attention turned back to Calliande. "Could you do it right now? Just wave your hand and knock the wall down, like Elijah walking around the walls of Jericho?"

"Joshua," said Tamlin. "It was Joshua that knocked down the walls of Jericho in Canaan upon Old Earth."

Rallios frowned. "Are you sure? I'm certain it was Elijah."

"I fear Sir Tamlin is correct," said Calliande. "It was Joshua, and God commanded him to have the priests march with the Ark of the Covenant around the walls for seven days. I fear I cannot simply wave my hand and knock down the wall. It has to do with the volume of soil and stone moved by the spell. The spells I used against the orcs only affected the top few inches of the ground. If I tried that against the curtain wall, I might make it rattle a little and knock loose some dust, but that would be all. I need to gather sufficient power to knock a breach in a wall."

"How long will that take, my lady?" said Tamlin.

Calliande considered the wall for a moment, sweeping it with the Sight. Inside the fortress, she saw the auras of hundreds of minor undead creatures, and a far more powerful spell centered on the top floor of the central keep. That was Archaelon's spell, his ritual to raise an army of the dead to serve him. It was so powerful that Calliande had seen the aura from miles off.

The outer wall was massive, blocks of stone fitted together so tightly that Calliande doubted she could have gotten the point of her dagger into the cracks. An army with proper siege engines would still have a hard time breaking into the fortress.

But her children were in that fortress.

"Two days," said Calliande at last. "It will take me two days to gather enough power to tear a breach in the wall."

Kalussa frowned. "Will you need to labor continually for that time?"

"For most of it," said Calliande. Despite the grim situation, she felt a flicker of amusement at Kalussa's concern. The births of all three of her children had been ordeals that had taken days without rest, though thankfully she did not remember the experience all that clearly. Compared to that, gathering the earth magic to attack Castra Chaeldon seemed a pleasant stroll.

Though it would still take a great deal of work.

"I will need to rest from time to time," said Calliande. "This is not a precise metaphor, but gathering the power for the spell is rather like piling bricks. Once the pile of bricks is high enough, the wall will come down."

Parmenio frowned. "King Hektor will be wroth that we have torn a hole in the wall of the fortress."

"Walls can be rebuilt, Sir Parmenio," said Rallios. "Men, I fear, cannot. There are two hundred seasoned hoplites in the fortress, maybe more, and those are men that King Hektor can ill afford to lose."

"If this can be done," said Aegeus, "if Lady Calliande can indeed breach the wall, then it seems this is our best chance of victory."

Ridmark nodded. "She can do it. I have seen her do it before, and if that is not enough proof for you, you shall see it with your own eyes in two days. Once the breach is made, we will attack at once and storm into the courtyard."

Rallios frowned. "Just like that?"

Ridmark nodded. "Just like that. We have an advantage. Archaelon and Khurazalin have no idea what is coming for them. They haven't encountered the Keeper of Andomhaim before, and they don't know how dangerous she is to wielders of dark magic. They'll be able to sense her spell, I'm sure of it, but they won't know its purpose. By the time they realize what has happened, it will be too late, and we'll be inside the courtyard."

"But what about the Champion?" said Rallios.

"And Archaelon and Khurazalin?" said Tamlin.

"I'll deal with them," said Ridmark, his voice hard.

Tamlin raised his eyebrows. "By yourself? Is that really sporting?"

"I'll have help, of course," said Ridmark, "but a soulblade can tear through any magical ward." He tapped Oathshield's hilt, the soulstone in the pommel flashing. "Neither Khurazalin nor Archaelon have encountered a soulblade before. A single soulblade can kill an urdmordar if it strikes the heart. Oathshield can deal with Khurazalin and Archaelon, and it can also unravel the dark magic around the Champion."

"If you and Lady Calliande can do as you say, sir," said Parmenio, "then I think this is our best course forward."

The others agreed.

"Then I will start at once," said Calliande. "Further down the road, I think, behind the hoplites."

Ridmark nodded. "We'll keep the Arcanius Knights around Calliande as she works. Archaelon and Khurazalin might not understand what she's doing, but they will sense the spell, and they might try to strike. Sir Parmenio, keep your scouts out and watch the entrance to the secret exit. Archaelon and Khurazalin might try to flee."

Or, worse, they might try to flee with Gareth and Joachim, if they realized that the boys were the sons of the man commanding the army outside their walls.

"Rallios, you might as well have the men rest," said Ridmark. "Tell them to keep their weapons at hand, but they can rest." He looked at the walls. "In two days, we are retaking Castra Chaeldon."

And Calliande prayed that they would find Gareth and Joachim safe inside the walls.

***

## Chapter 18: Dead Soldiers

Gladiatorial fighting, Tamlin had learned long ago, involved a tremendous amount of preparation and a great deal of waiting followed by a few moments of terror.

Soldiering, he had come to realize, was similar.

For the first day and night after Ridmark and Calliande made their plans, nothing much happened.

Lady Calliande started work on a broad ledge behind the road, the castra rising over her in the distance, a valley stretching below her. At once she began casting spells, writing symbols of purple fire in the air. The symbols of fire remained hovering as she worked, and she cast the spell again and again, walking in circles around the ledge. She had said that piling bricks was an imprecise metaphor for what she was doing, but it looked for all the world like she was building a tower, albeit a tower fashioned of symbols of purple fire instead of stones. Revolution by revolution, she built a cylinder of sigils of purple flame, and when Tamlin got close, he felt the power rolling off the thing.

The work seemed to transfix her. The weariness fell from her face, and her blue eyes were sharp and clear, reflecting the purple fire as she cast spell after spell. Tamlin thought it made her look fierce, fierce and beautiful...

Stop that, he told himself.

She was married, and her husband was a supremely dangerous man. And while Calliande was lovely, if Tamlin was honest with himself, he knew his attraction wasn't about her. All this talk of the New God had reminded him of Tysia, and thinking about Tysia put Tamlin into an evil mood. Wine and women could make him forget that evil mood for a time, and Calliande was the only woman in the camp, which was why he was thinking about her.

Well, there was Kalussa as well, but she hardly counted. No doubt King Hektor would marry her off to one of his Companions or another Arcanius Knight soon enough, but until then, the King had made it quite clear the girl was to be left alone. For that matter, Tamlin could just imagine how she would react if he approached her. He pitied the man who ended up wed to her. Kalussa had a tongue like the edge of a razor.

Sir Parmenio's scouts ranged over the hills but found neither friend nor foe. Archaelon's forces had withdrawn behind the walls of the castra. Thanks to the War of the Seven, there were no villages left in the disputed lands between Aenesium and Cytheria, which meant it was unlikely anyone else would stumble across their siege. Tamlin only hoped that the Confessor did not send a force to attack Archaelon, or that King Justin or the Necromancer of Trojas or the Masked One did not send troops to take advantage of the situation. For most of the War of the Seven, Tamlin had been a boy at the Monastery of St. James or a gladiator at Urd Maelwyn, but he knew that some complicated five-way battles had taken place in the lands near Castra Chaeldon.

Tamlin remained on guard until Calliande lay down to rest. Once she did, Sir Aegeus and another Arcanius Knight took their turn at watch, and Tamlin got some sleep.

No one attacked during the night, and Tamlin woke at dawn.

Calliande was working again, walking around and around that growing cylinder of whirling purple sigils. It now stood six feet tall, and the power radiating from it made his skin crawl.

Tamlin walked through the camp, stretching his sore limbs, and stopped when he reached the road leading to the gates of the castra. Ridmark Arban stood there, bamboo staff in his right hand, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword Oathshield.

Tamlin hesitated and then went to join him.

The older man glanced his way and nodded. Tamlin had won most of his fights in the Ring of Blood, but he had lost some, and most of them had been to men who reminded him of Ridmark Arban. The Shield Knight had the same air of restrained violence, the motionlessness of a fighter waiting for the battle to begin.

"They've gotten lazy," said Ridmark in a quiet voice. "Only a few of the orcish warriors were on watch for the night. The rest were undead."

Tamlin shrugged. "Likely they think that we can't break into the castra no matter what we do."

"Perhaps tomorrow morning we can teach them otherwise," said Ridmark.

"Let us hope so," said Tamlin.

They stood in silence for a moment.

"You did well," said Ridmark at last, "not letting Khurazalin goad you during the parley."

A flash of anger went through Tamlin. What did Ridmark know of the matter? Tamlin cared about King Hektor's approval, but the approval of this foreign knight meant nothing to him.

"It was difficult," said Tamlin. "I expect you would not understand."

Ridmark snorted. "We don't always get what we expect."

"And what should I expect of you, Lord Ridmark?" said Tamlin.

"I understand perfectly well how difficult it was," said Ridmark.

Tamlin smirked. "And just why is that?"

"Calliande is my second wife. My first was murdered."

Tamlin's anger fled at once. Suddenly he felt a monstrous fool, and worse, he felt uncharitable. Ridmark had found himself snatched to a strange land, his sons held prisoner by a traitor like Archaelon and a murderer like Khurazalin. Had their places been exchanged, Tamlin was not sure he would have been as calm.

No, he was sure of it.

"I'm sorry," said Tamlin. "I didn't know."

Ridmark's eyes were distant. "It was five years before I met Calliande. An orcish shaman thought he was the incarnation of the blood gods. He wasn't, and I defeated him, but he fled, and before I could kill him he took his vengeance."

"It appears we have more in common than I thought," said Tamlin, "much to our regret."

"Indeed."

Tamlin hesitated. "How...do you bear it? How did you bear it? The grief, I mean. At times, I wake up, and I think she is still next to me, but..."

"But she isn't," said Ridmark. "How long ago was it?"

"A little more than two years," said Tamlin.

Ridmark nodded. "Then you're asking me how to get over the grief?"

"More or less," said Tamlin.

"You don't," said Ridmark. "But...I will say this. Time may not heal all wounds. But it does sand off the rough edges, at least. The grief will always stay with you, but if you live long enough, there will be other things in your life. Some good, some bad. But the good things are good enough that it's worth living through the bad things."

"Like Lady Calliande," said Tamlin.

"Exactly," said Ridmark.

"How did you meet her, if I may ask?" said Tamlin.

Ridmark smiled briefly. "If you must know, she was naked and tied to an altar by pagan orcs."

Tamlin blinked. "You're jesting."

"Not at all."

Tamlin laughed. "And I suppose you rushed in and saved the day?"

"I did have help, but yes."

"I can see why she took to you, then," said Tamlin. "But her magic is powerful. How did a rabble of pagan orcs overcome her?"

"At the time, she didn't remember who she was or that she even had magic."

"Again, I think you are jesting," said Tamlin.

Ridmark shrugged. "It's a long story. It would fill up a dozen books or more, I think."

"If I can ask," said Tamlin, "how did you...mourn? Tysia is dead and with the Dominus Christus in paradise. I know that. It is a comfort. But at times it is not, but when it isn't..."

"You turn to drink and women, is that it?" said Ridmark.

Tamlin sighed. "You see clearly." He hesitated. "Did...ah, you do the same?"

Ridmark snorted. "No. That might have been more pleasant. I went off into the Wilderland to look for the Frostborn."

"The Frostborn?" said Tamlin. "What are the Frostborn?

"Part of that long story," said Ridmark. "It almost got me killed a score of times. I hoped it would, truth be told. But it didn't, and I'm glad it didn't. If you live long enough, you'll be glad you weren't killed, either." He paused. "Unless some angry husband splits your head in half with an axe."

For an awful moment Tamlin thought he was marking a direct threat, but then he realized it was a general warning. Once again Tamlin was glad Calliande was a woman of probity.

"I will remember that," said Tamlin.

"If we live through this," said Ridmark, "go back to Aenesium and find a wife. I think that's what a man like you needs."

"I will think on that," said Tamlin, "but I don't think I have lived long enough yet. It would be too...soon, I think."

Ridmark inclined his head. "Or go keep Lady Kalussa company."

"God and the saints, no!" said Tamlin. "I pity the man who winds up with Lady Kalussa. She seems rather fond of you, though."

Ridmark grimaced. "Unfortunately. We don't have the custom of concubinage in Andomhaim, but she seems determined to import it."

Tamlin blinked. "I cannot imagine Lady Calliande would approve."

"She doesn't. Neither do I. I suppose when I was a young man the idea might have had some appeal, but I think of the patriarch Jacob and King David and King Solomon from the scriptures. They all had multiple wives and concubines, and it made them miserable, and it almost got David killed and turned Solomon's heart from God. No, one wife is enough." He rubbed his face, still staring at the wall. "Having two women compete for your attention is not as enjoyable as you might think."

Tamlin wondered if he was speaking from experience.

"Do you think Archaelon will attack today?" said Tamlin.

"He might," said Ridmark. "Or he might be wrapped up in that spell of his. Or Khurazalin might decide to attack. They don't know what Calliande can do, but they do know she's a threat." He turned, and Tamlin followed his gaze to see that Calliande was walking around the cylinder of symbols once again. "And that's why you're going to keep watch on the wall. I'll guard Lady Calliande for a while."

Tamlin nodded, and Ridmark clapped him on the shoulder and walked towards his wife.

It had been an odd conversation. Tamlin realized that they had not talked about the real reason Ridmark was here, to rescue his sons from Castra Chaeldon. That was not something Tamlin understood. He supposed that if he continued seducing women eventually he would leave a few illegitimate children in his wake, or if he followed Ridmark's advice and married, there might be legitimate children. Tamlin could not imagine going to war on behalf of children.

Perhaps that was something a man only understood after he had children.

Strangely, Tamlin realized that he felt better. It had been good to talk to someone else who understood. Tamlin supposed that Ridmark made a good father to his sons. Not that Tamlin understood what that was like – his own father had sold him into slavery to the dvargir. Likely Justin Cyros hadn't even known that Tamlin was his son, and still didn't know that he existed.

Someday, though. Someday Tamlin would find his father and make him pay for the death of his mother.

Though if Archaelon and Khurazalin killed him first, that wouldn't happen, so Tamlin turned his attention to Castra Chaeldon.

It was a wasted effort. No enemies came forth from the castra. The orcish warriors on the ramparts rotated shifts, but otherwise, the enemy did not stir. It seemed that Ridmark had guessed right and that the enemy had decided to wait for Archaelon to finish his ritual spell, trusting in their walls to protect them.

Calliande spent the day casting spell after spell. The whirling cylinder of sigils was twelve feet tall by the time she finished, thousands of symbols spinning around each other like an elaborate magical clock. The power of the gathered magic made Tamlin's teeth vibrate. When the spell was released, he was very glad that it would not be pointed at him.

When night fell, Tamlin took a turn guarding Calliande with the other Knights as she labored, and then went to sleep. Tomorrow the Keeper would unleash her spell at the wall, and there would be hard fighting. Tamlin needed to be rested for that.

In his sleep, he dreamed.

It was a dream he had dreamed before.

Tamlin walked through the Agora of Connmar in the heart of Aenesium. To the west rose the gleaming white walls and red-tiled roofs of the Palace of the High Kings and to the east the massive octagonal mass of the Royal Cathedral. Statues of stone stood around the Agora. The largest of them showed Connmar Pendragon striding upon the shores of Owyllain for the first time. Others showed his successor High Kings leading wars against the orcish Warlords or the xiatami or the raiders of the Takai Steppes.

The Dark Lady awaited him below the statue of Connmar, her black eyes watching him.

"Tamlin Thunderbolt," said the Dark Lady. Her cloak of tattered brown and green strips stirred in the salt-scented breeze rising from the bay.

"I don't like that name," said Tamlin.

She raised one black eyebrow. "Then perhaps you should not throw lightning bolts in battle."

"They're too effective," said Tamlin.

"One notes with some amusement that you have told neither the Shield Knight nor the Keeper of Andomhaim about me," said the Dark Lady.

"Well, I haven't told Michael or Sir Aegeus about you, either," said Tamlin, "and I've known them longer."

The Dark Lady waited.

Tamlin sighed. "What am I supposed to tell them? That I've been having visions of a mysterious sorceress since I was a child? That sometimes she warns me of danger?"

"One suspects the Shield Knight and the Keeper would understand," said the Dark Lady.

"I rather doubt that," said Tamlin. "I might as well confess to hearing voices or seeing flying scutians every full moon." He paused. "Though I suppose I am literally hearing voices right now."

"We have reached a junction in time where I can warn you of things to come," said the Dark Lady.

Tamlin grimaced. He didn't like these warnings. Nevertheless, they were always accurate. They had also saved his life a few times.

She hadn't warned him about Tysia's fate, though.

"Fine," said Tamlin.

"First," said the Dark Lady, "in the battle to come, the Shield Knight will need your help. There will come a moment when it seems that victory is lost. It is then that you must strike with all your power, Tamlin Thunderbolt. Only then will you have a hope of surviving."

"All right," said Tamlin.

"Second," said the Dark Lady. She glanced towards the sky. "You need to wake up. Right now. The enemy is coming for you."

The dream dissolved.

Tamlin's eyes shot open.

###

Calliande stepped back and caught her breath, looking at the spinning column of purple sigils.

To her mortal eyes, it looked dangerous and powerful, with symbols of purple fire spinning around each other like gears in a clock. To her Sight, it looked far more dangerous. Her Sight saw the spells layered upon each other like the tiers of stonework in a mighty tower.

Which was an amusing thought, because she was going to use the spell to tear down tiers of stonework.

"Do you need to rest?"

Calliande blinked. Ridmark sat atop a boulder a few yards away, his staff laid across his knees. The shifting shadows slid across his face and hands. A memory flashed through her mind, of him standing near their campfire on the isle of Cathair Solas. He had stood guard over her then, even as he stood guard over her now.

A wave of affection surged through her, warming her heart.

"For just a moment, I think," said Calliande. "Then back to work." She sat next to him, their legs and shoulders touching. "I like your new staff."

Ridmark lifted it and tapped the end against the ground a few times. "Bamboo's a strong wood. Pity we don't have it in Andomhaim."

She laughed. "You do seem to go through a new staff on every journey."

"Well." He tapped the end of the staff against the ground once more. "They all can't be the staff of Ardrhythain. Are you sure you don't need rest?"

"No," said Calliande. "We're so close." She lowered her voice. "Gareth and Joachim are on the other side of that wall. I would tear it apart with my bare hands to get to them."

Ridmark hesitated. "They're still..."

Calliande nodded. "They're still alive. I check every time I pause for a new spell. I suppose it's a waste of my strength, but I can't stop myself."

"It is a comfort to know they are still alive and unharmed," said Ridmark. "Not knowing would be worse. The imagination runs away with itself."

Calliande shivered. "Yes." Even with the Sight, the dread still filled her mind. Were her sons hungry? Thirsty? In chains in a lightless room? Was Joachim calling out for her right now, weeping in fear? "It does."

"We'll get them back," said Ridmark. He took her hand and squeezed it. "Tomorrow you'll rip down the wall, and I'll kill Archaelon and Khurazalin."

As ever, he sounded so confident. When he was younger, he had often seemed brash, even reckless. Now he just seemed filled with grim certainty, like oak that had grown harder than iron with age. It made her feel better.

"I can't fail them, Ridmark," said Calliande.

"We won't."

She closed her eyes. "I can't fail them the way I failed Joanna."

"You didn't fail Joanna," said Ridmark, a rasp of pain in his voice. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "No one could have saved her."

She gave him a bitter smile. "I am the Keeper of Andomhaim. What good is all my magic if I couldn't have saved her?"

"We're not exempt," said Ridmark, staring at the distant shadows of the castra.

"What do you mean? Exempt from what?"

He shook his head. "From sorrow. Children die more often than they should. Or women give birth to children that don't make it to their first year or even their first week. It is a great sorrow, but it has happened to many, many people. We're no different."

Calliande stared at him, a mixture of grief and regret and guilt churning inside her. How could she make him understand? It was her fault. She should have been able to do something, anything. Perhaps it was even directly her fault. She had put herself into that magical sleep below the Tower of Vigilance for over two hundred years, and perhaps that had altered her body in ways she did not understand. Certainly, Gareth's birth and Joachim's birth had both been difficult. Maybe that was why Joanna had been born so sick.

It was her fault.

Yet as she looked him, and as she felt his hand against hers, Calliande felt something inside her start to crumble.

"Ridmark," she whispered. "I...I..."

"To arms!"

Ridmark was on his feet in an instant, staff in his left hand and Oathshield in his right, the blade starting to flicker with white fire. Calliande stood next to him, the magic of the Keeper's mantle coming at her call. Odd that even amid sorrow, her battle reflexes still responded so swiftly to danger. Of course, if they didn't, she might have been killed centuries ago.

But those reflexes had not been enough to save Gareth and Joachim from Rhodruthain's spell.

"Calliande?" said Ridmark.

At first glance, it didn't seem like anything was wrong. The camp had come alive at the warning shout, men scrambling to their feet and drawing swords and donning armor, but the gates to the castra remained closed, the walls and battlements silent. Yet Oathshield was burning in Ridmark's hand, which meant that the sword was responding to dark magic. The necromantic aura hanging over Castra Chaeldon?

Or something else?

"Let me take a look," said Calliande.

She reached for the Sight and swept it over the castra.

At once she saw that something was wrong. The necromantic aura hung over the fortress like a veil of thick black smoke, or perhaps the kind of fog that sometimes rolled off the sea near Tarlion on cold mornings. Yet now the aura was writhing, boiling like a pot of soup over a fire.

"Archaelon is working a spell," said Calliande. "Or maybe Khurazalin. I'm not sure which."

"To arms!" came the voice again. This time Calliande recognized Tamlin's voice. "To arms! To arms! The foe comes!"

"Come on," said Ridmark, and Calliande nodded and followed him.

###

Ridmark hurried through the camp.

He had feared a panic, but the hoplites were too experienced for that. The men hastened to their feet, weapons ready, and started to assemble in lines facing the castra, their decurions bawling orders and shouting threats at any man who moved too slowly. Oathshield shivered in his hand, the sword's fury filling his mind. The soulblade was reacting in wrath to the dark magic radiating from Castra Chaeldon.

Just what was the enemy doing?

Tamlin Thunderbolt stood at the edge of the camp, his dark elven sword ready in his hand as he gazed at the walls. Sir Aegeus and Sir Parmenio had already joined him, and Ridmark spotted Rallios and Kalussa hurrying near.

"Well?" said Ridmark, stopping next to the younger man. "What is it?"

"I don't know," said Tamlin. "But something is coming, I'm sure of it."

"What the devil is this?" said Kalussa, breathing a little hard. She looked annoyed at having been awakened. "The gates are closed."

"It doesn't look like the enemy is doing anything," said Rallios.

Parmenio shook his head. "The sentries didn't see anyone moving in the hills."

"I think it's a magical attack," said Tamlin. There was utter certainty in his voice. "If you can cast the spell to sense magical forces, do so. You'll see that I'm right."

"No need," said Calliande. "He's right. Someone is casting a powerful necromantic spell within the castra. I'm not sure what, though." The staff of the Keeper started to burn with white fire in her hand as she called magic.

"Rallios," said Ridmark, thinking fast. "Keep the men ready, but have them spread out. Lady Calliande will try to counter whatever Archaelon and Khurazalin throw at us, but if they throw a ball of fire or a blast of dark magic at us, the fewer men it hits, the better."

Rallios nodded and shouted the orders, and as he did, the sky overhead went dark.

At least, that was what Ridmark thought had happened.

Six of the thirteen moons had been out, along with a multitude of stars, so the night had been relatively bright. But three of the six moons vanished, and for a wild instant, Ridmark feared that Archaelon had somehow gained the power to pull the moons from the sky. Then he realized that a column of shadow had risen from the castra, a shadow dark enough to make part of the sky vanish.

"What are they doing?" said Ridmark.

"I don't know," said Calliande, her voice distant. Then her eyes widened. "Defend yourselves! They are coming!"

Ridmark looked around just as dozens of blue points of light seemed to rise out of the ground around them.

###

A horrible chill stabbed through Kalussa, turning her limbs to ice and threatening to freeze her blood in her veins.

She had never known a chill like that before. The winters of Owyllain were mild, more prone to rainy spells than to snow, and she had only seen snow twice in her life. Even in the snow, she had never been this cold, had never experienced a chill that seemed to reach into her chest and coil icy fingers around her heart.

Alarmed, she turned, calling magical fire to her fingers as she tried to find the source of the chill.

An instant later the wraiths rose from the ground.

There were dozens of the undead creatures. Each one looked as if it had been fashioned from shadow and writhing gray mist. Some of them looked like orcish warriors, ghostly and translucent, and others were men of Owyllain, armored in bronze and plumed helmets. Every single one of the wraiths had a ghostly blue fire burning in their eyes, like Archaelon's other undead. It was seemingly the only solid thing about the ethereal creatures.

Ethereal or not, the touch of the wraiths was solid, and it was deadly.

A wraith touched a hoplite next to Kalussa. The man screamed in agony, but he did not scream for long. In a single instant, he turned from a healthy man of thirty to an ancient of a century, his skin scored with deep lines, his hair turning from brown to white. The instant after that, he was nothing more than a desiccated skeleton draped in crumbling skin, and bones and armor collapsed to the ground. All around Kalussa she heard the screams and the shouts as the wraiths attacked.

The wraith who had killed the hoplite reached towards her. It looked like the ghostly image of an orcish raider, clad in fur and leather. Kalussa snarled and cast a spell, throwing all her magical strength into the attack. A bolt of fire leaped from her fingers and slammed into the wraith. The fire dispersed as it struck the wraith, ripping through it like flames through a leaf.

The undead thing hissed, but the fire did not destroy it. The wraith lunged towards Kalussa, and she jumped back. Her boot came down wrong on the rocky ground, and she lost her balance and fell backward, her armor clanging.

The wraith reached for her, and Kalussa tried to get away, tried to stand, tried to work a spell...

White fire flashed, and a blue sword ripped through the wraith. The white fire exploded through it, and the wraith unraveled into nothingness. Kalussa turned her head, her heart pounding, and Ridmark stepped past her, Oathshield trailing fire from its blade.

###

Ridmark destroyed another wraith, and then another, the creatures screaming as Oathshield annihilated the dark magic that animated them. No creature of dark magic could stand against the fury of a soulblade, and the wraiths were no exception.

Yet there were so many of them...and the men of Owyllain had no defense from the creatures. Already a dozen hoplites had fallen to the wraiths' killing touch, their withered corpses falling to the ground. The hoplites tried to fight back, but it was useless. Their blades of bronze passed through the wraiths like smoke. The Arcanii had better luck, but their elemental spells only slowed the wraiths without destroying them.

Ridmark had fought wraiths like this before, ten years earlier. He had been looking for the Frostborn, and wraiths had attacked him and Calliande and Kharlacht and Brother Caius and Sir Gavin in the marshes near Moraime in the Wilderland. Except Gavin hadn't been a Swordbearer back then and Ridmark hadn't carried a soulblade, and the only way they had been able to wound the wraiths had been through...

"Calliande!" shouted Ridmark, and her blue gaze met his through the chaos. "The day we met Morigna!"

She blinked, and then nodded and cast a spell.

White fire blazed up the length of her staff and then exploded from her in a ring that spread across the battlefield.

###

Tamlin hurled another arc of lightning at the approaching wraith. The blue-white coil of lightning wrapped around the undead creature, slowing it for a second, but the creature kept coming. Tamlin slashed with his sword of dark elven steel. Unlike a sword of bronze, his blade seemed to pain the wraith, but it did nothing to destroy the creature.

Tamlin had feared he would die a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, since he had been taken as a slave to Urd Maelwyn. Sometimes he had almost welcomed the thought. But since Tysia had been murdered, he had wanted to know the truth.

"Find me again," Tysia had said. "The New God is coming."

What did that mean?

It seemed he would never find out.

Then brilliant white light flared in the darkness. White fire shone from Calliande's staff and exploded across the battle. For an instant, Tamlin thought Calliande had cast a mighty spell to strike down the undead, but the white fire passed through both living men and wraiths without harm.

The fire instead wrapped around his sword blade, wreathing it in white flames.

It was so unexpected that Tamlin blinked in surprise. The fire looked like the same sort that burned on Ridmark's soulblade. Did that mean the fire could strike the wraiths? Tamlin stepped back and saw dozens of hoplite swords had burst into similar white fire.

"Now!" Ridmark's voice thundered over the fighting. "Attack!"

Tamlin obeyed and drove his sword towards the wraith.

This time, he felt the sword catch on the immaterial creature. The wraith shrieked, and the white fire on Tamlin's sword blazed and spread through the undead thing.

The wraith unraveled and dissolved into nothingness.

Tamlin threw himself into the battle, slashing and stabbing at any wraith that approached.

###

Calliande gritted her teeth and concentrated, holding the spell in place.

She was strong enough to enchant the swords of about fifty hoplites at once. Dividing her power and her concentration into that many different directions was a challenge, but she held on, maintaining the flow of power to the blades of the hoplites.

The momentum of the battle changed. The men of Owyllain shouted and threw themselves into the fighting, their enchanted swords tearing apart the wraiths. Calliande felt the thrum through the web of power as her magic attacked the wraiths. She slowed her breathing, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper, the entirety of her concentration on the spell.

She had no power or concentration left with which to defend herself, but that was all right because Ridmark was up to the task.

The wraiths converged on Calliande, perhaps realizing that she was the greatest threat to them, but Ridmark planted himself before her. He used the sword's power to make himself faster and protect himself from the touch of the wraiths, and every one of his two-handed blows destroyed an undead. Aegeus fought on his left and Rallios on his right. Kalussa stood next to Calliande, flinging bolts of fire. Her elemental fire was not enough to destroy the wraiths, but it did stagger the creatures, allowing Ridmark or Aegeus or Rallios to destroy them.

All was chaos around Calliande, white fire flashing against the cold blue light of the wraiths, swords rising and falling, men screaming and dying.

And then the last wraith unraveled, and the fighting was over.

###

An hour later Ridmark stood with Calliande, Kalussa, Tamlin, Rallios, Aegeus, and Parmenio to take stock of the situation.

"Eleven dead," said Rallios with a grim shake of his head. "No wounded, at least."

"No," murmured Calliande. There had been no wounded because the wraiths killed with a touch, sucking away the lives of their victims. "It was a painful way to die, but at least it was quick."

"Aye," said Ridmark. He shook his head and struck his fist against Oathshield's pommel in frustration. "We should have seen it coming."

"To summon a wraith like that requires powerful and complex necromancy," said Calliande, shaking her head. "I didn't think that Archaelon had that kind of power."

"Lord Ridmark, Lady Calliande," said Rallios. "If you will forgive my bluntness...if you were not here, we all would have been killed."

"Aye," said Aegeus. "During my first campaign with King Hektor as an Arcanius Knight, we marched against the Necromancer of Trojas. With the Sword of Death, the Necromancer had summoned forth a vast host of undead, including wraiths. We lost many men to those creatures until King Hektor took the field with the Sword of Fire to destroy them."

"You never told me that," said Tamlin.

"Well, you never told me you were married."

Tamlin rolled his eyes. "For God's sake."

"My point," said Rallios, "is that those wraiths would have wiped us all out if you were not here. Aye, I've never seen magic like Lady Calliande's before." He looked at Ridmark. "And that sword is the equal of one of the Seven, I'm sure of it. One of the Seven could dispatch a wraith with a single blow, but the only other way I know to fight them is with teams of Arcanii."

Parmenio nodded. "I was sure we would all be wiped out."

"I know the Guardian Rhodruthain brought you here against your will," said Kalussa in a quiet voice, "but I thank God that he did." Some of her usual confidence had faded, and she looked even more frightened than she had when she had been a prisoner of the orcs. "If you had not, we all would have been killed."

Ridmark blinked. He had thought the men of Owyllain would be angry at the losses, that they would blame him for leading them here. Instead, they were astonished that they were still alive, that they had only lost a relative few to the wraiths. Ridmark reminded himself that they had never seen a soulblade before.

"Well," said Ridmark, "it seems God has work for us yet. I see no reason to change our plans."

"Was the spell to breach the wall damaged at all, Lady Calliande?" said Tamlin, glancing at the whirling cylinder of purple symbols.

"No," said Calliande. "The wraiths might have been able to drain the power if they drew close enough, but we dealt with them first. If I resume work at once, we should be ready to breach the wall tomorrow morning."

"Do you need to rest first?" said Ridmark.

She met his gaze, and he was struck by the fire in her eyes. The shadow of grief was still there, but this was the woman who had fought Tymandain Shadowbearer, who had convinced the dwarves and the manetaurs to march to war against the Frostborn, who had returned after two centuries to warn the realm of Andomhaim of its peril.

"I do not," said Calliande. "I'm going to tear open that wall like an eggshell and Archaelon and Khurazalin are welcome to try and stop me."

Aegeus laughed. "Well-spoken, my lady. Are all the women of Andomhaim so combative?"

"She is the Keeper of Andomhaim, Sir Aegeus," said Kalussa, recovering some of her usual hauteur. "Of course she burns with righteous wrath against wielders of dark magic."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "We'll remain on watch. Oh, and Sir Tamlin. Thank you. You warning was timely. It would have been far worse if those wraiths had been able to take us unawares."

Tamlin inclined his head but said nothing.

"How did you know?" said Kalussa.

"A...feeling," said Tamlin. "A bad feeling. I've had it before, usually when things are about to go sour."

"A warrior should learn to trust his intuitions," said Rallios.

"Indeed," said Ridmark. "Then we will trust to ours and continue the siege. If all goes well, we can bring this to an end."

But he knew it would be much harder than that.

***

## Chapter 19: The Traitor

Ridmark got some sleep while he could.

He would have felt guilty to rest while Calliande labored on her spell, but they had both been in enough battles to know better. Her part was to rip down the wall with her magic. His part was to kill Archaelon, Khurazalin, and the Champion with Oathshield, to lead the men of Owyllain through the breach and into battle against Archaelon's forces.

The better rested he was, the better his chances were.

Besides, he had been in enough battles to know that a soldier needed to seize the opportunity for sleep when it came. God only knew when it would come again.

Ridmark feared that Archaelon would launch another attack before the sun came up, but the castra was quiet all night, and he slept without interruption.

He awoke the next morning and at walked around their camp, checking on the preparations. Calliande still circled the whirling cylinder of purple fire, casting spell after spell. It stood nearly fifteen feet tall now, and it gave off a low, ominous hum. The sound put Ridmark in mind an overwound crossbow string, trembling with tension and ready to snap.

Then he walked to the other side of the camp, joining Rallios and Sir Parmenio where they watched the road and the castra.

"Anything?" said Ridmark.

"Nothing," said Rallios. "The orcs on watch changed just before dawn, but the undead haven't moved, and nothing has come out of the fortress."

"The scouts have been keeping watch on the hills," said Parmenio. "No other soldiers are approaching, either friendly or hostile."

Rallios nodded. "Then it seems the fight will be up to us."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "Calliande will be ready in another three or four hours." He pointed at the curtain wall. "She will try to open the breach there. That's the closest point in the eastern wall to the central keep."

"I suggest we give each century of men their own task, Lord Ridmark," said Rallios. "One group to seize the gatehouse, another to take the keep, and so forth."

Ridmark nodded. "You know the men better than I do. Assign them as you think best. I will have my hands full with Archaelon and Khurazalin and the Champion, so you will likely have to direct the battle."

"Aye," said Rallios. "I've done it before."

"One thing, though," said Ridmark. "Archaelon is holding several hundred of your hoplites prisoner somewhere inside the castra. Have a few men try to free them. If they can join the battle on our side, that will give us far better odds."

"I agree," said Parmenio. "And they'll be itching for a fight. Archaelon betrayed them, and they'll want to repay him for his treachery."

"Then let us give them the chance," said Ridmark. He looked at the waiting hoplites, many of them still sleeping. "Make sure that everyone is up and has breakfast. There is going to be hard fighting ahead, and I..."

"Hear me!"

The voice boomed from the walls. Ridmark turned, reaching for Oathshield's hilt. It was the voice of the orcish herald who had invited them to a parley earlier.

He spotted the herald standing on the battlements over the gate.

"Hear me!" thundered the herald once more. "Lord Archaelon invites Ridmark Arban to a parley!"

"What the devil?" said Rallios. "Why would he invite us to another parley?"

"I don't know," said Ridmark. "Let's find out. Wait here."

He walked forward, hand on Oathshield's hilt. He felt the attention of the orcs on the walls as he approached, heard the hoplites scrambling to their feet behind him. Ridmark paused just out of bowshot of the walls.

"Hear me!" thundered the herald yet again. "Lord Archaelon invites Ridmark Arban to a parley!"

"I am here!" shouted Ridmark. With a chill of fear, he wondered if telling Khurazalin his name had been a mistake. The Maledictus might have been clever enough to question the prisoners, and if he realized that Gareth and Joachim were Ridmark's sons...

He had a brief, terrifying vision of Khurazalin holding Gareth and Joachim over the walls, threatening to drop them if Ridmark did not surrender.

"Lord Ridmark!" said the herald. "Lord Archaelon invites you to a parley."

"To what use?" said Ridmark. "I've already spoken with Khurazalin. We have nothing to discuss."

"Lord Archaelon himself wishes to speak with you," said the herald.

"Why?" said Ridmark.

"To discuss terms to end this siege."

"I see," said Ridmark.

"Lord Archaelon also has conditions for the parley," said the herald.

"Of course he does."

"Lord Archaelon wishes to meet you halfway between his gate and your soldiers," said the herald. "He will be accompanied by three guards. Lord Archaelon wishes three guards to accompany you as well – specifically the Lady Calliande, the Lady Kalussa Pendragon, and the Arcanius Knight Tamlin."

Ridmark frowned. "Why?" Why would Archaelon want to see the four of them together? Was it a trick to wipe out the leadership of the hoplites? If so, it was a poor plan. It would be difficult to overcome Calliande and Ridmark together, especially if they had the aid of Kalussa's fire and Tamlin's sword.

"That Lord Archaelon will permit you to have such powerful guards," said the herald, "is proof that he does not intend treachery. Additionally, Lord Archaelon wishes them to witness his proposal."

Refusing Archaelon might cost him nothing. For that matter, taking Calliande away from her preparations would delay the completion of her spell. Yet Ridmark feared that Archaelon had learned of Gareth and Joachim. And letting Calliande look at the traitor of Castra Chaeldon might be useful. Perhaps her Sight could discern his weaknesses.

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I accept these terms."

"So be it," said the herald. "Lord Archaelon will wait until you approach with your companions, and then he shall issue forth and meet you halfway between the gate and your hoplites."

Ridmark turned and strode back to Rallios and Parmenio. Calliande, Kalussa, Tamlin, and Aegeus had joined them.

"Archaelon wants another parley?" said Calliande. She looked tired, but the fire hadn't faded from her expression.

"Aye," said Ridmark. "With the two of us, and Tamlin and Kalussa as well."

Tamlin frowned. "Lady Kalussa and me? Why?"

"I don't know," said Ridmark. "The herald said powerful bodyguards would prove Archaelon didn't intend treachery, but he must have another reason."

"I think I know what it is," said Calliande.

"What, Lady Calliande?" said Kalussa.

"You're the daughter of the bearer of the Sword of Fire," said Calliande, "and Sir Tamlin is the son of the bearer of the Sword of Earth. You're both Swordborn. That's the only connection between you, and that must be the reason Archaelon wants to see you."

Rallios frowned. "I understand little of such magical matters, but would letting the traitor see Sir Tamlin and Lady Kalussa gain him an advantage?"

"I cannot see how," said Ridmark.

"Unless he plans to murder all of you at the parley," said Aegeus.

"He would be at a sore disadvantage," said Parmenio. "Lord Ridmark's sword and Lady Calliande's magic turned aside the wraiths."

"Aye," said Ridmark, "but we didn't think Archaelon was strong enough to summon those wraiths, yet he did nonetheless." He shook his head. "We'll have to be on our guard."

"Perhaps we should refuse the parley," said Kalussa.

"We could," said Ridmark, "but the opportunity to learn something of Archaelon's weaknesses is too good to pass. And if this is a trap...well, a trap can be sprung early. If Archaelon attempts treachery and we kill him outside the walls, we'll have won half the battle then and there." He looked at Rallios. "Decurion, you're in command until I get back."

Calliande walked to his side, and Tamlin and Kalussa followed her. Together they headed towards the gates. As they did, the postern door swung open, and three orcish warriors in bronze armor stepped forth, hands on their sword hilts. Ridmark reached the halfway point between the gate and the hoplites and waited.

Archaelon emerged from the postern door and walked towards them, his bodyguards following.

Ridmark had not been sure what to expect. Would Archaelon be a hulking warrior like Sir Aegeus, eager for a fight? Or someone like the Weaver, with politeness and a gentle manner masking a monster? Or someone like Tarrabus Carhaine, arrogant and lordly and certain that power was his destiny?

Archaelon seemed like none of those men...but neither did he appear healthy.

Ridmark guessed he was in his middle forties, and like the other Arcanius Knights, he wore armor of overlapping bronze scales on a leather coat, a sword and a dagger at his belt. Despite the harsh sun of Owyllain, his skin was pale, almost milky. His dark eyes looked like holes drilled into his skull, and his head had been shaved bare.

No, more than that – his head was absolutely hairless. He didn't even have eyebrows. His expression was strange, also. A man walking out to face an enemy, even in a parley, ought to have had some expression, even if it was just a grim mask of resolution. Archaelon's face was blank, as if there was nothing behind those black eyes at all.

Ridmark glanced at Calliande. Her eyes were fixed on Archaelon, her hand tight against her staff.

"He's at least as powerful as Khurazalin," said Calliande in a low voice. "Maybe even stronger. But I don't think he has Khurazalin's control. The dark magic's twisting him, Ridmark. Mutating him. Like what happened to some of the Enlightened during the battle for Tarlion."

Ridmark nodded and waited.

Archaelon halted a half-dozen yards away, watching them with his black eyes. His guards waited behind him, snarls on their tattooed faces.

For a moment, no one spoke.

"You are Ridmark Arban?" said Archaelon at last. His voice was cold and flat and precise, utterly lacking in any emotion.

"I am," said Ridmark. "And I assume you are Archaelon, formerly a Knight of the Order of the Arcanii, now a traitor to the realm of Owyllain."

"Ah," said Archaelon. "Yes. Quite correct. I have violated my oaths to the Order, to King Hektor, and to God himself. For that matter, I have turned from the prescribed paths of magical study for the Order and delved deep into necromantic lore. With admirable success, I should add. But, yes. I am indeed the traitor you name me to be."

"Then you confess your crimes openly?" said Kalussa, her scorn obvious.

"Why should I not?" said Archaelon. "Do we not say a warrior must know himself as well as his enemies? If a warrior does not understand himself, he is doomed to failure. So why should I not speak openly of what I have done?"

"And what have you done?" said Ridmark. Some of the Enlightened had enjoyed listening to themselves talk, and he suspected Archaelon might suffer from the same weakness.

"Is it not obvious?" said Archaelon. "I have betrayed King Hektor and the Order. I have allied myself with the Confessor and brought his orcish soldiers onto the soil of the realm of the Nine Cities. I have studied necromancy from one of the high priests of the Maledicti. I attacked sworn hoplites of King Hektor, and am even now holding hundreds of them captive in Castra Chaeldon. All this is obvious to me, and it ought to be obvious to you. But what is not obvious to me is who you are."

"It should be obvious," said Ridmark. "I've told you already. Or Khurazalin told you after our parley."

"Yes," said Archaelon. "You are Ridmark Arban. But who is Ridmark Arban?" The black eyes strayed to the hilt of Oathshield. "After you fought off my undead and the wraiths, I thought you had to be one of the bearers of the Seven. The wielder of the Sword of Air, perhaps. That sword was lost after Kothlaric's murder and never found. Only one of the Seven Swords would have been powerful enough to defeat my wraiths so handily. But that is not one of the Seven, is it?"

"No," said Ridmark.

"Then what is it?" said Archaelon. "It is a weapon of high elven magic, Khurazalin knows that much. But he was unable to tell me more." For the first time, he smiled. It was an unnerving expression that had nothing to do with mirth or good humor. "And I suppose you will not tell me its nature."

"Likely not," said Ridmark.

"That makes you an anomaly," said Archaelon. The black gaze shifted to Calliande. "You, too, Lady Calliande, are an anomaly."

Calliande raised her eyebrows. "In what way, might I ask?"

"You are the single most powerful human user of magic I have ever encountered," said Archaelon. "Khurazalin and I, working in tandem, might be able to overcome you, but it is just as likely that you would prevail. You claim to be the Keeper of Andomhaim, yes?"

"A claim that would be accurate," said Calliande.

"Andomhaim should have been conquered by the urdmordar centuries ago," said Archaelon. "Even if the realm stood against the wrath of the urdmordar, there are still three thousand miles of ocean between Aenesium and Tarlion. You could not have arrived here without a large fleet and a host of soldiers. Yet you and Lord Ridmark alone stand before me. Another anomaly."

"If you want the answers to your riddles," said Calliande, "I shall be happy to share them once you have surrendered and released your captives."

"Do you know," said Archaelon, "that a year ago I would have agreed with you? That I would have looked on my current path with horror and recoiled from it at once?"

"What changed?" said Ridmark.

"I learned the truth," said Archaelon.

His black gaze moved over Tamlin and Kalussa, both of whom looked back at him with cold expressions.

"And you, Sir Tamlin and Lady Kalussa, both of you are anomalies," said Archaelon.

"What do you mean?" said Kalussa. "Speak sense. You are a murderer and a traitor and a necromancer, so you could at least express yourself without all this riddling nonsense."

"Swordborn," said Archaelon. "You two should not exist. Why should some of the power of the Seven pass to you just because your fathers bore two of the Swords? It shouldn't have worked that way, but it did. An anomaly. A flaw in the design, something that was not intended."

"You're speaking in ciphers," said Tamlin.

"Am I?" said Archaelon. "I am speaking quite clearly to those who know the truth. You see, our history was a lie. All five centuries since Connmar Pendragon arrived to found Aenesium and Owyllain and the Nine Cities, all of our history has been a lie."

Kalussa frowned. "You mean to say that our history is false? That something else happened?"

"No," said Archaelon. "The facts are the same. The history you learned as a child is true. But our purpose...our purpose has always been false. The reason we fought the Sovereign was false. Only a few know it. Perhaps you start to realize it."

"Speak plainly," said Tamlin.

"Very well," said Archaelon, the dark gaze focusing on the young knight. "Khurazalin murdered your wife."

Tamlin's face hardened. "Told you about that, did he?"

"He did. I told him it was a mistake," said Archaelon.

"How generous of you," said Tamlin with scorn.

"No," said Archaelon. "Khurazalin should have killed you, not your wife."

"Why?" said Tamlin.

"Your wife was an enemy, a known enemy," said Archaelon. "She failed once before. You, however, are an anomaly. An aberration. Anomalies cannot be predicted and are therefore more dangerous. I will not make the same mistake."

"Is that a threat?" said Tamlin, dropping his hand to his sword hilt.

"Merely a promise," said Archaelon. "I will not kill you in a parley, but during the battle to come."

"Why?" said Kalussa. "Why have you betrayed King Hektor?"

"It is as I have told you. I have seen the truth," said Archaelon.

"And what truth is that?" said Ridmark.

His black eyes turned towards Ridmark, full of certainty. "The New God is coming."

"Is it, now?" said Ridmark. "Since I've come to Owyllain, I've heard about the New God, but no one will tell me what it is."

"The New God is the future," said Archaelon. "Its coming is inevitable. The death and defeat of the Sovereign guaranteed it. The New God will rise and rule this world for all time. You say I have betrayed my oaths to King Hektor? Perhaps I have, but those oaths are null and void. The coming of the New God shall break all bonds, dissolve all oaths, and shatter all covenants." He gestured at Castra Chaeldon. "You wonder why I have done what I have done? My spell shall raise a vast army of undead, and it shall lure King Hektor and King Justin into destroying one another. When the New God is made manifest, I shall present it with an army of undead when I kneel before it, and I shall rise high in the new order."

"Madness," said Kalussa.

"You have been duped by the lies that snake Khurazalin is pouring into your ears," said Tamlin.

Archaelon sighed. "No. We have seen the truth. And I fear you shall see the truth in the battle to come."

"And you are sure there is a battle coming?" said Ridmark.

"It is obvious." Archaelon gestured towards the distant column of purple fire. "I know not the nature of the magical spell Lady Calliande has prepared, but it is clearly a magical attack. It will fail. You lack enough men to overcome my defenses, and I shall overwhelm you. Even if you crouch outside my walls, in four days I will finish my ritual and raise a vast host of wraiths. They will destroy you utterly, and your corpses shall rise again and join my army."

"You seem quite confident of that," said Ridmark.

"I am." Archaelon sighed again. "But I have a proposal that may save you from unnecessary bloodshed."

"Very well," said Ridmark. "I have a proposal for you first."

"Oh?" said Archaelon. Again, came that strange, mechanical smile. "Permit me to guess. I shall surrender, release all my captives unharmed to you, and then depart Owyllain never to return."

"Yes," said Ridmark.

"I reject it categorically, though I understand you felt it necessary to make the effort," said Archaelon. "Now I propose another course."

"What is that?" said Ridmark.

"A duel," said Archaelon.

Ridmark frowned. "Between you and me?"

"No," said Archaelon. "Between you and my Champion. These are the terms I offer. If you defeat my Champion, I will abandon Castra Chaeldon and depart. All my captives will be released, and the fortress will be yours. But if the Champion is victorious, your men will depart for Aenesium at once."

"I see," said Ridmark. "We must consider this proposal. Will you give us a few moments to discuss it?"

"Of course," said Archaelon. "I shall wait here for a quarter of an hour. If you do not return in that time, I will withdraw to Castra Chaeldon, and we shall continue on as before."

Ridmark nodded, gestured to the others, and they withdrew back to the lines of the hoplites.

"You cannot fight the Champion alone," said Calliande, her voice tight with worry.

"Fighting the Champion was the plan," said Ridmark. "The Champion is obviously an undead creature of great power. Oathshield is the only weapon that has any chance of defeating it."

"Yes," said Calliande, "but you shouldn't have to fight it alone. My magic could be of great help, along with the spells of the Arcanii. If you fight the Champion alone, you might get killed."

"Aye, I might," said Ridmark, "but that also means the Champion will fight me alone. Fighting the Champion when Archaelon and Khurazalin are backing it up would be far more dangerous. If I fight the creature now, I would have a better chance than if Archaelon and Khurazalin threw their spells into the fray."

"But only if Archaelon keeps his word," said Calliande.

"He might," said Ridmark.

"Lady Calliande is right," said Kalussa. "He is a treacherous dog and will stab you in the back."

"He's a madman," said Tamlin.

"No," murmured Calliande. "No, I don't think he's insane. He has abandoned all conscience and morality, yes. But he's not insane. He really believes this New God of his is coming, and he thinks that it will be powerful enough that he's going to switch sides right now."

"That changes nothing," said Kalussa. "If he would abandon the Dominus Christus to worship this false New God of his, then he is indeed a treacherous dog who will stab you in the back."

Ridmark nodded. "And that certainty of victory is why he's sending the Champion out to duel me. He is certain, utterly certain, that the Champion will kill me."

"Can you take the Champion?" said Tamlin. "Lord Ridmark, to be blunt, this is neither the time for false modesty or false pride. I fought all manner of foes and beasts in the Ring of Blood, but I have never seen anything move as fast or hit as hard at Archaelon's Champion."

"By myself, I would say not," said Ridmark. He tapped his sword hilt. "But with Oathshield, I think I can probably defeat the Champion. With a soulblade in hand, I've killed urvaalgs, ursaars, and even an urdmordar. Perhaps it is pride and folly, but I think I can win."

And if he couldn't, he had a fallback option. Oathshield bore the unique power of the Shield Knight. If Ridmark had no other choice, he would draw upon that power. The cost would be high, but almost certainly the power of the Shield Knight could defeat the Champion.

Rallios shook his head. "It seems rash to me, my lord."

"He did defeat a half-dozen urvaalgs by himself," said Kalussa in a quiet voice. "That was no lie. I saw it with my own eyes and had anyone else described it to me, I would not have believed it."

"But the urvaalgs did not have two powerful necromancers to aid them," said Calliande.

"They didn't," said Ridmark. "But I'll have you watching for any sign of treachery."

Calliande frowned. "Then the delay only advantages Archaelon. I'll have to stop work on the spell of earth magic to watch the duel."

Ridmark gave her a tight smile. "What if the spell was already done?"

Calliande blinked, and then a smile spread across her face as she understood.

"Why does that matter?" said Rallios.

"I will tell Archaelon that I need time to prepare," said Ridmark. "I will agree to duel the Champion, but at noon. That will let Calliande finish the spell. All she will need to do then is release the power and direct it. The best time to attack will be after I defeat the Champion." Ridmark knew he dared not show fear or doubt, not now. "That will dismay Archaelon and his orcish warriors. The instant the Champion falls, Lady Calliande will release her spell. The earth magic will breach the wall, and we can attack at once."

Rallios nodded. "The only thing better than dealing a hammer blow to the foe is to deal two hammer blows to the foe in rapid succession."

"Aye," said Ridmark. "If we wait until noon, I can defeat the Champion, Calliande can breach the wall immediately afterward, and we can storm the castra and put an end to this. No magic of this world can resist the power of the Keeper of Andomhaim, and Calliande will turn her spells against Archaelon and Khurazalin while we deal with the orcish warriors and the undead."

No one said anything for a while.

"God and the saints, it is a bold plan," said Rallios. "I've been a soldier too long to put any faith in bold plans."

"But I cannot think of anything better," said Sir Parmenio.

"Nor can I, sir knight," said Rallios. He took a deep breath. "If this is your will, Lord Ridmark, by God we will see it done."

Ridmark nodded. "Thank you, Decurion." He was glad of the old soldier's support, but in the end, only one opinion mattered to him.

"You are sure you can do this?" said Calliande in a quiet voice.

He met her eyes. "I will do what must be done."

Ridmark meant it. Gareth and Joachim were inside that fortress, and he was going to get them back.

No matter what he had to do.

Calliande took a deep breath. "Then we will watch you beat the Champion, and then bring ruin upon Archaelon's head."

"So be it," said Ridmark. "Come. Let's see if we can convince Archaelon to wait until noon."

"The dog ought to agree," said Tamlin. "He will think a delay will give him more time to finish his ritual."

"Perhaps," said Ridmark. "But one way or another, we shall see the end of this today."

Ridmark, Calliande, Tamlin, and Kalussa walked to where Archaelon awaited them with his orcish guards. The traitorous Arcanius had remained motionless, his expression still empty of all emotion. The cold black eyes turned to Ridmark.

"Have you given any thought to my offer?" said Archaelon.

"I am willing to accept it," said Ridmark, "with one condition. The duel must take place at midday."

"I have no objection to this condition," said Archaelon. "But before I accept, permit me to make you one final offer. Join me."

"Join you?" said Ridmark, making no effort to hide his scorn. "As what? Shall I spend my time robbing graves to supply corpses for your army, or shall I devote my attention to betraying my oaths?"

Archaelon sighed and shook his head. "Neither. Join me as a follower of the New God. For the New God is coming, Ridmark Arban. The world shall belong to it, and all shall kneel before it – either as willing servants or as terrified slaves. Choose this day whom you shall serve."

The misquote from the scriptures irritated Ridmark, but he kept it from his face.

"I refuse you and your New God," said Ridmark.

"Very well," said Archaelon. "Then I accept your condition. The duel shall take place at noon, at this very spot, and it shall continue until the Champion kills you. I suggest you appeal to your Dominus Christus, Lord Ridmark, and see if any divine aid is forthcoming. When none arrives, you can reflect upon your folly in the final instant before the Champion crushes your skull. Come."

He gestured to his guards, and together they marched back to the castra. Ridmark watched as they disappeared through the postern door.

"Let's go," said Ridmark. "We have a lot of work to do."

***

## Chapter 20: The Duel

Calliande finished the great spell about half an hour before noon.

She almost wished that she hadn't.

The cylinder of purple fire and glowing symbols whirled before her, pulsing with power to her Sight. Two days of work had allowed Calliande to summon and interlock a tremendous amount of earth magic. The power was harnessed to her will and waiting, almost like a bolt lying in a readied ballista. All she need do was direct her will, and the torrent of power would flow out. It would shake the earth beneath the curtain wall and send it crashing to the ground. Raising that much power had been a great effort, but Calliande had done it before.

Already she missed the effort of the work.

It had kept her from dwelling on the duel.

Ridmark was going to face the Champion, and the Champion might kill him.

Calliande had no doubts about her husband's ability as a warrior. With her own eyes, she had seen him defeat Tarrabus Carhaine, the Lord Commander of the Frostborn, Agrimnalazur, Tymandain Shadowbearer, the Weaver, Prince Kurdulkar, and a host of other foes. When they had first met ten years ago, she had wondered what kind of terror he must have been on the battlefield with a soulblade in hand, and once he had taken up Oathshield and become the Shield Knight, her speculation had proven correct. Ten years had taken some of his speed, but Oathshield's power made up for it, and he had ten years of additional experience.

But she knew nothing about Archaelon's Champion, knew nothing of its capabilities, save that its attack had broken an army of five hundred men, some of them wielding powerful elemental magic. A soulblade could kill almost anything, but it usually took teams of Swordbearers and Magistri to overcome powerful creatures like urdmordar and urdhracosi and urvuuls.

And even then, sometimes the urdmordar and the urdhracosi and the urvuuls won.

Calliande might see her husband die before the day was over.

The thought threatened to turn her spine to water. She had already lost her daughter. Would she lose her husband and her sons in a single day? Calliande had met women who had lost their husbands and all their sons to the Frostborn. She had seen the lasting grief, the pain that never went away.

Would that be her fate?

Perhaps that would be her punishment. She had led so many men to their deaths against the Frostborn. Perhaps watching her entire family die in a single day would be her punishment. But she had failed to save Joanna, hadn't she? Maybe this was how God would punish her, how he would...

"Stop that!" she hissed to herself. "Stop it now!"

Calliande would have slapped herself if would not have drawn odd questions.

She had gone to pieces after Joanna's death. She could not afford to do so now. Too much was at stake. Calliande valued her husband's life and her sons' lives more than anything, yes, but there were also hundreds of other lives at stake, both the hoplites outside the walls and the prisoners within the fortress. And if Archaelon finished his spell and unleashed an army of wraiths on Owyllain in the name of his New God, then thousands more would die, maybe tens of thousands.

Calliande's dread turned to shivering anger and then resolution, her hands tightening against her ancient staff.

Ridmark would duel the Champion...and at the first sign of interference from Archaelon or Khurazalin, Calliande would show the two necromancers just why wielders of dark magic feared the Keeper of Andomhaim.

And if it looked as if Ridmark was going to lose, Calliande would unleash her spell at the wall and then aid him. To hell with the rules of the duel. She would not let Archaelon's pet monster hurt Ridmark.

She walked through the waiting ranks of hoplites and joined Ridmark and the others at the head of the army. Ridmark stood there, Oathshield in his right hand. Kalussa, Tamlin, Parmenio, Aegeus, and Rallios waited near him, and Rallios and Parmenio were describing the Champion to him.

"Eleven or twelve feet tall," said Rallios. "It must weigh at least a thousand pounds, maybe more once you include the armor. But it's quick, though, as quick as lightning."

"Archaelon grafted plates of bronze all over its body," said Parmenio. "We didn't have any weapon that could penetrate that armor."

"It must have joints," said Ridmark.

"It does," said Rallios. "But the creature is so fast that it doesn't matter. It wouldn't stand still long enough for us to land any hits."

"What does it have for weapons?" said Ridmark.

"Maces," said Parmenio.

Ridmark frowned. "What, it carries two maces?"

"Not quite," said Rallios. "Instead of hands, it has stone mace heads grafted to the end of its arms." Ridmark nodded. "Don't try to block, my lord. The sword of yours will probably survive anything, but if you try to block, we'll find your sword embedded in the pulped meat of your torso."

Calliande shuddered at the mental image, and the men fell silent as she approached.

"It's ready?" said Ridmark.

"Aye," said Calliande. "I just have to release the power." She pointed at a section of the wall south of the gate. "It should tear open a breach right there."

"The men are ready," said Ridmark. "The minute I destroy the Champion, cast your spell. The hoplites will charge through the breach, and we'll take the castra."

Calliande nodded. "I want to talk with you alone for a moment."

Ridmark looked at the others, and they moved away, just out of earshot.

"I know this is dangerous," said Ridmark in a quiet voice, "but this is our best chance of getting Gareth and Joachim back. I wouldn't do it otherwise."

"I know," said Calliande. She found herself blinking back tears. "Ridmark, I'm..."

He waited.

"I'm sorry," said Calliande.

He blinked. "For what?"

"For not being faster," said Calliande. "For not stopping Rhodruthain before he transported us here. For not keeping the boys safe." She shook her head. "I could have stopped all of this if I had just been a little quicker. If...If I had been thinking clearly."

She left unspoken the truth that if she had been able to heal Joanna, if she had not failed their daughter, then her mind would not have been clouded with grief and she might have been able to react faster.

"Calliande," said Ridmark.

She closed her eyes. "If I had just...if I had just..."

His hands grasped her shoulders, and she opened her eyes.

"This isn't your fault," said Ridmark. "Not Joanna, not Rhodruthain, not Archaelon, none of it. The fault lies with Rhodruthain for bringing the children here and Archaelon for taking them captive. Not with you."

She opened her mouth to protest, and he put two fingers over her lips. Calliande was so startled that she fell silent. He never did that.

"This is what we're going to do now," said Ridmark. "I'm going to kill that damned Champion, and you're going to rip open Archaelon's walls. Then we're going to kill Archaelon and Khurazalin and free their captives and get our sons back."

He sounded so confident. Calliande knew exactly what he was doing. He had told her more than once that a man who commanded soldiers in battle could never show fear or doubt. A commander had to project confidence to his men, for their morale would break if they thought a fool or a coward led them. Calliande had seen him do this countless times before.

She knew what he was doing...but damned if it wasn't working. She almost believed him.

No. She did believe him.

"All right," Calliande whispered. "All right. That's what we'll do."

Ridmark nodded and stepped back.

"Ridmark," said Calliande. "I love you. And I'm sorry that I've...I've been..."

"I love you," said Ridmark. "And you have nothing to be sorry for. Maybe if I keep repeating it often enough, you'll believe it."

She drew breath to answer him, and then Rallios's shout rang over the rocky hill.

"The gate opens!"

Ridmark turned and headed back to the others, Calliande following him. She looked towards the gate, turning the Sight towards it as she did, and saw a locus of dark magic approaching. Another aura of dark power flashed before her Sight, and she saw Archaelon step onto the rampart over the gate, flanked by his bodyguards.

There was no sign of Khurazalin, at least not yet.

"It's time," said Ridmark. He drew Oathshield with his right hand, the sword's blue blade glowing with white flames. "You all know what to do."

He looked at Calliande, and she gazed at him. She wanted to say more, but they had already said everything that needed to be said, and anything more would simply delay the inevitable.

Then Ridmark nodded to her, turned, and strode towards the opened gate.

"Ridmark Arban!" Archaelon's voice thundered from the rampart. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Ridmark. He shouted the word without threats. Another man would have blustered. Ridmark simply strode to the halfway point between the hoplites and the wall and waited.

"Very well," said Archaelon as the gate finished swinging open. "The Champion will come forth, and the gate will close behind it. Once it has killed you, your army will be permitted to withdraw with their lives. If they fail to do so, this night I will summon more wraiths. Without you and your high elven weapon to protect them, the wraiths will kill them all."

"That reminds me of something," said Ridmark.

"What?" said Archaelon. "What does it remind you of?"

"A proverb about counting chickens before the eggs have hatched."

Aegeus burst out laughing at that.

Calliande could not tell from this distance, but she thought Archaelon looked irritated. Evidently, the disciples of the so-called New God were a serious lot. Or maybe Archaelon just didn't like Aegeus.

"Laugh while you can, Sir Aegeus!" called Archaelon. "For either you shall die below my walls, or you shall fall screaming to your knees when you behold the might of the New God! Let us see if you can laugh, Sir Aegeus, when the Champion cuts down your leader!"

Something moved in the shadow of the gate, and then the Champion lumbered into sight with terrifying speed.

Calliande's stomach twisted with revulsion.

Rallios and Parmenio and Tamlin and the others had not exaggerated in their description of the Champion's grotesque appearance.

The creature did indeed stand twelve feet tall, and it was roughly human shaped. It looked as if it had been assembled out of slabs of rotting meat, the slabs held together by thick black stitches. Even from this distance, the stench was unpleasant. The creature had no head, save for a faceless bronze helmet. Sheets of rough-hewn bronze covered the creature in a corroded greenish-yellow carapace. Slime leaked from the joints of its armor, trickling down the rough bronze plates.

As Rallios and Parmenio had said, the Champion didn't have hands. Instead, it had two rough-hewn balls of stone affixed to the ends of its thick arms. Each one of those stone balls had to weigh hundreds of pounds, but they didn't seem to slow the Champion at all.

When the Champion had attacked Sir Tyromon's force, it had faced enemies armed with bronze swords and spears and elemental spells. Little wonder it had defeated them. The Champion would have been able to shrug off those attacks with ease. The Sight stirred to life within Calliande, and she saw the mighty necromancy that animated the hulking creature. The wraiths had proven that Archaelon was no petty necromancer, but this monstrosity was a masterpiece of necromantic magic. She saw the dark power in the thing...and the cords of dark magic that tied it to Archaelon.

Calliande readied her magic, linking her will to the whirling cylinder of purple fire behind them. When the moment came, the instant Ridmark cut down the vile thing, she was going to breach the wall. And if Archaelon interfered in the duel, she would attack him.

And if Ridmark was in trouble, she would help him.

Ridmark came to the halfway point between the hoplites and the wall and waited, Oathshield in both hands.

The Champion went motionless as the gate slammed shut behind it. The undead thing stood as still as a statue. Nothing living could ever go that motionless, but the Champion wasn't living. It was a puppet of dead flesh and bronze and dark magic, manipulated by the corrupted will of Archaelon.

Then it surged forward, hurtling towards Ridmark with terrifying speed.

###

The duel almost ended in its first instant.

Ridmark had expected the Champion to be fast, at least as fast as an urvaalg or an ursaar.

He had not, however, expected it to be quite that fast, its left arm blurring as it drew back the stone ball of its left hand to strike.

Reflex and the power of Oathshield saved him. Ridmark threw himself to the right, calling on his bond with the soulblade for speed, and he hit the ground, and rolled. The sweep of the stone ball missed his head by about six inches, and his roll carried him away from the Champion's stamping feet, which were encased in cylinders of bronze. Ridmark surged back to his feet, Oathshield held out before him, and whirled to face the Champion.

The creature was farther away from him than he thought. It stood six yards away, facing the hoplites. At least, Ridmark thought it stood facing the hoplites. It didn't have eyes or nose or mouth.

The Champion was turning, and Ridmark charged.

Oathshield's speed let him reach the undead thing before it finished turning, and Ridmark struck, all his strength and the sword's power driving his blow. The top of his head came to the middle of the Champion's stomach (assuming it even had a stomach), and Ridmark aimed for the right hip joint. There was a gap in the armor as wide as his hand, the rotting flesh beneath the bronze armor leaking yellowish slime across the plates of metal. Even if the men of Owyllain had landed hits on the exposed flesh, it likely would have done no harm to the Champion.

But none of the men of Owyllain had carried a soulblade.

Oathshield bit deep into the rotting meat beneath the gap. The wound sizzled and smoked, the flesh turning black and charred. Ridmark felt his soulblade's fury surge through him. The Champion shuddered, and the creature let out a snarling groan.

Evidently, it did have a mouth. Or at least the capacity to make noise.

Ridmark ripped his blade free and stepped back. He had been tempted to try and attack again, to wound the Champion once more, but that would have left him open. The wisdom of his decision became apparent about a half-second later as the Champion kicked out. The bronze cylinder of its left leg blurred before Ridmark's face with enough force to turn bone to powder and flesh to crimson mist, but he had anticipated the blow and avoided it.

The Champion came after him in a blur, swinging its stone fists and kicking with its armored legs, and Ridmark had no choice but to fall back.

###

Kalussa watched the duel, her heart in her throat.

She never liked to admit to fear. She was of royal blood, a daughter of King Hektor Pendragon and a descendant of the High King Arthur Pendragon himself. But undead creatures frightened her in a way that few other things did. She knew that the souls of the dead resided either with the Dominus Christus in paradise or with the Adversary in perdition, that the wraiths were only the echoes of the dead called forth and given killing power by corrupted magic.

But she still feared them, and she feared becoming one of them. The encounter with the wraiths had shaken her, and the sight of the Champion had been terrifying. It had been a nightmare of dead flesh and dark magic, ripping its way through the valiant hoplites like a man striding through tall grass.

And Ridmark Arban had strode to fight that abomination alone.

The soulblade was like a shard of white lightning in his hands, and he whirled around the Champion, again and again, landing quick strikes with the sword and withdrawing when the creature tried to trample him. Kalussa had never seriously fought with a sword in her life, but she had seen enough men fight with swords to realize what was happening. Ridmark didn't dare stand in one place for too long, else the Champion could crush him. He could deal a score of blows without doing much damage to the undead thing, but a single strike from the Champion would kill him. He dared not stand still for more than a heartbeat.

Kalussa wondered how long he could keep that up.

She glanced at Calliande. The Keeper stood motionless, her face a bloodless mask as she watched her husband fight for his life. She looked calm, even serene, but Kalussa saw the knuckles shining white as she gripped her staff.

If Ridmark died here, Kalussa knew, Archaelon's remaining life would be measured in seconds.

That made her look towards the battlements. Archaelon stood over the gate, his gaze fixed on the lumbering Champion. His whole stance radiated tension, even alarm. Perhaps he had not expected Ridmark to put up that much of a fight against the Champion.

The thought gave Kalussa a vicious satisfaction. Nothing was more loathsome than a traitor!

Again, Ridmark slashed Oathshield across the Champion's leg, and again he jumped back, sweat glistening on his face as he avoided the creature's blows.

###

Tamlin held his power ready, holding the elemental magic of air to strike as he watched the duel.

The Dark Lady had warned him that this moment would come. She had said the Shield Knight would need his aid, that if he did not help Ridmark at the critical moment, then all would be lost. Tamlin intended to be ready once that moment came.

But Tamlin did not know if this was the moment, because he did not know if Ridmark was winning.

He had never seen a fight like this, not in the Ring of Blood, and not since he had escaped Urd Maelwyn and entered the service of King Hektor as an Arcanius Knight. The Champion was a lumbering nightmare of necromancy, a thing that had smashed its way through a force of five hundred hoplite soldiers without difficulty. It should have crushed Ridmark Arban without difficulty.

But it hadn't.

Ridmark moved with blurring speed to match the Champion, his soulblade an inferno of white fire. Again and again he struck, dodging out of the way of the Champion's powerful blows. Tamlin could not see the point of Ridmark's tactics. The Champion's torso was so thick that even if Ridmark sank Oathshield to its hilt into the creature's chest, the tip of the blade would still not emerge from its back. But would that matter? It wasn't as if the Champion had a heart or another critical point. It was just a pile of dead flesh and bronze animated by necromancy.

"He needs to land a killing blow," said Rallios in a low, urgent voice. "The undead have endless stamina. Mortal men do not."

"They don't," said Calliande, not taking her eyes from the fight, "but it doesn't matter. You might not be able to see it, but the Champion is slowing down. It can recover from wounds dealt by normal weapons, but it can't repair the damage the soulblade is doing to the spells."

Tamlin wondered if that was wishful thinking, perhaps the desperate hope of a wife watching her husband fight a battle he could not win.

Then he looked at the ramparts and saw Archaelon.

The traitorous Arcanius all but leaned over the battlements as he watched the fight. He had been expressionless and emotionless during the parley, but now the traitor looked on the edge of fury. Tamlin had feared that Archaelon had sent out the Champion as part of some clever and intricate plan for victory, but perhaps it had been simpler. Perhaps Archaelon had been certain that his pet monster could crush Ridmark.

The dvargir gamemasters at Urd Maelwyn had been brutal and cruel teachers, but they had said that overestimating an enemy was just as dangerous as underestimating him. Tamlin would have to remember that.

Perhaps Archaelon was about to learn the lesson about underestimating an enemy.

Ridmark slashed at the Champion's legs, and again the creature surged at him.

###

The hulking undead thing was one of the strongest and fastest foes that Ridmark Arban had ever faced. A single mistake, a single stumble, and a blow from those massive stone fists would crush his skull like an egg.

But the Champion had weaknesses as well.

Specifically, it was stupid.

As far as Ridmark could tell, the creature had only a limited will and awareness of its own. Furthermore, it fought with no skill or finesse. Granted, it didn't need to bother with finesse. The thing was all but impervious to normal weapons, and it could attack like an avalanche, smashing its way through the hoplites and crushing skulls and bodies with every swing of its fists and every stamp of its feet. Archaelon had created the perfect weapon for fighting the hoplites of Owyllain.

But not for fighting against a Swordbearer of Andomhaim.

Ridmark realized another weakness as he fought, his heart hammering in his chest, sweat pouring down his face, his shoulders and knees aching with fatigue and strain.

The creature was fast, faster than anything its size should be, and it was surprisingly agile. All that was the product of magic, but Ridmark knew firsthand that magic could only do so much. Archaelon's necromancy had made the Champion stronger and faster...but it hadn't given the creature the ability to stop any faster.

And because of the Champion's lack of skill and awareness, it didn't realize the pattern.

Every time the Champion charged Ridmark, he used Oathshield's power to get out of the way. Every time he dodged, the Champion skidded to a stop several yards away, turning to strike him once more. Before it could, Ridmark attacked, launching a two-handed swing at the Champion's right leg. Specifically, Ridmark aimed his blows at the right hip joint. Already the rotting flesh there had turned black and charred from the impacts of the soulblade, and Ridmark saw the creature had begun to slow, that its right leg was jerking under its massive weight.

The Champion charged at him, and Ridmark dodged, forcing his weary legs to throw him to the side again. At once the undead creature slowed, skidding to a stop, and as it did, Ridmark whirled and swung Oathshield, driving the soulblade through the gap in the bronze plates and into the creature's right hip.

And this time, the soulblade bit deeper than Ridmark expected.

White fire blazed from the sword, sinking into the Champion's corrupted flesh, and the creature let out another bellow of agony. Ridmark's blow chopped right through the weakened flesh and severed the Champion's right leg. The leg fell like a falling tree trunk, and Ridmark cursed and jumped out of the way, the bronze-clad limb clanging a few inches from his boot.

The Champion roared again, thrashing its stone-topped arms. The motion overbalanced the creature, and it tottered forward and fell on its stomach. At once it started to rise, trying to use its arms to push itself back up.

Ridmark sprang upon its back, raised Oathshield high, and brought the sword's tip stabbing down. He drove the soulblade into the gap in the armor between the Champion's shoulders and its helmet. The soulblade sank deep into the corrupted flesh and then exploded with furious white flames. The Champion shuddered, and Ridmark braced himself against its back, his boots rasping against the rough bronze plates of its armor. He saw the white fire of the soulblade spreading through the corrupted flesh, saw the fire burning away the dark magic that bound the creature. The Champion thrashed and bucked so violently that Ridmark almost lost his footing, but he held on. White fire began to leak from the joints in the armor, and the Champion's thrashing grew feebler, feebler.

Then with one final heave, the Champion went motionless and limp.

Ridmark wrenched Oathshield free and stepped off the hulking carcass, grimacing as he caught his breath. The mixed odor of corrupted flesh and burned meat flooded his nostrils. God and the saints, but it was a nasty stench.

"Ridmark!" shouted Calliande in warning.

Ridmark turned just as Archaelon's scream of fury filled his ears.

***

## Chapter 21: Breach

Ridmark looked up to see Archaelon glaring down at him from the battlements. The necromancer's calm had vanished, his emotionlessness shattered. In its place, blazed raw fury and naked hatred, the wrath of a craftsman who had just seen his masterwork destroyed.

Archaelon cast a spell, blue fire and dark shadow writhing around his fingers. Oathshield shuddered with rage in Ridmark's hand, the sword's fire blazing bright once again in response to the dark magic gathering at Archaelon's call.

Ridmark raised his sword in guard, and Archaelon flung out his hands. A howling lance of blue fire and twisting shadow burst from his fingers and slammed into Ridmark. Oathshield blazed brighter, the soulblade's power protecting Ridmark from the dark magic.

Yet still Archaelon's attack continued, his dark magic hammering at Ridmark. All of Oathshield's power went into deflecting the attack, and Ridmark could not move.

###

"Ridmark!" said Calliande

As she had predicted, as she had feared, Archaelon had proven treacherous. No sooner had the Champion's rotting carcass fallen to the ground, its dark magic burned away, then Archaelon attacked. He hurled a howling lance of dark magic at Ridmark, necromantic magic designed to leech away the life force of whatever it touched.

Yet Oathshield proved equal to that dark power, shielding Ridmark from its malevolence.

Calliande snarled and gathered her own magic, preparing to blast Archaelon from the walls of Castra Chaeldon.

"My lady!" said Rallios. "The walls!"

Yes, of course. Her spell of earth magic was ready, the power only waiting for her to unleash it. Oathshield would protect Ridmark long enough for Calliande to breach the walls.

And when she did, Archaelon would have something else to hold his attention.

Calliande bent her full will and power upon the whirling cylinder of purple fire, releasing the spell and directing its strength towards the wall.

The ground shuddered a little beneath her boots.

###

Tamlin looked in amazement as the Keeper unleashed her power upon the walls of Castra Chaeldon.

The cylinder of purple light plunged into the earth and vanished, and an instant later a wave of purple light shot through the ground, looking almost like light reflecting off rippling water. As the wave surged through the ground, the earth began to fold and twist, once again reminding Tamlin of a banner caught in strong wind.

And as the wave reached the wall, it snapped the ground like a woman shaking the dust from a carpet.

A section of curtain wall about ten yards across heaved up and then down again in the grip of the earth magic, and when it came down again, it collapsed into the castra's courtyard. Shouts and screams rose from the courtyard, followed by the roar of collapsing masonry. Archaelon broke off his attack, his eyes wide, and looked at the shattered wall.

"Now!" roared Rallios in the battlefield voice of a veteran decurion. "At them! Move! Move! Move!"

"For God and Owyllain!" shouted Aegeus. "Owyllain and victory!"

The hoplites sprinted forward, shields raised, swords drawn back to strike. Tamlin ran with them, his dark elven sword in his right hand, his left already crackling with lightning as he called his magic. The other Arcanii accompanied him, and he saw Kalussa summoning fire as Aegeus and Parmenio both began casting spells of their own.

Archaelon whirled and vanished from the ramparts an instant before Calliande's lance of white fire would have burned him to ashes. Tamlin looked down and saw that Ridmark had joined them, his soulblade burning in his hands.

Chaos ruled in the courtyard as the dust cleared. Orcish warriors shouted instructions, and undead creatures surged from the central keep. The orcish warriors were attempting to form a shield wall behind the breach, no doubt hoping to keep the hoplites back so archers could rain arrows from the wall.

Tamlin couldn't have that.

"Arcanii!" he shouted, raising his left hand as he focused his power. "Now!"

Tamlin cast his spell, and the other Arcanii followed suit.

A bolt of lightning erupted from his hand, forked, and killed two of the orcish soldiers, driving them to the ground. Aegeus flung a lance of ice that speared an orcish warrior through the chest. Kalussa hurled one of her fiery bolts, sheathing an unfortunate orc in snarling flames. The other Arcanii threw bolts of fire or spheres of sputtering white acid, and the half-formed shield wall wavered, the orcish soldiers flinching under the magical attacks.

Then the men of Owyllain tore through the breach and into the orcs, and Tamlin had no more time for magic, only swordplay.

###

Fire and ice and lightning slashed past Ridmark and tore into the orcish defenders, and he called on Oathshield for speed. The orcs tried to reform, tried to make a shield wall, but it was too late. The magical attacks had disrupted their formation, and they had no time to recover.

Not with Oathshield fueling Ridmark's speed.

He sprinted forward, leaped over the rubble, and into the courtyard of the castra. Around him he saw chaos, orcish warriors rushing towards both the walls and the breach and undead creatures pouring from the keep. There was no sign of Archaelon or Khurazalin. Ridmark needed to find them. They were the most dangerous foes the hoplites faced, and he was the one best equipped to deal with the necromancer and the warlock.

But first, he had to find them.

Ridmark charged into the orcs, sweeping Oathshield before him with mighty blows. He took off the head of the nearest orc, green blood spattering across the ground. A second orcish warrior attacked him, and Ridmark parried, snapping Oathshield up in guard. The bronze blade rebounded from the sword, and the orcish warrior staggered. Before he could recover, Ridmark riposted, driving his soulblade's point through the warrior's leather cuirass and into his heart. Two orcish warriors came at him in tandem, one thrusting with a bronze spear, the second chopping a bronze axe. Ridmark stepped into the attack, trusting in his dark elven armor to deflect the spear's point, and raised his sword to parry. The spear scraped off his chest armor, though the shock hurt, and he parried the axe. Ridmark disengaged with lightning speed, ripping Oathshield around to open the axe-wielding orc's throat, and then shifted his stance to block the next thrust of the spear. The spear-wielding orcish warrior overbalanced, and Ridmark killed him with a chop to the neck.

He stepped back, wondering what the hell was taking the hoplites and the Arcanii so long, and then realized that only a few seconds had passed.

Right then the hoplites and the Arcanii charged into the disorganized orcs, shouting at the top of their lungs, and the shock of their charge drove back the enemy.

Ridmark found himself fighting side-by-side with Tamlin and Aegeus. Tamlin wielded his dark elven sword with skill, the blade flicking back and forth as he stabbed and slashed. Lightning sparked and snarled around the fingers of his left hand, and when he hit an enemy with his left hand, the lightning stunned his foe long enough for him to land a blow with the sword. Aegeus did not have Tamlin's skill, but he made up for it with raw strength. His magic conjured a shield of ice on his left arm, which was hard enough to block the blows of bronze swords. Sometimes Aegeus slammed the shield across the face of a foe, shattering both his shield and his enemy's face, but he conjured another at once.

Ridmark and the Arcanii served as the tip of the spear, and they forced their way into the courtyard, more hoplites spilling through the breach behind them. A wave of undead warriors charged at the hoplites, hoping to force back the living soldiers. They might have done it, but the undead were of no use against a Swordbearer. Ridmark tore into the undead, destroying one of the creatures with every blow and leaving motionless corpses and crumbling bones in his wake.

Then all at once, the orcish warriors were falling back, fleeing towards the keep. Ridmark looked around, trying to spot Archaelon, but there was no sign of the traitor. He ought to have been on the walls, but perhaps he had fled to the keep and its dungeons as soon as the wall had been breached.

Maybe he would try to buy his freedom with the lives of the hostages, including those of the children.

Ridmark hurried towards the keep, Oathshield's urgency matching his own.

###

"Go!" barked Rallios, pointing his sword. "The stairs! Get that goddamned gate under our control! Move!"

Kalussa nodded and followed the decurion and the troop of hoplites. Ten hoplites ran up the rampart stairs, shields raised, swords drawn back to strike. Kalussa had no sword, but flames crackled around her fingers as she held her magic ready. Once they had control of the gate, they would have command of the curtain wall itself, and they could keep orcish archers from pouring arrows into the battle below. It would also give the Keeper a secure place to stand and bring her magic to bear against the orcish warriors.

And against Archaelon and Khurazalin, once they revealed themselves.

The hoplites charged up the stairs and towards the gatehouse, and a half-dozen orcish warriors burst out to meet them. A hoplite died at once, an orcish blade driven through his helmet, as did an orcish warrior, his throat opened by a hoplite's sword.

The hoplites strove against the orcs, and Kalussa began casting spells. She flung a bolt of fire that set an orcish warrior aflame. The warrior screamed as both his clothes and his leather armor caught fire, and he stumbled and fell to his death in the courtyard below. A moment later she gathered her power again. This time her fire blazed hotter, and her spell turned an orcish warrior's head to a smoking, charred skull.

Between that and the spells she had cast during the initial breakthrough, her power was exhausted, and it needed time to recover. Instead of casting another spell, she snatched her bow from over her shoulder, yanked an arrow from the quiver at her belt, and set it to the string. A drawn breath to steady her hands, and she drew back the string, aimed, and released all in one motion. Her arrow thudded into an orcish warrior's shoulder. The orc stumbled back, his red-glazed eyes glaring at her, and the moment of distraction let one of the hoplites cut him down.

Kalussa drew another arrow, looking for foes, but they had cleared the gatehouse.

"Go!" said Rallios. "You, you, you, get that gate open!"

The hoplites scrambled to obey. Kalussa hesitated, wondering if she should help them, but she wasn't strong enough to make much difference in the raw effort of wrestling the gate open. Instead, she looked at the courtyard and saw the hoplites storming through the breach and cutting down the enemy.

She also saw Ridmark carving his way through the undead, striking down one of the creatures with nearly every step. He was forcing his way towards the keep, and sooner or later Archaelon and Khurazalin would respond to the attack. Both the traitor and the Maledictus were now trapped within Castra Chaeldon, and they had no choice but to fight for their lives.

When that happened, Kalussa would be ready. She would hold her magic in reserve until that moment came.

Until then, there were plenty of orcish warriors left to kill.

Kalussa stood upon the ramparts and loosed shaft after shaft at the orcish warriors below.

###

Tamlin cut down another orc, his blue sword running with green blood, and risked a look around.

They were winning. But the battle still hung in the balance. Ridmark was cutting through the undead like a scythe, and the gate was opening, which meant Calliande would soon bring her spells to the fray. But Archaelon and Khurazalin had not yet shown themselves. Tamlin had seen the wraiths that Archaelon had conjured, and he knew firsthand the terrible magical power of a high priest of the Maledicti.

When they struck, they might turn the tide of the battle in their favor.

But there was something Tamlin could do to prevent that.

They had driven the enemy back, across the courtyard and towards the doors to the main keep. As the orcs retreated and the undead fell to Ridmark's fury, they had left the sides of the octagonal keep unguarded.

Including the door that led to the keep's dungeons.

"Aegeus!" said Tamlin. "It's time!"

Aegeus lifted his sword, nodded, and shouted instructions to the hoplites behind him. Ten men followed the two Arcanii as they rushed across the courtyard to the base of the keep. There was a narrow door there, locked and barred, and the hoplites took axes to it and had it open in short order. Tamlin wrenched the door open and hurried down a narrow flight of stone steps.

He came to the gloomy dungeons below the central keep. It was a wide, low chamber with a barrel-vaulted ceiling, the thick pillars standing like a forest. Hundreds of bronze cuirasses and swords had been stacked against one wall, and bronze bars sealed off most of the dungeon from the stairs, with a single door built into the bars.

Hundreds of unarmed hoplites waited behind the bars, surging to their feet as Tamlin and Aegeus hurried over.

"Thunderbolt!" shouted one of the hoplites.

God and the saints, but Tamlin hated that nickname.

"Men of Owyllain!" he shouted. Aegeus went to work on the lock holding the bronze bars, freezing the metal and making in brittle. "In the name of King Hektor Pendragon, we are retaking the castra from the traitor. It's time to fight."

"We're ready!" said another hoplite. Aegeus wrenched the frozen lock away from the bars and swung the door open.

"Good," said Tamlin. "We've work to do. Get yourselves armed and armored and follow me."

###

Calliande ran for the opened gate, flanked by four hoplites that Rallios had assigned to guard her.

The hoplites had poured through the breach, cutting down every orc in their path. Between the orcs and the undead, Archaelon had greater numbers, but as Calliande ran through the gate, she saw that the hoplites were holding fast against the orcish warriors, and Ridmark was tearing his way through the undead like a storm.

She came to a stop as more hoplites streamed from a door at the base of the keep. Did Archaelon have reinforcements? No, those were his prisoners, the men he had taken captive to fuel his necromantic magic. Even as Calliande looked, the freed prisoners charged into the fray, shouting as they avenged themselves on their captors, and the orcish resistance crumbled.

They were winning, but it would not be over until they had defeated Archaelon and Khurazalin.

It would not be over until Calliande had found her sons.

She called on the Sight and swept it over the castra, seeking for both her children and her enemies. At once she found Gareth and Joachim. This close, the necromantic aura did nothing to distort her Sight, and she found the children in one of the higher levels of the keep. Ridmark was heading in that direction, and Calliande would join him, using her magic to burn through the rest of the undead.

As for Archaelon and Khurazalin...

A surge of dark magic blazed before her Sight.

###

Ridmark cut down one last undead creature and strode towards the opened doors of the keep.

Inside he saw a shadowy great hall, dim light leaking through the narrow windows. No doubt Archaelon had fled into the keep once the wall had been breached. Well, he would not be able to hide. Ridmark would find him, and when he did...

Archaelon stepped into sight, striding towards Ridmark.

In his right hand, the traitorous Arcanius carried a bronze sword that crawled and writhed with shadow fire. In his left hand, he carried a staff that looked as if it had been fashioned from human femurs lashed together with bronze wire. A grinning skull topped the staff, its eyes glowing with blue fire.

Ridmark stopped at the base of the shallow stairs leading to the doors, and Archaelon stared at him.

The blue fire in the skull's eyes brightened.

"Ah," said Archaelon. "The Champion failed to kill you, so I suppose I shall have to do it myself."

***

## Chapter 22: Armor & Shield

Ridmark did not bother with words.

Archaelon had taken his children, and the Arcanius had shown himself to be both a traitor and a necromancer. Such a man merited only one fate.

Ridmark charged up the stairs, drawing on Oathshield for speed, hoping to strike and end the battle with a single blow.

Even with Oathshield's speed, Archaelon was faster, or at least his magic was faster. The skull at the end of his staff of bones burned brighter, and a blast of shadow and blue fire hurtled towards Ridmark. He didn't have enough time to dodge, and he had no choice but to bring Oathshield up in guard. The soulblade flared as Archaelon's necromantic attack hammered into him, and Ridmark gritted as his sword shuddered under the attack, but once again Oathshield proved stronger than Archaelon's necromancy.

The ghostly fire winked out, and Ridmark stepped forward.

The wraiths surged towards him.

Archaelon stepped back as he gestured with his staff, and a dozen wraiths flowed towards Ridmark, ghostly blue fire glimmering in their eyes, their translucent bodies of black smoke and mist rippling and writhing. A deathly chill washed through Ridmark as the undead creatures approached him, and once more he fell back. The wraiths surged after him, and Ridmark called on Oathshield to protect him from their deadly touch.

The chill vanished, but so did the augmented strength and speed that the soulblade granted him. It could protect him from potent dark magic, and it could make him stronger and faster, but it could not do both at the same time. Ridmark went on the attack, slashing Oathshield with two-handed swings.

There was one advantage to fighting wraiths. Their immaterial bodies did not slow Ridmark's sword at all. Oathshield ripped through a wraith, its blade blazing hotter with white fire, and the specter shrieked as it unraveled into nothingness. Two more wraiths came for him. One resembled an orcish warrior and the second a hoplite of Owyllain. Ridmark slashed through the first wraith, sidestepped around the second wraith's touch, and ripped his soulblade diagonally through its chest.

Both specters unraveled into nothingness.

Archaelon snarled and pointed his bronze sword at Ridmark. The shadow fire around the blade deepened and darkened, and it spat a bolt of black flame. Ridmark wasn't sure if Oathshield could protect him from the dark magic and the wraiths at the same time, and he decided not to find out. He sidestepped again and swung Oathshield, intercepting the bolt of dark magic. The shadow magic struck the soulblade and shattered, leaving Ridmark untouched. He charged once more, hacking his way through the wraiths, moving closer to Archaelon.

The necromancer snarled again and retreated into the great hall, wraiths rushing towards Ridmark.

###

Calliande saw the battle raging before the doors to the keep, saw Ridmark fighting a mob of wraiths alone. Archaelon stood before the doors, holding a sword of bronze and a staff of bone. Calliande's Sight saw the necromantic magic swirling around him, a power far stronger than he should have been able to wield. She realized that his ritual to raise an army of the dead had been constructed of necromantic magic the way that her spell to tear down the wall had been wrought of the magic of the earth. His ritual wasn't finished, but he was tapping it now, using its stored power to fuel his spells.

"Lady Calliande!"

Calliande glanced to the side and saw Kalussa running towards her, a short bow in hand.

"We must help Lord Ridmark," said Kalussa, breathing hard as she came to a stop. "He cannot fight the wraiths alone."

"Archaelon is the enemy," said Calliande. "If we kill him, that will deal with the undead."

Kalussa nodded. "I shall strike him at once." She began calling fire into her grasp.

"No!" said Calliande. "His wards will turn aside your attack. Wait until I strike, and then cast your spell right after mine. Perhaps you will be able to burn him before he can rebuild his defenses."

Kalussa made a twisting gesture, a sphere of fire spinning to life in her cupped hands. "I shall strike when you give the word, Keeper."

Calliande nodded and started casting her own spell, calling together the power of the Well and the mantle of the Keeper.

###

Ridmark destroyed another wraith, snapping Oathshield up in time to deflect a blast of dark magic from Archaelon. Oathshield let him destroy wraith after wraith, and it protected him from Archaelon's attacks.

But it did not let him move any closer to Archaelon.

The necromancer had called too many wraiths, and he was throwing spell after spell at Ridmark. Forced to defend himself from both the wraiths and the magical attacks, Ridmark was losing ground, retreating step by step into the courtyard. Too much further and the wraiths would get past him to attack the hoplites struggling against the orcs, and unless Calliande was there to defend them, it would be a slaughter.

Then white fire slashed across his vision and struck Archaelon.

The necromancer stumbled back, his eyes going wide, and the second after that a bolt of fire struck him in the left shoulder. Archaelon staggered with a scream of pain, leaning hard upon his staff of bones for balance. Ridmark risked a swift glance over his shoulder and saw Calliande and Kalussa standing side by side as they cast spells. He had seen Calliande do something similar with Antenora during their quest to stop the Frostborn. Calliande would use her magic to break the wards of an enemy wizard, and Antenora would follow up with a devastating attack of elemental fire.

Evidently, Calliande had taught Kalussa the same trick. Both women were already casting new spells.

Archaelon growled and whirled to face them. Kalussa's spell had left a hideous burn across his left shoulder, but he hardly seemed to feel or even notice it. He started another spell of his own, blue fire and shadow mixing together, and Ridmark took the opportunity to attack, cutting down wraith after wraith. The undead creatures swarmed towards him, but they could not stand against the power of Oathshield, and he destroyed them one by one.

And he moved closer to Archaelon.

###

"Behind me!" snapped Calliande.

Kalussa took one look at the storm of dark magic swirling around Archaelon and hastened to obey.

An instant later the traitor unleashed his attack, flinging a lance of withering shadow at Calliande and Kalussa. But the Keeper was ready, and a half-dome of shimmering light appeared before her. Archaelon's lance struck the dome and unraveled, and Calliande attacked again, throwing another shaft of brilliant white fire at the necromancer.

"Strike!" said Calliande as Archaelon's wards collapsed.

Kalussa obeyed at once, throwing all of her will and power and magic into a single spell. The bolt of fire soared from her fingertips, and this time she hit Archaelon in the center of the chest. The impact rocked the necromancer into the doorframe, plates of twisted bronze exploding from his chest, smoke rising from his burned flesh. Archaelon screamed, and for a moment Kalussa thought she had dealt a killing bow to the traitor.

But Archaelon straightened up, casting another spell, and Calliande began another ward.

###

Tamlin cut down an orcish warrior and ripped his sword free, looking around for his next opponent.

For a moment, he couldn't find any.

The men of Owyllain were winning the battle decisively. The orcish soldiers had been shattered, and he saw some of them sprinting for the opened gate. Rallios was making no effort to stop them from fleeing, which was just as well. If the orcish soldiers were trapped, they would fight to the death, likely taking more hoplites with them

But Archaelon and Khurazalin were still somewhere in Castra Chaeldon, and the battle would not be over until they were found.

White and blue fire flashed back and forth across the courtyard, and Tamlin looked towards the keep. He first saw Ridmark Arban, battling against a horde of wraiths with his soulblade burning like a brand in his fists. Calliande and Kalussa stood side-by-side, hurling fire at Archaelon. The traitor stood in the doorway leading to the keep's great hall, a staff of bones and a bronze sword grasped in his hands, dark power snarling and spitting around him.

He was losing. Calliande and Archaelon both wielded magic far beyond Tamlin's skill and knowledge, but he had seen enough battles to know what a man looked like on the verge of defeat, and he saw defeat in Archaelon. Either Calliande would break him, or Ridmark would kill him with Oathshield.

But there was still no sign of Khurazalin. Likely the Maledictus had used his ally as a stalking horse, letting Archaelon take the brunt of the attack. Once Archaelon was slain, and Calliande weakened from the fight, Khurazalin would act. It was how the Maledicti preferred to fight. Khurazalin had even stabbed Tysia from behind, preferring to attack from the shadows rather than risk even the slightest chance that she might be able to hurt him.

Which still did not make sense, even two years later. Tysia couldn't possibly have hurt him...

Tamlin put the thought out of his head and hurried towards Calliande and Kalussa.

He had already killed Khurazalin once before to avenge his wife. He had no objections to doing it again.

###

Ridmark hammered his way through another wraith, his heart thundering in his chest, sweat pouring down his face, his arms and shoulders aching. The long battle had drained him, and he didn't have the stamina he had possessed as a younger man. Even Oathshield's powerful magic could only go so far.

But it didn't matter.

The end of the battle was at hand.

There were only a few wraiths left between him and Archaelon. The necromancer himself was wounded badly. Three of Kalussa's fiery darts had hit him, and one had even grazed the side of his head, transforming the right half of his face into a hideous mass of crimson burns and black char. Archaelon ought to have been in too much agony to move, let alone to fight, but he battled on, locked in his magical duel with the Keeper of Andomhaim.

It was a duel that he would lose. Even alone, Calliande would have been able to overcome Archaelon. With a Swordbearer to aid her, Archaelon's defenses were crumbling.

Especially since with his attention bent towards Calliande, he had no power left to summon wraiths.

Ridmark slashed through two more wraiths, and then the path was clear to Archaelon. He started up the steps, soulblade raised, watching the necromancer for any sign of attack. Archaelon glared at him, his burned lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. He stumbled back a few steps, his sword and staff held out before him.

And then, for some reason, he looked up.

Ridmark shot a swift glance upward, wondering if there were archers above, or perhaps some sort of flying creature, but he didn't see anything.

Then Archaelon screamed and thrust his staff at the sky.

The top level of the keep exploded in a spray of shattered masonry and blue fire.

###

The surge of power came so quickly it took Calliande off guard.

She had been gathering magic to strike again, hoping to weaken Archaelon enough that Ridmark could kill him. During her spell, Tamlin had hurried over, sword in hand. Kalussa demanded to know what he was doing, and Tamlin had said that he expected Khurazalin to attack the Keeper. That seemed reasonable, and Calliande was focused on her spell anyway, so she said nothing.

Then dark magic surged through the keep, and the top level exploded with a deafening roar. An inferno of blue fire snarled and roiled through the shattered masonry, and debris rained into the courtyard, killing a dozen hoplites and orcish soldiers.

Calliande stared at the fireball in horror.

Her sons were up there! She reached for the Sight in sheer panic, and relief flooded through her when she found them. They had not been on the top level of the keep, but instead a level below it.

Then fresh alarm overrode her fear for her children. Archaelon had been conducting his ritual on the top level of the keep, gathering the dark power he needed here. And he had just tapped the entirety of the power he had gathered, driven to a desperate act by his impending defeat.

A ribbon of fire shot from the inferno and coiled around Archaelon, and the necromancer screamed once more.

###

The ribbon of ghostly blue fire wrapped around Archaelon, the power surging through him, and Ridmark raced forward.

Even with Oathshield's magic driving him forward, he was still too slow.

Archaelon threw back his head and howled, and wraiths erupted from the ground around him, hundreds of them at once, overlapping and blurred. Ridmark had to stop and call on Oathshield's power to shield him from the wraiths' life-draining touch. Hundreds of wraiths coiled and wrapped around Archaelon, flowing around him in a blue-glowing haze.

He was armoring himself in wraiths.

And still more wraiths rose from the ground.

###

"Stay close to me!" said Calliande. "Both of you!"

She did not need to tell Kalussa twice.

Dark haze exploded from Archaelon, rolling across the courtyard. An instant before it reached Kalussa, Calliande cast a spell. A dome of translucent white light erupted from the end of her staff, covering Calliande, Kalussa, and Tamlin. The shadowy haze filled the courtyard like water pouring into a bowl, and to Kalussa's horror, ever single hoplite and Arcanius in the courtyard fell over.

Had the haze killed them? No, it seemed to have stunned them. But how long would they stay alive in that miasma of dark energy?

"What is happening?" said Tamlin.

"Archaelon's summoned hundreds of wraiths at once," said Calliande. "He's using them as armor, I think. There are so many of them that they've stunned anyone without magical protection. Maybe I can stop him."

She pushed out her free hand and cast a spell. A shaft of white fire lanced across the courtyard, cutting into Archaelon. At least, it was supposed to have cut into Archaelon. The fire drained away as it crossed the courtyard, the shadowy haze leeching away its strength. Dozens of distorted wraiths clung to Archaelon like a suit of nightmarish armor, and Calliande's weakened spell slammed into the wraiths. Her magic destroyed two or three of them, but more wraiths took their place at once, flowing out of the ground.

Kalussa tried to cast a spell of her own, hurling a bolt of flame at Archaelon. Her effort was even less successful. Her fire barely got twenty yards before it unraveled and vanished.

"Don't bother," said Calliande, her teeth gritted with concentration. "There's too many wraiths. Their combined aura will leech away any magic before it gets to Archaelon. My own spells can barely get to him."

"What about Lord Ridmark?" said Kalussa.

She spotted him standing twenty paces from Archaelon, the shadowy haze flowing past him. He held Oathshield in both hands, the sword raised before him as if to parry. The soulblade blazed with white fire, holding the shadows at bay, yet Ridmark's arms trembled with effort.

"Why does he not strike?" said Tamlin. "He's so close."

"He can't," said Calliande. "It's taking all of Oathshield's power to keep the wraiths' aura from killing him. He's too close to Archaelon. We'll have to get closer."

Calliande gripped her staff in both hands and thrust it forward, the light at the end shining brighter. She started to walk forward, but slowly, her face tight with strain. Likely it took all her strength to move forward through the shadows while maintaining the warding spell. Kalussa and Tamlin followed her, making sure to remain within the light of her ward.

But she wasn't moving fast enough.

Archaelon wavered on his feet for a moment and then turned towards Ridmark, raising his bronze sword. Black fire roiled up and down the blade, and with a surge of horror, Kalussa realized he was going to kill Ridmark. And Ridmark would not be able to defend himself, not with his whole effort going to keeping the wraiths' aura from sucking away his life.

She looked at Calliande. It seemed so cruel, so monstrously cruel. Calliande had lost her daughter, and now she would see her husband slain in front of her? How could the world be so monstrous?

Then Oathshield burned brighter in Ridmark's hands, the flames crawling up his arms as both the soulstones embedded in the weapon shone like stars.

###

"Your foolish attack ruined my labors," said Archaelon, "and it was all for nothing."

The armor of wraiths swirling around his body distorted his voice, making it sound deeper and harsher. Despite the dark haze of the wraiths, his pallor had increased, and his eyes glowed with blue fire. Between that and the burns, he almost looked undead himself. Perhaps the strain of the spell he had unleashed would kill him.

It would not, however, kill Archaelon before he killed Ridmark.

The shadowy haze of the wraiths' combined aura had filled the courtyard, felling the hoplites and the surviving orcish soldiers. Had it killed them? Ridmark could not tell. He saw the familiar white light of Calliande's magic near the gate, and he thought he saw Kalussa and Tamlin with her, but he wasn't sure.

He did know that Calliande would not be able to reach him in time.

"Because no matter what happens here today," said Archaelon, "the New God shall rise in power. Kill me, and it will not affect the outcome. The Seven Swords were the herald. The omens have been millennia in the making, and their fulfillment has come. The New God will rise in glory, and all mortals shall be its slaves or its servants."

And Ridmark knew he had no choice left.

His sons were in the keep. His wife was behind her warding spells. The soldiers, if they were still alive, were trapped by the power of the wraiths. If Ridmark wanted to save them, if he had any chance of saving them, he had only one choice left.

No matter what that choice would cost him.

"But," said Archaelon, "as it happens, you aren't going to kill me. I will kill you, and then Lady Calliande, and all your soldiers. I had hoped to make an army of wraiths, but an army of animated corpses will serve almost as well." He stepped closer, lifting his bronze sword. "A pity you could not see the truth. I..."

Ridmark reached through his bond with Oathshield and unlocked the power stored in the heart of the sword.

Oathshield was a soulblade, and Ridmark was a Swordbearer. But Oathshield was a unique soulblade, and Ridmark was the Shield Knight of Andomhaim. Most soulblades had a single soulstone, but Oathshield had two.

And that additional soulstone gave Ridmark the power he now summoned.

The sword blazed hotter, and the fire leaped from the blade to crawl up Ridmark's arms and over his shoulders. Heat poured through him, making his bones and muscles throb with pain. Archaelon froze in surprise, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

"What is this?" said Archaelon. "Your sword is burning you alive? A most curious form of suicide, I admit, but..."

The white fire covered Ridmark's face, and everything went white.

An instant later, he could see again, and he felt different.

The power of the Shield Knight roared through him like a storm.

"What the devil?" said Archaelon.

The white fire had covered Ridmark from head to toe, and then it had hardened into blue armor the same color as Oathshield. Ridmark now wore blue plate armor, his face concealed beneath a visored helm. Magic thrummed through the armor, power to make him faster and stronger than even a normal Swordbearer.

The armor was also impervious to normal weapons...and resistant to magic.

Which meant Ridmark was no longer pinned in place by the auras of the wraiths.

He leaped forward, the magical armor driving him with terrific speed, Oathshield drawn back to strike. Archaelon realized his danger at the last minute and snapped up his staff of bone. Oathshield ought to have shattered it to splinters, but the soulblade rebounded from the dark magic surging through the weapon. Ridmark caught his balance and swung again, and Archaelon parried once more. The necromancer thrust his sword, and black fire ripped from the weapon and slammed into Ridmark. The impact threw him backward a dozen feet, and he hit the ground, bounced a few times, and came to a stop.

He was unharmed. The armor of the Shield Knight had protected him.

Ridmark bounded back to his feet, Oathshield thrumming in his fist. Archaelon took a step back, his eyes wide with alarm, and cast a spell.

The shadowy haze vanished as Archaelon's magic sucked it back across the courtyard, wrapping it around the necromancer. Archaelon charged with a yell, the wraiths driving him forward, and he met Ridmark in battle, sword and staff flashing as he attacked.

Ridmark stood his ground, Oathshield deflecting and blocking Archaelon's blows.

###

All at once, the haze vanished, the malefic aura drawn back to strengthen Archaelon as he fought Ridmark.

Tamlin blinked in surprise. Ridmark moved so fast that he had become a blur of blue armor and white fire, but Archaelon matched his speed, the wraiths wreathing his limbs in a dark haze.

"What...what happened?" said Kalussa. "Where did the armor come from? How did he do that?"

"He is the Shield Knight," said Calliande, her voice grim. "There is a level of power he can access that other Swordbearers cannot, though it carries a terrible price. But Archaelon withdrew all his magic to attack Ridmark. That means..."

Kalussa was already casting before Calliande had finished speaking. She hurled another bolt of flame at Archaelon, though his wraiths drank the fire without any noticeable effect. Calliande's magic proved more effective. Her shaft of white fire rocked Archaelon back, and Ridmark surged after him, Oathshield rising and falling in his two-handed grip like a sledgehammer. Tamlin hesitated, unsure of what to do. He could throw a lightning blast at Archaelon, but he doubted it would do any good. Should he join the fight at Ridmark's side? All that would do was get Tamlin killed. There was no way he could move as fast as the Shield Knight and the traitorous Arcanius.

And then a flash of red came into sight.

Khurazalin glided up behind Archaelon, blue fire crackling around his fingers as he cast a spell.

Neither Archaelon nor Ridmark saw him. For that matter, Calliande didn't see him either, her full attention on Archaelon and her husband. Tamlin was standing just far enough to Calliande's right that he saw Khurazalin as the Maledictus approached around the base of the keep, his red robe rippling around his withered, undead frame.

And Khurazalin was about to cast a spell at Ridmark.

This was it. This was what the Dark Lady had warned him about.

Khurazalin came to a stop, the blue fire around his leathery fingers brightening. His attention was focused on Ridmark, and Tamlin wondered if Khurazalin had cast any warding spells to protect himself.

It was time to find out.

He sprinted forward, dark elven sword in his right hand, lightning gathering in his left hand. Khurazalin raised his arms, the dark magic between his palms brightening as his spell reached its climax. At last Khurazalin noticed Tamlin's presence and started to turn, and Tamlin unleashed his magic.

A bolt of lightning leaped from Tamlin's palm, all his power and rage behind it. The bolt slammed into Khurazalin, coiling up and down his body, the sleeves of his elaborate crimson robe catching fire. Tamlin sprang after his bolt, his sword drawn back to swing with both hands. He aimed for Khurazalin's neck, hoping to take off the Maledictus's head.

At the last instant, Khurazalin reached into his robe and yanked out a bronze sword. He deflected Tamlin's stroke and glided backward. Tamlin pursued him, thrusting and swinging his blade, but Khurazalin retreated.

"Come to avenge your Tysia, Tamlin Thunderbolt?" said Khurazalin, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Not today. But fear not. I have other work first, but we shall meet again very shortly."

He gestured, and his form transformed, becoming a specter of mist and pale blue light. Tamlin snarled and slashed again, and his sword passed through Khurazalin without touching anything. The specter turned and fled with incredible speed, vanishing through the wall.

Tamlin growled in frustration, then his reason reasserted itself, and he ran back to the fight.

###

Ridmark slashed Oathshield at Archaelon's head and chest and legs. Whatever necromancy Archaelon used made him stronger and faster...but not as strong and as fast as the power of the Shield Knight made Ridmark. Archaelon retreated into the great hall, stumbling past the pillars supporting the balconies. Ridmark did not slow his attacks, his magical armor protecting him from the increasingly frantic spells Archaelon flung at him. He forced Archaelon to parry with either his staff of bones or his bronze sword.

And, in the end, the staff proved no match for Oathshield.

Archaelon parried with the staff, and it exploded in a spray of bones, bronze wire, and blue flame. The necromancer stumbled back with a cry, and as he did, the wraiths around him unraveled and vanished. The staff had been the locus of the spell, and without it, the summoning was broken.

Before Archaelon could regain his balance, Ridmark drove Oathshield forward. The soulblade plunged through the damaged bronze armor and reached Archaelon's heart. The necromancer fell to his knees with a groan, his pale face going slack.

"Useless," he croaked. "Useless, useless, useless."

"You should have realized that sooner," said Ridmark. The helmet made his voice metallic, harsh, unrecognizable.

Archaelon turned a bleeding smile towards Ridmark.

"No," whispered Archaelon. "Your victory. Useless. The New God will come, and he will destroy you..."

Ridmark yanked Oathshield from Archaelon's chest and swung. The strike took the necromancer's head off, and head and body fell to the floor. Best to be safe. If Khurazalin had returned from death as an undead creature, then he might have taught the spell to Archaelon as well. Speaking of which, Ridmark needed to find Khurazalin. The Maledictus was still around here somewhere, and...

All at once, Ridmark's grip on the power of the Shield Knight vanished.

The power was too much. Ridmark could only hold it for so long, and he had reached his limits. The armor turned back into white fire and vanished, and Ridmark swayed on his feet as exhaustion struck him.

And then the pain came.

The power of the Shield Knight had a price.

Ridmark fell to one knee with a grunt, the agony rolling through him in increasing waves. Terrible pain mixed with exhaustion, and he could not stand, could barely breathe. He felt something wet and hot on his lips and chin and realized that he was bleeding from the nose.

"Ridmark!"

He managed to look up and saw Calliande go to her knees next to him, her hands on his shoulders.

"The children," Ridmark croaked. "The children. Find...find the..."

The pain swallowed him as he collapsed to the floor, and Ridmark knew no more.

***

## Chapter 23: Visions

Ridmark drifted in nothingness for a long, long time.

Slowly, bit by bit, visions came into focus before his eyes.

For that was the other cost of the Shield Knight's power.

Ridmark had to relive his life every time he used the power of the Shield Knight.

Specifically, he had to relive his sorrows.

Again he saw his mother lying on her deathbed.

More sorrows flashed before his eyes, more agonies. Aelia lay on the black and white tiles of Castra Marcaine's great hall, the spreading pool of her blood turning the tiles crimson. He walked into Dun Licinia's great hall and saw Morigna's lifeless eyes gazing at the ceiling, her throat a bloody ruin from the Weaver's claws. Other faces flashed before his eyes. The faces of knights and men-at-arms he had commanded in battle, men who had fallen to the blades of their enemies. Widows weeping as they learned of their husbands' fate, mothers weeping as they learned their sons would not return home.

But always the visions returned to the same scene.

Calliande, haggard, disheveled, and exhausted, sitting on her bed, holding the body of their daughter as she sobbed uncontrollably.

The visions returned him to that room and that awful moment, the moment itself proceeded by weeks of fear and pain. Ridmark had known despair several times during his life, but this had been an entirely new kind, and it threatened to choke him.

What was the use? What was the use of anything? All things ended in death and sorrow. Best to lie down and stop fighting, to let...

No.

That was the trap.

That was the final test of the sword of the Shield Knight. Ardrhythain had known Ridmark all too well, had known that despair was Ridmark's weakness. Oathshield could make him all but invincible for a short time, but such power could be abused. And to make sure that he would not abuse the power, Oathshield gave him a test every time he used the power of the Shield Knight.

Once more Ridmark saw those he had lost. His mother, his father, Dux Gareth, Aelia, Morigna, Joanna, and the despair rose in him. But Ridmark fought against it. Calliande needed him, now more than ever. Joanna's death had hit him hard, but it had been worse for Calliande. His sons needed him. And if he managed to get back to Andomhaim, he had duties there, friends who would need him.

Ridmark turned and clawed his way from the despair, moving closer to the light.

Gradually, he became aware of other things.

His shoulders and knees and hips ached. Just as well he was lying down on something soft. He was looking at a stone ceiling, a shaft of sunlight stretching across it. He could sense Oathshield a few feet away, likely leaning against the wall. The air smelled of old wood smoke and rock dust. His right arm was numb, but that was because something warm and heavy was lying on it.

Ridmark concentrated, and after a while, he turned his head.

Joachim lay next to him, his head pillowed on Ridmark's shoulder.

Ridmark felt relief, overpowering relief, that the boy was safe. Then came confusion. Just how had he gotten here?

Ridmark started to sit up, and Joachim's eyes popped open.

"Father?" said Joachim, blinking.

"Joachim," said Ridmark. "How..."

"Mother!" shrieked Joachim at the top of his lungs, right into Ridmark's ear. He bounded off the bed. "Mother, he's awake! Mother! Mother!"

Joachim darted through a wooden door and vanished into a stone hallway.

Ridmark managed to sit up after a moment.

He was in a stone room with a bed, a chair, and a small desk. A narrow window overlooked a courtyard and a curtain wall, rocky hills spreading away in the distance. Ridmark recognized it as the courtyard of Castra Chaeldon, which meant he was in the central keep. His foggy mind swam back into focus. He remembered the battle, the fury of Archaelon's necromancy, the wrath of the Shield Knight...

"Father!"

Joachim raced back into the room and jumped into his lap with enough force that Ridmark almost fell over. Ridmark laughed and caught the boy around the shoulders. A moment later Gareth came in the room, and his usually serious face lit up in a smile. Calliande followed him, smiling, and Ridmark blinked in surprise.

For some reason, he had expected her to look as she did in the vision the sword had shown him. Instead, she looked as she did in his memory of the day he had married her, blond and blue-eyed and smiling at him.

"Father," said Gareth, and he hugged Ridmark. "I am glad you are well."

"Gareth said you wouldn't wake up for another week," said Joachim, "but I thought you would wake up today. I was right, and Gareth was wrong."

Gareth scowled at his brother. The sight of them bickering, healthy and alive and bickering, was so normal that Ridmark felt a lump in his throat.

"Well," he said, "I don't think anyone was right. I didn't know when I would wake up."

"I was afraid," said Joachim, "that you would never ever wake up."

"No," said Ridmark. "I was just tired and needed a rest, that's all. Someday when you're a knight, you'll understand."

"Mother and Lady Kalussa and Lord Tamlin..." started Joachim.

"Sir Tamlin," corrected Gareth.

"Sir Lord Tamlin," said Joachim, unfazed, "they say you defeated a wicked wizard and saved the day."

"I don't know about that," said Ridmark. "I just tried to do my duty. That's all a knight or any man can do."

"Boys," said Calliande. "Why don't you go with Kalussa in the courtyard? If your father is feeling up to it, we'll all have breakfast in the great hall."

"Race you!" said Joachim. He took off for the door. At once Gareth started running after him, refusing to be beaten by his little brother.

Ridmark looked up at Calliande.

"How are they?" said Ridmark.

"They're fine," said Calliande. "Thank God and all the saints, they're fine. A little frightened. Gareth has nightmares about the orcs. Joachim does, too. But they weren't hurt. They were even fed well, and were kept in this room, away from the other prisoners." Her mouth twisted. "I think Archaelon intended to use their lives for some filthy necromantic spell once he had completed his ritual. The blood of children is most potent for necromancy, which is why the Magistri and the Swordbearers always kill necromancers."

"Good," said Ridmark. "Good. God has been merciful to us."

"He has been merciful to me," said Calliande, and she sat next to him and hugged him so hard that his ribs creaked a little.

They sat like that for a time. Ridmark put his arm around her shoulders as she cried in silence for a little while, her head resting against his chest.

"It's always hard," said Calliande when she pulled herself together, "when you use the power of the Shield Knight."

"Yes," said Ridmark. "I didn't think I had any choice."

"No," said Calliande. She sniffled and wiped the tears from her eyes. "No. You did the right thing. You won the battle."

"How long was I out this time?" said Ridmark.

"Two days," said Calliande.

Ridmark nodded. The last time it had been three. "What happened while I was unconscious?"

"The last of the orcs fled," said Calliande. "Sir Parmenio ought to be in command, but he's too taciturn, so Rallios has been giving the orders. He's got the hoplites building a temporary wall to seal the breach." She glanced towards the ceiling. "I'm afraid Archaelon blew off the top level of the tower when he drained his ritual to empower himself. That will probably take some engineers and masons from Aenesium to repair."

"Probably," said Ridmark. A thought occurred to him. "What about Khurazalin? I didn't see him anywhere."

Calliande sighed. "He got away. He tried to attack you from behind during the fight, and Tamlin interrupted him. Khurazalin fled rather than fight, and we haven't seen any sight of him."

Ridmark grunted. "Likely he's run back to Urd Maelwyn and the Confessor. Or he's off somewhere plotting evil. I suppose he's already died once for this New God of his. Maybe he didn't want to do it twice."

"Sir Tamlin was disappointed," said Calliande. "I think he wanted to kill Khurazalin again."

"I can understand that," said Ridmark. He remembered his conversation with the young knight outside the walls. "At least he didn't try to get himself killed doing it."

"No," said Calliande. "He seems the sort to drown his sorrows in wine and women."

Ridmark snorted. "Maybe that's wiser than running off to chase the Frostborn for years."

To his surprise, she smiled at that. "I don't think so. Because if you hadn't, I would have died years ago." The smile faded, and an echo of the sorrow came over her face. "And we all must deal with grief in our own way."

"I know," said Ridmark.

They sat in silence for a while.

"But there is less grief today than there would have been otherwise," said Ridmark. "Our sons are safe. Archaelon would have killed all those hoplites, and God knows how many more people if he managed to summon that army of wraiths." He smiled at her. "And I suppose you spent the last few days healing every single wound the hoplites took."

She sighed. "Those I could help, anyway. And only those with wounds that would have been mortal or crippling. If Khurazalin returned, I wanted to be ready. You and I are the only ones here with a solid chance of defeating him in a fight." She looked at him and squeezed his hand. "Ridmark."

"Yes?"

Calliande hesitated. "What are we going to do now? We got Gareth and Joachim back, but I didn't think beyond that. We're thousands of miles from home, and I have no idea how to get back. What are we going to do?"

"We're going to find Rhodruthain," said Ridmark, "and make him send us back. If he's the Guardian of Cathair Animus, presumably we can get his attention by going to Cathair Animus."

"I don't know where Cathair Animus is," said Calliande, "but it's a long way from here. Tamlin said it's to the east of Urd Maelwyn, and between here and there are orcish Warlords and the armies of the Confessor."

"We'll find a way," said Ridmark. "First, though, I think we should go to Aenesium. I promised Sir Tyromon that I would return his sword to King Hektor and tell him what happened here. We might be able to find help and supplies there." His voice hardened. "Or Rhodruthain will come to us first."

"If he does," said Calliande, "I'm going to wring some answers from him, even if I have to beat them out of him with my staff." Then she smiled.

"What is it?" said Ridmark.

"At least we're together," said Calliande. "You and me and the boys. If we had been separated, that would have been unbearable. Especially since I haven't been...I haven't been well lately."

"Yes," said Ridmark.

"Would you like some breakfast?" said Calliande. "Supplies are no longer a problem. It seems Archaelon had least had the wit to keep the castra well-supplied."

"I would," said Ridmark, getting to his feet. He still felt a little light-headed, but then he hadn't eaten in two days.

"And I think the others would like to see you," said Calliande. "I gather the War of the Seven has been stalemated for a long time. Victories like this are rare."

Ridmark nodded, and he donned his armor and cloak, belted Oathshield at his waist, and followed Calliande from the room.

###

"So there are really no horses in all of Owyllain?" said Gareth. The boy looked skeptical.

"It's true!" Kalussa insisted. "When our ancestors came here a long time ago, they brought horses with them. But this is a harsh land, and all our horses died. So, the men of Owyllain only fight on foot."

"Then how do you ride anywhere?" said Joachim. He seemed bewildered at the thought.

Kalussa laughed. "We do not. We walk. We have scutians as beasts of burden, but the men of Owyllain must walk."

"What's a scutian?" said Gareth.

"A big lizard," said Kalussa. She spread her arms as if in emphasis. "Bigger than I am. We used them to pull carts. They're very placid, but they have sharp beaks."

"I've never seen a lizard that big," said Gareth.

"Well, maybe if you're both good and you do what your mother and father tell you," said Kalussa, "I will show you one later."

"I always do what my mother and father tell me," said Gareth.

"No, you don't," said Joachim.

"Yes, I do."

Joachim smiled in triumph. "They told us not to bicker, and we're bickering."

Gareth frowned as he puzzled over that logic.

Kalussa laughed despite herself, drawing amused looks from the hoplites eating their breakfast in the great hall.

She had not expected to like Ridmark's and Calliande's sons so much. Maybe it shouldn't have surprised her. Kalussa usually liked children and wanted some of her own. But after the battle, after Calliande had found the boys and Tamlin and Aegeus had helped take Ridmark to bed to rest, Calliande had devoted her attention to healing the wounded. Gareth and Joachim had followed her, clearly desperate to see their mother once more. Calliande had just as obviously wanted to keep her children in sight, but she had also wanted to spare them the sight of the blood and suffering.

So Kalussa had kept the children distracted as their mother went about her work. She had taken to them almost at once, and the boys seemed to like her. Which was a relief, because Kalussa had come to admire their parents so much.

Truth be told, watching the children made Kalussa...well, if not happy, at least content. Again, she felt a pang. She wondered what her life would have been like if she had not been Swordborn, if she had not been born with the so-called "gift" of magic. Perhaps she would have been a lady-in-waiting to one of Aenesium's noblewomen, tending to their children. Maybe she would have been a concubine with children of her own already, perhaps even a wife.

Instead, she had been born with magic, and so she had been trained as a Sister of the Order, forced to fight in defense of her homeland and people.

Well. It could have been worse. Archaelon might have made it far worse.

"You look sad," said Joachim.

"I'm not sad," said Kalussa, which almost true. Mostly, she was grateful. "I was just thinking about..."

A stir at the other end of the hall caught her attention.

Kalussa saw Ridmark and Calliande emerge from the stairs. Ridmark looked tired, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and the lines in his face seemed somehow deeper. Using the power of the Shield Knight obviously took a severe toll upon him. Yet he was walking with his usual vigor, and Calliande smiled as she looked at him.

A stab of jealousy went through Kalussa, followed by guilt. If Calliande had been some sort of loathsome harridan, that would have been one thing. But she wasn't. Kalussa found she respected Calliande a great deal. She was like one of the old legends about the ancient Keepers come to life, and without her, Archaelon would have been victorious.

Several of the hoplites rose and bowed to Ridmark as he passed, and he stopped and thanked them for fighting valiantly in the battle. Both Gareth and Joachim ran for their parents, and Kalussa found herself forced to run after them. She supposed that was beneath the dignity of a daughter of Pendragon blood, but she didn't care.

"Mother!" announced Joachim. "Kalussa says there aren't any horses in Owyllain!"

"Well, she's right," said Calliande. "Did you behave for Lady Kalussa?"

Kalussa smiled. "They did, my lady. They were perfect little knights."

"I told you so," said Joachim to Gareth.

"Thank you for looking after them," said Calliande. "You've been a great help."

"Thank you for your efforts in the battle as well," said Ridmark. Kalussa wasn't sure she had done all that much that was useful, but the compliment pleased her.

"Come," said Calliande. "Let's have some breakfast."

Kalussa watched them, thinking.

She was not naïve. She wanted children, but Kalussa knew she might become the concubine or even the wife of some thuggish brute or a cruel idiot. Certainly, she had not met many men like Ridmark Arban. For that matter, she knew that both Ridmark and Calliande thought the custom of concubinage in Owyllain immoral.

They thought that now, of course. But if they were trapped in Owyllain...

Well, the passing of years could change someone's mind.

And Kalussa thought she could be patient.

###

Tamlin dreamed as he slept, and this time he dreamed of Tysia.

The memories flashed through his sleeping mind. The games they had played at the Monastery of St. James as children, chasing each other around the keep and the cloisters. When he had met her years later in Urd Maelwyn, exhausted and wounded. He had been overjoyed to see her again and stunned by how attracted he had been to her.

Their first night together after they had been married, the first time he had been with a woman.

Lying with her in the dark silence of his cell, whispering about what they would do when they escaped.

Inevitably, the dreams turned dark.

The looked of stunned surprise on her face, Khurazalin's bloody blade jutting from her chest. Tamlin screamed and ran to her, but he was too slow, just he had been in real life, he was always too slow...

Then he stumbled and found himself somewhere else.

Somewhere he had never been before.

Startled, he turned around. He was in a huge domed chamber of weathered, crumbling white stone, at least as large as the Agora of Connmar in Aenesium. Shafts of sunlight leaked through holes in the crumbling ceiling, falling upon the weed-choked floor. A round pool filled the central third of the floor, rippling water lashing at its rim, and within the pool...

Tamlin blinked in surprise and stepped closer, his hand falling to his sword's hilt.

Within the pool was a storm.

He had never seen anything like it. A storm, more violent and powerful than any he had ever experienced, a whirling vortex of black clouds and snarling lighting, spun in silence beneath the waters. It looked colossal, and Tamlin had a sudden sense of vertigo as if he stood on the edge of a vast precipice. Looking at the storm filled him with a strange and indescribable dread.

As if he was looking at a storm that would end the world.

He took a step back and looked away from the well, and the vertigo and dread started to fade.

"You begin to understand, then," said a woman's voice, formal and a bit acerbic.

Tamlin turned and saw the Dark Lady watching him, tattered cloak shifting around her in the chill wind rising from the strange well.

"You know," said Tamlin, "if this is a dream, you could make it more pleasant. More naked women, for one."

The Dark Lady rolled her eyes. "You spend enough time thinking about that in your waking hours, Tamlin Thunderbolt. Now it is time to attend to more serious matters."

"What is this place?" said Tamlin.

The Dark Lady stepped closer to the well, her sigil-carved staff tapping against the stone floor. "Where it began."

"Where what began?" said Tamlin.

"In a way," said the Dark Lady, "the history of your realm of Owyllain. It was here that the gray elves began. It was here that the Sovereign began."

"I don't understand," said Tamlin, exasperated. The Dark Lady's warnings had saved his life more than once, but by God, she loved her blasted riddles.

Her black eyes met his. "It is where the New God will rise if it is not stopped."

"Find me again," said Tysia in his memory. "The New God is coming."

"Tell me more," said Tamlin.

"If you want to stop the New God," said the Dark Lady, "if you want to understand what your wife told you before she died, then stay close to the Shield Knight and the Keeper. Make sure they are safe. For Rhodruthain the Guardian is mad, but beneath his madness is brilliance. He brought them here for a reason."

"What reason?" said Tamlin.

"The Shield Knight and the Keeper of Andomhaim," said the Dark Lady, "are the only ones who can stop the return of the New God. Otherwise, Archaelon's and Khurazalin's prophecies shall come true. The New God will rise, and all shall be its slaves."

"Then tell me more," said Tamlin.

"Not yet," said the Dark Lady. "You are not yet at the proper point in time."

"For God's sake," said Tamlin, annoyed.

"Stay close to the Keeper and the Shield Knight," said the Dark Lady. "For both they and the realm of Owyllain have enemies that you know not, and those foes shall be waiting for you at Aenesium."

"Fine," said Tamlin, still irritated.

She gazed at him for a moment and then offered a fond smile.

"You did well, Tamlin Swordborn," said the Dark Lady. "Khurazalin would have slain Ridmark if not for your intervention."

"Then perhaps you can reward me by saying something plainly for once," said Tamlin.

"Very well. Do you know why I chose you?" said the Dark Lady.

"My dashing charm?" said Tamlin.

She laughed at that. "Because Archaelon was right, in a way. You are an anomaly. A flaw in the dark plans of the New God. You were never supposed to have been born, but you were, and that is the key. The Keeper and the Shield Knight are the only ones who can stop the New God...but without you, they will fail."

The dream dissolved, the Dark Lady and the ruined chamber and the terrifying storm-choked well vanishing into nothingness.

Tamlin awoke in the courtyard of Castra Chaeldon, wrapped in his cloak, and for a few moments, he alternated between sorrow at the memory of Tysia and vast annoyance at the Dark Lady.

Well. She had saved his life. He did owe her gratitude.

But her riddling speech was still irritating.

He worked off his frustration by dueling Aegeus with practice bamboo swords taken from the castra's armory. Though Tamlin was a better swordsman than Aegeus. Without either false pride or false modesty, Tamlin knew he was one of the best swordsmen in Owyllain.

The brutal training of the dvargir gamemasters had seen to that.

"Well," said Aegeus, lowering his bamboo blade and wiping sweat from his forehead, "what do you think we'll do now?"

Tamlin shrugged and glanced at the jagged top of the damaged keep. "We'll probably need to return to Aenesium. Someone needs to tell King Hektor what happened here."

Aegeus snorted. "In other words, we're waiting for Lord Ridmark to wake up and tell us what to do."

Tamlin laughed. "More or less. That's one of the benefits of not being in charge. Someone else gets to make the hard decisions."

"I suppose you could have command of Castra Chaeldon if you wanted it," said Aegeus.

"So could you," said Tamlin. "We're both Arcanii. You have as much right to it as I do."

"God, no!" said Aegeus with a laugh. "What would I do all day? No, King Hektor needs to appoint a new commander to hold the castra, and that is that. We..."

He fell silent and turned his head.

Ridmark Arban approached from the doors of the keep. For some reason, he was carrying that bamboo staff again, though he didn't seem to be limping. Lady Calliande came after him, as did Lady Kalussa and Ridmark's two sons. It amused Tamlin to no end to see the haughty Lady Kalussa playing nanny to two small children, but she seemed to enjoy it.

Odd. He wouldn't have thought that of Kalussa. But sometimes people were surprising.

"Lord Ridmark!" said Aegeus. "It is good to see you on your feet, sir. By God, you looked like death itself when Lady Calliande had us carry you to bed."

"You should have seen my opponent," said Ridmark in a dry voice.

Aegeus laughed at that. "I did before the Keeper had us burn his body. He looked quite the worse for wear."

"It seems I owe you my life, Sir Tamlin," said Ridmark. "Thank you."

"It was only my duty, sir," said Tamlin. "And between you and Lady Calliande, you saved the lives of nearly five hundred hoplites, a score of Arcanii, and kept a strong fortress from falling into the hands of King Hektor's enemies. I suppose I would have to save your life five hundred more times before we were even."

"Hopefully, you shall not have the chance," said Ridmark. "I think it would be best if Rallios stayed in command of the castra until King Hektor appoints a replacement. I am leaving for Aenesium tomorrow, and I would like you, Sir Aegeus, Sir Parmenio, and Lady Kalussa to come with me. We'll need guides, and frankly, King Hektor and his men will be more likely to believe our tale if you came with us."

"My father is a fair and just man, Lord Ridmark," said Kalussa at once. "He will believe you."

"For once, I agree with Lady Kalussa," said Tamlin. "It is only King Hektor that has kept King Justin or the Confessor or the Necromancer of Trojas from conquering all of Owyllain."

Ridmark nodded. "I would like to find Rhodruthain and force him to send my family and me back to Andomhaim. But if that is not possible...well, best to be on good terms with King Hektor.

"Very well," said Tamlin. "I would be honored to travel with you."

And, in truth, it was what he wanted to do anyway.

The Dark Lady had told him the key to understanding his wife's final words lay with the Shield Knight and the Keeper.

Unease went through him at the thought.

Her warnings had come true before.

So, what unseen enemies awaited them at Aenesium?

Tamlin didn't know, but he vowed to be ready.

***

## Chapter 24: The Company

The next morning, Ridmark walked through the gate of Castra Chaeldon. Calliande walked alongside him, and Sir Tamlin, Sir Aegeus, and Lady Kalussa followed. With them came twenty hoplites and Sir Parmenio, who would send scouts ranging over the hills in search of enemies.

Five wagons holding supplies came after, each one driven by a hoplite and drawn by a pair of scutians. Both Gareth and Joachim were fascinated by the big, placid lizards, which was just as well because they would spend some time riding in those wagons. Ridmark intended to have them walk as much as possible to build their strength, but an eight-year-old and a three-year-old boy could only walk so far in a day.

He looked to the south, at the road winding its way over the hills and past the sea, and looked at Calliande.

She was smiling.

He blinked in surprise. It had been a long time since he had happened to look at Calliande and seen her smiling for no reason.

"What?" said Calliande, though she still smiled.

"You look pleased to start the journey," said Ridmark.

"Do you know, I think I am," said Calliande. She blinked a few times. "I think, Ridmark...I think maybe I spent too long in once place. Too long at the domus." She squeezed his hand for a moment. "I think a journey would do me good. Though I admit, this is not the journey I would have chosen."

Ridmark laughed. "No. But let's make the best of it, shall we? Sir Parmenio!"

"My lord," said Parmenio, jogging over.

"Send the scouts out," said Ridmark. "We are leaving."

Parmenio nodded, and half the hoplites ranged out, bows in hand.

Ridmark glanced back at the wagons, saw Tamlin explaining to Gareth and Joachim how to steer a scutian. Calliande looked back at them and grinned.

The contentment that fell over Ridmark felt out of place.

He was thousands of miles from home, and he was in the midst of a war and a land that he did not fully understand.

But his wife and children were with him.

For now, that was enough.

***

## Epilogue: The Guardians

The battle raged across the beach below the grim walls of Xenorium.

Rhodruthain, the last Guardian of Cathair Animus, fought for his life.

He had been burned in a half-dozen places, and fatigue made his arms tremble and his legs watery. The Dragon Staff of the Guardian burned in his hand, blazing with arcane fire, and his link to the Well of Storms flooded him with magical power.

That link was the only thing that kept him on his feet.

The seven high priests of the Maledicti glided towards him, dark magic snarling around their undead fingers. Rhodruthain could have taken any two or three of them in a magical battle, but he could not defeat all seven of them at once. The Maledicti fought in perfect harmony, each one of the undead orcish warlocks devoted to their malevolent master.

"It is over, old man," said Khurazalin, his ornate red robes rippling around his wasted form. "Lie down and die. It will be so much easier."

Rhodruthain snarled in defiance, summoning more power as he backed towards the pounding surf. The Maledicti were dangerous enough.

The creature coming behind them was worse.

Once the creature had been a mortal Arcanius named Cavilius. Now he wore black plate armor from head to foot, forged of some metal that not even Rhodruthain recognized. A black mask of the same metal covered his face, and a hooded black cloak streamed from his broad shoulders.

In his right hand, he carried the Sword of Shadows, and illusions poured from that cursed blade. The Sword of Shadows was one of the Seven Swords that poor Kothlaric had taken from Urd Maelwyn, unknowing of their power and purpose.

And with the Sword of Shadows, the man who had been Cavilius had instead become the Masked One of Xenorium.

The Masked One raised his hand, and again illusions burned through Rhodruthain's mind, images of horror and carnage beyond anything even his ancient mind had seen. It was too much, and Rhodruthain fell to one knee with a cry of agony, leaning upon the Dragon Staff for balance.

But still, he held onto his magic.

"Finish him and bring me his Sword," said the Masked One, his voice metallic and distorted.

The Maledicti began their killing spell.

Rhodruthain grinned at them, for they were too late. All through their battle, he had been gathering power, and at last, he had enough magic summoned to cast his travel spell.

"No!" said the Masked One. "Stop..."

Blue light swallowed the world.

When it cleared, Rhodruthain found himself in the vast white chamber at the heart of Cathair Animus. Shafts of sunlight leaked through the crumbling dome of the ceiling, falling upon the weeds forcing their way through the gaps between the white flagstones. The ruins of the dark elves and the high elves would last forever. The ruins of the gray elves were slowly crumbling into the dust of time.

But the Well of Storms would last forever.

And that was the problem.

The storm at the Well's heart snarled and twisted, power enough to shatter the world writhing beneath the waters.

The Ring Gate was the other part of the problem.

It stood at the edge of the Well, just where it had appeared on the day Kothlaric had come to Cathair Animus to destroy the Seven Swords. It was a ring of dark elven steel, exactly twelve feet in diameter, its circumference seemingly fashioned of twisted wire. Spaced at equidistant points about the ring were seven slots.

Seemingly perfect for holding seven swords.

Rhodruthain started to rise, and the agony from his wounds forced him back to the ground.

He had no choice. He drew the Sword of Life from its scabbard at his belt, grasped the hilt, and drew on its power. The Sword blazed with golden light, and that light plunged into him.

Agony exploded through him, and Rhodruthain screamed until, mercifully, he passed out.

A few days later he awoke and stood, his wounds healed.

The Dark Lady stood next to him, translucent and shimmering, her black eyes hard with wrath.

"Are you senile, or merely a fool?" said the Dark Lady.

"Mmm?" said Rhodruthain. He knew she had been human when she was still properly alive, and humans were always so impatient.

Of course, humans hardly had sole possession of that particular vice.

"I told you that Ridmark and Calliande might be able to help you," snapped the Dark Lady. "I did not tell you to kidnap them and bring you here. I certainly did not tell you to bring their children!"

Rhodruthain shook his head, trying to clear it. He was too old now, far too old. He should have died a long, long time ago.

But there was no one else to carry the burden of his duty, so he kept going.

"Would you rather they have been separated from their children?" said Rhodruthain. "That would hardly have been preferable."

The other Guardian stared at him. "I would rather you have not kidnapped them at all."

"No," said Rhodruthain. "No, there is no time."

"Their children could have died at Castra Chaeldon."

"Yes," said Rhodruthain, gazing at the Ring Gate and the Well of Storms beyond it. "They could have. And if the New God is not stopped, their children and many others will die."

###

Khurazalin gazed at the sand where Rhodruthain had been, annoyed.

No matter. The troublesome old relic would not be able to hinder them for much longer. Too many things were in motion, and only Rhodruthain, the Maledicti, and the Masked One knew the truth.

And no one in Owyllain would believe Rhodruthain.

That had been one of the Masked One's cleverer plans.

"Maledicti," said Masked One.

"My lord?" said Khurazalin, turning towards the bearer of the Sword of Shadows.

"The time has come. Are the disciples in Aenesium ready?"

"They are, my lord," said Khurazalin. "Even better, the Shield Knight and the Keeper are traveling there now."

"Excellent. We shall rid ourselves of our most dangerous foes with one stroke. Send word to the disciples in the city. The time has come."

"With pleasure, my lord," said Khurazalin.

The city of Aenesium would be ashes, and with it, all the New God's chief enemies.

Including the Shield Knight and the Keeper.

THE END

Thank you for reading SEVENFOLD SWORD: CHAMPION!

But there are more adventures to come for Ridmark and Calliande in SEVENFOLD SWORD: SWORDBEARER (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=8067), the next book in the series coming in late 2017.

If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189).

***

## Glossary of Characters

ACCOLON PENDRAGON: The son of Sir Arandar and grandson of the High King.

ADRASTEA PENDRGON: The wife of King Hektor Pendragon.

ARDRHYTHAIN: The last archmage of the high elves, and the founder of the Order of the Magistri and the Order of the Soulblade.

AEGEUS: A Knight of the Order of the Arcanii, strong with water magic.

AELIA LICINIUS ARBAN: The eldest daughter of Gareth Licinius, and the late wife of Ridmark Arban. Killed at Castra Marcaine by Mhalek.

AGRIMNALAZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban in Urd Arowyn.

ANTENORA: A former apprentice of the last Keeper of Avalon upon Old Earth, cursed by Mordred Pendragon's dark magic to live forever until she finds redemption. Now the apprentice of Calliande of Tarlion.

ARANDAR PENDRAGON: A Knight of the Order of the Soulblade and current bearer of the soulblade Heartwarden. The bastard son of the High King Uthanaric Pendragon, and the father of Accolon and Nyvane. Plague killed his wife Isolde. Currently the Prince Regent of the loyalist army of Andomhaim.

ARCHAELON: A Knight of the Order of the Arcanii.

ARLMAGNAVA: A Frostborn woman, a Seeker of the Order of the Inquisition of the Dominion of the High Lords, the military Order of the Frostborn devoted to spying and recruitment of allies.

AXAZAMAR: The King of Khald Tormen and older brother of Narzaxar.

AZAKHUN: A dwarven Taalmak of Khald Tormen. Caius baptized him into the faith of the Dominus Christus in the Vale of Stone Death.

THE ARTIFICER: A dark elven noble and wizard, formerly the apprentice of the Warden. His spirit was bound to the Iron Tower. Defeated by Ridmark and his companions.

AVENTINE ROCARN: A knight in service to Tarrabus Carhaine.

BORS DURIUS: A son of Dux Kors Durius of Durandis.

CADWALL GWYRDRAGON: The Prince of Cintarra, the largest city in Andomhaim.

CAIUS: A dwarven noble of Khald Tormen and a friar of the mendicant orders. The first of the dwarven kindred to convert to the church of the Dominus Christus.

CALAZON: A dwarven stonescribe and advisor to Prince Narzaxar.

CALLIANDE ARBAN: The Keeper of Tarlion, the guardian of the realm of Andomhaim against the powers of dark magic. The daughter of Joanna and Joachim, and the former student of the Magistrius Marius and the Keeper Ruth.

CAMORAK: A Magistrius in service to Joram Agramore of Dun Licinia. Prone to drunkenness and boorish comments, but nonetheless a skilled healer.

CARADOG LORDAC: A knight in service to Tarrabus Carhaine.

CEAROWYN MARDIUS PENDRAGON: The High Queen of Andomhaim and wife of the High King Arandar Pendragon.

CLAUDIUS AGRELL: A knight in service to Tarrabus Carhaine, serving as Constable of Castra Carhaine.

THE CONFESSOR: A dark elven lord, once the lieutenant of the Sovereign. Now the ruler of Urd Maelwyn and the bearer of the Sword of Air.

CONNMAR PENDRAGON: The founder of the realm of Owyllain.

CONSTANTINE LICINIUS: The son of Gareth Licinius, and a Swordbearer, wielder of the soulblade Brightherald.

CORBANIC LAMORUS: A vassal of the High King, and current Comes of Coldinium. Now serves as Constable of Tarlion, defending the city from Tarrabus Carhaine.

CORTIN LAMORUS: A knight and the son of Corbanic Lamorus. Appointed as the new Dux of Calvus.

CROWLACHT: A headman of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk and a warrior of King Ulakhamar. Fought alongside Ridmark and his friends at the Iron Tower.

CURZONAR: A Prince of the Range, son of the Red King Turcontar and the First Queen Raszema.

THE CUTTER: An urdhracos bound to the service of the Sculptor.

DAGMA: Sister of Jager, and former seneschal of the keep of Dun Licinia. Now the seneschal of the Shield Knight and the Keeper.

THE DARK LADY: A mysterious sorceress who appears in the dreams of Tamlin Thunderbolt.

DECIMUS: A man-at-arms under the command of Sir Ector Naxius.

DIETER: Husband of Dagma, Jager's sister. A skilled carpenter.

ECTOR NAXIUS: A knight in service to Dux Sebastian of Caertigris. Familiar with the manetaurs, the tygrai, and the Range.

GARETH ARBAN: The eldest son of Ridmark Arban and Calliande Arban.

GARETH LICINIUS: The Dux of the Northerland, and father of Constantine, Imaria, and Aelia.

GAVIN: A young man from the village of Aranaeus in the Wilderland, now a Swordbearer and the wielder of the soulblade Truthseeker.

GOTHALINZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban at the village of Victrix.

HEKTOR PENDRAGON: King of Aenesium, wife of Adrastea, and father of Kalussa and Rypheus. Bearer of the Sword of Fire.

IMARIA LICINIUS SHADOWBEARER: The youngest daughter of Gareth Licinius, and a former Magistria of the Order. The new bearer of Incariel's shadow after the death of Tymandain Shadowbearer. Defeated in the final fight at the Black Mountain.

JAGER: A bold halfling thief and merchant, married to Queen Mara of the Nightmane Forest. Serves as her Prince Consort.

JOACHIM ARBAN: The youngest son of Ridmark Arban and Calliande Arban.

JORAM AGRAMORE: A knight and vassal of Dux Gareth Licinius. Currently serves as the Comes of Dun Licinia.

JUSTIN CYROS: The King of Cytheria and bearer of the Sword of Earth.

KADIUS: A decurion of men-at-arms in the army of Arandar Pendragon.

KAJALDRAKTHOR: A Frostborn warrior, and Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard. Leader of the Frostborn forces in Andomhaim.

KALDRAINE PENDRAGON: The eldest son of High King Uthanaric Pendragon and heir to the realm of Andomhaim. Murdered during the battle of Dun Calpurnia.

KALOMARUS: The legendary Dragon Knight, who disappeared after the first defeat of the Frostborn.

KHARLACHT: An orcish warrior of Vhaluusk and follower of Ridmark Arban.

KHURAZALIN: An orcish warlock and a Maledictus, a priest of the Sovereign.

KORS DURIUS: The Dux of Durandis, Andomhaim's western march against the mountains of Kothluusk.

KURASTUS: A Magistrius and the Master of the Order of the Magistri.

KURDULKAR: A manetaur Prince of the Range and a follower of the shadow of Incariel. Killed by Ridmark Arban.

LANETHRAN: A bladweaver of the high elves.

LEOGRANCE ARBAN: The Dux of Taliand, and the father of Ridmark Arban and Tormark Arban.

LINUS RILLON: A knight of Tarrabus Carhaine and one of the Enlightened of Incariel. Killed by Accolon in self-defense.

MALHASK: The king of the orcish kingdom of Khaluusk and a vassal of the High King.

MALVAXON: The Rzarn of Great House Tzanar of Khaldurmar.

MALZURAXIS: A dwarven scout of Khald Tormen.

MARA: The daughter of the Traveler, the dark elven lord of Nightmane Forest. Now rules as the Queen of Nightmane Forest.

MARCAST TETRICUS: A knight formerly in service to the garrison of the Iron Tower, now opposed to Tarrabus Carhaine.

MARHAND: A Swordbearer, and Master of the Order of the Soulblade. Carries the soulblade Torchbrand.

MARIUS: Known as the Watcher, Calliande's former teacher in the magic of the Magistri. Watched over her in spirit form after she awakened in the Tower of Vigilance without her memories.

MARTELLAR: A manetaur khalath in service to Prince Curzonar.

THE MASKED ONE: Ruler of the city of Xenorium and bearer of the Sword of Shadows.

MHALEK: Orcish warlord and shaman who believed himself a god. Defeated at Black Mountain, and the killer of Aelia Licinius Arban.

MIRIAM: The sister of Arandar's late wife Isolde. Her husband died in the same plague that killed Isolde.

MORIGNA: A sorceress of the Wilderland, and former lover of Ridmark. Murdered by Imaria Licinius and the Weaver at Dun Licinia.

MOURNACHT: A Mhorite orcish warlord and shaman, later subverted into the service of Tymandain Shadowbearer. Killed by Ridmark Arban near Dun Licinia.

NARAXZANAR: The former king of Khald Tormen, father of Axazamar and Narzaxar.

NARZAXAR: The younger brother of King Axazamar of Khald Tormen and the Taalakdaz (chancellor) of the dwarven court.

THE NECROMANCER OF TROJAS: Ruler of the city of Trojas, and bearer of the Sword of Death.

NYVANE: The daughter of Sir Arandar and granddaughter of the High King.

OCTAVIUS: A friar hired as tutor to the children of Ridmark Arban and Calliande Arban.

PAUL TALLMANE: A vassal of Tarrabus Carhaine, member of the Enlightened of Incariel, and Constable of the Iron Tower. Defeated by Ridmark Arban and killed by Jager at the Iron Tower.

QHAZULAK: An Anathgrimm orc. Champion of Nightmane Forest, and Lord Captain of the Queen's Guard.

QUINTUS: A merceny soldier and lieutenant of the smuggler Smiling Otto.

PARMENIO: A Knight of the Order of the Arcanii and a skilled scout and hunter.

RALAKAHR: A manetaur khalath in service to Prince Kurdulkar of the Range. Killed by Ridmark Arban.

RASZEMA: The First Queen of the manetaurs, and senior wife of Red King Turcontar.

RHISON MORDANE: A household knight of Tarrabus Carhaine and an Enlightened of Incariel.

RHODRUTHAIN: A gray elf and the Guardian of Cathair Animus.

RHOGRIMNALAZUR: An urdmordar, slain by Ridmark Arban and his companions in the ruins of Urd Cystaanl.

RHYANNIS: A high elven bladeweaver. Owes her life to Ridmark Arban.

RIDMARK ARBAN: Known as the Gray Knight, the youngest son of Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand. Expelled from the Order of the Swordbearers and branded for cowardice upon his left cheek. The widower of Aelia Licinius Arban.

RJALMANDRAKUR: A Frostborn noble, Lord Commander of the Order of the Vanguard, the military Order of the Dominion of the High Lords devoted to quickly subjugating new worlds. Killed by Ridmark during the battle of Dun Calpurnia.

RUTH: The former Keeper of Andomhaim who took Calliande as an apprentice.

SEBASTIAN AURELIUS: The Dux of Caertigris, the eastern march of the High Kingdom.

SEPTIMUS ANDRIUS: The Dux of Calvus, an Enlightened of Incariel, and a follower of Tarrabus Carhaine.

THE SCULPTOR: A dark elven lord and wizard. Creator of many of the dark elves' war beasts.

THE SOVEREIGN: The dark elven lord who was once ruler of all of Owyllain. Defeated and killed by High King Kothlaric Pendragon.

SMILING OTTO: A halfling smuggler and merchant, previously based out of Vulmhosk.

TAGRIMN VOLARUS: A knight and vassal of Dux Gareth Licinius, and the lord of Mourning Keep in the southern hills of the Northerland.

TALITHA: The former Master of the Order of the Arcanii. Betrayed and murdered High King Kothlaric, and killed in the resultant battle.

TAMLIN: Son of King Justin Cyros and a Swordborn. Also a Knight of the Order of the Arcanii.

TARRABUS CARHAINE: The Dux of Caerdracon and the an Initiated of the Seventh Circle of the Enlightened of Incariel. Also the leader of the Enlightened of Incariel. Now claims to be the High King of Andomhaim by right of conquest. Defeated in the final battle at the Black Mountain.

TAZEMAZAR: An arbiter of the manetaurs.

TIMON CARDURIEL: The Dux of Arduran, an Enlightened of Incariel, and a follower of Tarrabus Carhaine.

TINDRA: The nurse of Joachim Arban.

TORMARK ARBAN: The eldest son of Leogrance Arban, and the heir to the duxarchate of Taliand. Ridmark Arban's oldest brother.

THE TRAVELER: The dark elven prince of Nightmane Forest, and creator and master of the Anathgrimm. Killed by his daughter Mara in Khald Azalar.

TURCONTAR: The Red King of the manetaur kindred.

TYROMON AMPHILIUS: A Knight Companion of King Hektor Pendragon of Aenesium.

TYSIA: The wife of Tamlin Thunderbolt.

ULAKHAMAR: The king of the orcish kingdom of Rhaluusk and a vassal of the High King.

UTHANARIC PENDRAGON: The High King of Andomhaim, and the heir of Arthur Pendragon. The bearer of the soulblade Excalibur and the Pendragon Crown. Murdered during the battle of Dun Calpurnia.

VALMARK ARBAN: The second son of Dux Leogrance Arban, and bearer of the soulblade Hopesinger.

VERUS MACRINUS: The Dux of Tarras, and an Enlightened of Incariel and supporter of Tarrabus Carhaine.

VHORSHALA: A priestess of the ghost orcs.

THE WARDEN: The lord of Urd Morlemoch, and widely regarded as the greatest wizard ever produced by the dark elves. Trapped in Urd Morlemoch since the arrival of the urdmordar fifteen thousand years ago.

THE WEAVER: Formerly a Magistrius named Toridan. Now a powerful Enlightened of Incariel capable of changing form quickly. Killed by Ridmark Arban in the Stone Heart of Khald Tormen.

TOMIA ARBAN: The wife of Leogrance Arban, and the mother of Tormark Arban and Ridmark Arban. Died of illness when Ridmark was a child.

ZHORLACHT: A warrior and wizard of the Anathgrimm orcs. Formerly a priest of the Traveler, and now an advisor of Queen Mara.

ZHORLASKUR: The king of the orcish kingdom of Mhorluusk and a vassal of the High King.

ZOTHAL - A tygrai Imryr in service to the arbiter Tazemazar and the First Queen Raszema.

ZUGLACHT: An orcish wizard and the ruler of the town Shakaboth.

***

## Glossary of Locations

AENESIUM: The chief city of the realm of the Nine Cities of Owyllain. Ruled by King Hektor Pendragon.

ANDOMHAIM: The realm of the High King, founded by Malahan Pendragon, the grandson of Arthur Pendragon of Britain, when he fled the fall of Arthur's realm through a magical gate to another world.

ARANAEUS: A village of the Wilderland, birthplace of Gavin. Formerly ruled by the cult of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

BASTOTH: The capital city of the manetaurs and the seat of the Red King of the Range.

THE BLACK MOUNTAIN: A mountain of peculiar black stone north of Dun Licinia. Sacred to both the dark elves and the dvargir.

CAERDRACON: A duxarchate in central Andomhaim, one of the wealthiest and most powerful of the realm.

CAERTIGRIS: The eastern march of Andomhaim, bordering on the lands of the manetaurs.

CALVUS: A duxarchate in central Andomhaim.

CAMPHYLON: One of the main cities of the muridachs in the Deeps.

CASTRA CARHAINE: The stronghold and seat of Dux Tarrabus Carhaine of Caerdracon.

CASTRA CHAELDON: The fortress guarding the border between the lands of Aenesium and Cytheria.

CASTRA DURIUS: The stronghold of Dux Kors Durius, located in western Durandis.

CASTRA MARCAINE: The stronghold and seat of Dux Gareth Licinius of the Northerland.

CASTRA ARBAN: The stronghold and seat of Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand.

CATHAIR ANIMUS: A ruined city of the gray elves.

CATHAIR SOLAS: The last city of the high elves, located far beyond the northern boundaries of Andomhaim.

CINTARRA: The largest city of Andomhaim, ruled by the Prince of Cintarra, Cadwall Gwyrdragon.

COLDINIUM: A city on the northwestern borders of Andomhaim. Its Comes is a direct vassal of the High King.

CYTHERIA: The second largest city of the Nine Cities of Owyllain, ruled by King Justin Cyros.

DUN CALPURNIA: A town in the western Northerland, overlooking the valley of the River Moradel.

DUN LICINIA: A town in the Northerland, marking the northern border of the realm of Andomhaim.

DURANDIS: The western march of the kingdom of Andomhaim, bordering the mountains of Kothluusk.

THE IRON TOWER: Once the northwestern outpost of the kingdom of Andomhaim, commanded by Sir Paul Tallmane. Destroyed by Ridmark Arban and his allies in their fight against the Artificer.

KHALD AZALAR: A destroyed kingdom of the dwarves, located beneath the mountains of eastern Vhaluusk.

KHALD TORMEN: The chief of the remaining Three Kingdoms of the dwarves, located beneath the mountains of Kothluusk west of Durandis.

KHALDURMAR: The chief city of the dvargir in the Deeps.

KHALUUSK: One of the three orcish kingdoms sworn to the High King, located north of the Shaluuskan Forest.

KOTHLUUSK: A kingdom of Mhor-worshipping orcs, located west of Durandis.

THE LABYRINTH: A dark elven ruin in the Deeps below the Range.

LIAVATUM: A village in the western Northerland.

MORAIME: A town in the Wilderland, formerly the home of Morigna.

NIGHTMANE FOREST: The domain of the Traveler and the homeland of the Anathgrimm orcs, now ruled by Queen Mara.

THE NORTHERLAND: The northernmost march of the realm of Andomhaim.

OPPIDUM AURELIUS: A trading town in the western edge on the Range.

OWYLLAIN: The realm founded by Connmar Pendragon and his followers.

THE QAZALUUSKAN FOREST: The vast forest north of Taliand, home to the ghost orcs.

THE RANGE: The vast grassland east of the realm of Andomhaim, home to the manetaur and tygrai kindreds.

REGNUM: A village in western Calvus, destroyed by Tarrabus Carhaine and the Enlightened of Incariel.

RHALUUSK: Kingdom of orcs near Durandis. The King of Rhaluusk is sworn to the High King of Andomhaim, and the orcs of Rhaluusk follow the worship of the Dominus Christus.

SHAKABOTH: A trading town in the upper levels of the Deeps, ruled by the orcish wizard Zuglacht.

THE SHALUUSKAN FOREST: The forest north of Taliand, home to the ghost orcs.

TALIAND: The oldest duxarchate of Andomhaim, located west of the mouth of the River Moradel.

TARLION: The capital city of Andomhaim and the seat of the High King. Home to the High King's Citadel and the Well, the source of the magic of the Magistri. Formerly known as Cathair Tarlias before the founding of Andomhaim.

THAINKUL DURAL: A ruined thainkul a short distance from Moraime.

THAINKUL MORZAN: A ruined thainkul a few days from Khald Tormen.

URD AROWYN: The stronghold of the urdmordar Agrimnalazur.

URD CYSTAANL: The stronghold of the urdmordar Rhogrimnalazur.

URD MORLEMOCH: The ancient stronghold of the Warden, located by the sea in the northwestern Wilderland.

VHALUUSK: A kingdom of orcs of the Wilderland, splintered into dozens of warring tribes and fiefdoms. Predominantly worshippers of the orcish blood gods, though the faith of the Dominus Christus is spreading among the Vhaluuskan tribes.

VICTRIX: A village in the southern Northerland where Ridmark Arban slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur.

***

## Other books by the author

The Demonsouled Saga

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK is a wandering knight, fearless in battle and masterful with a sword.

Yet he has a dark secret. He is Demonsouled, the son of the ancient and cruel Old Demon, and his tainted blood grants him superhuman strength and speed. Yet with the power comes terrible, inhuman rage, and Mazael must struggle to keep the fury from devouring him.

But he dare not turn aside from the strength of his blood, for he will need it to face terrible foes.

The priests of the San-keth plot and scheme in the shadows, pulling lords and kingdoms upon their strings. The serpent priests desire to overthrow the realms of men and enslave humanity. Unless Mazael stops them, they shall force all nations to bow before the serpent god.

The Malrag hordes are coming, vast armies of terrible, inhuman beasts, filled with a lust for cruelty and torment. The Malrags care nothing for conquest or treasure, only slaughter. And the human realms are ripe for the harvest. Only a warrior of Mazael's power can hope to defeat them.

The Dominiar Order and the Justiciar Order were once noble and respected, dedicated to fighting the powers of dark magic. Now they are corrupt and cynical, and scheme only for power and glory. They will kill anyone who stands in their way.

To defeat these foes, Mazael will need all the strength of his Demonsouled blood.

Yet he faces a far more terrible foe.

For centuries the Old Demon has manipulated kings and lords. Now he shall seize the power of the Demonsouled for himself, and become the a god of torment and tyranny.

Unless Mazael can stop him.

Read Demonsouled (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=880) for free. Mazael's adventures continue in Soul of Tyrants (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=911), Soul of Serpents (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1287), Soul of Dragons (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1727), Soul of Sorcery (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1845), Soul of Skulls (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2808), and Soul of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3599), along with the short stories The Wandering Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3073), The Tournament Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3677), and The Dragon's Shadow (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2635). Get the first three books bundled together in Demonsouled Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4442).

The Ghosts Series

Once CAINA AMALAS was the shy daughter of a minor nobleman, content to spend her days in her father's library.

Then sorcery and murder and her mother's treachery tore her life apart.

Now she is a nightfighter of the Ghosts, an elite agent of the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar. She is a master of disguise and infiltration, of stealth and the shadows.

And she will need all those skills to defend the Empire and stay alive.

Corrupt lords scheme and plot in the shadows, desiring to pull down the Emperor and rule the Empire for their own profit and glory. Slave traders lurk on the fringes of the Empire, ready to seize unwary commoners and sell them into servitude in distant lands. Yet both slave traders and cruel lords must beware the Ghosts.

The Magisterium, the Imperial brotherhood of sorcerers, believe themselves the rightful masters of the Empire. With their arcane sciences, they plan to overthrow the Empire and enslave the commoners, ruling all of mankind for their own benefit. Only the Ghosts stand in the path of their sinister plans.

And the Moroaica, the ancient sorceress of legend and terror, waits in the shadows, preparing to launch a war upon the gods themselves. She will make the gods pay for the suffering of mankind...even if she must destroy the world to do it.

Caina Amalas of the Ghosts opposes these mighty enemies, but the cost might be more than she can bear.

Read Child of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1057) for free. Caina's adventures continue in Ghost in the Flames (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1265), Ghost in the Blood (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1383), Ghost in the Storm (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1931), Ghost in the Stone (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2520), Ghost in the Forge (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3181), Ghost in the Ashes (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3932), Ghost in the Mask (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4231), and Ghost in the Surge (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4637), along with the short stories Ghost Aria (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3243), Ghost Claws (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3930), Ghost Omens (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4235), The Fall of Kyrace (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4258), Ghost Thorns (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4639), Ghost Undying (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4662), Ghost Light (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5653), and Ghost Dagger (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2371), and the prequel novels Blade of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6220) and Champion of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6304). Get the first three books bundled together in The Ghosts Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4484).

The Ghost Exile Series

Caina Amalas was a nightfighter of the Ghosts, the spies and assassins of the Emperor of Nighmar, and through her boldness and cunning saved the Empire and the world from sorcerous annihilation.

But the victory cost her everything.

Now she is exiled and alone in the city of Istarinmul, far from her home and friends. Yet a centuries-old darkness now stirs in Istarinmul, eager to devour the city and the world itself.

And Caina is the only one that stands in its way...

Read Ghost in the Cowl (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4903), Ghost in the Maze (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5090), Ghost in the Hunt (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5244), Ghost in the Razor (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5553), Ghost in the Inferno (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5759), Ghost in the Seal (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5924), Ghost in the Throne (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6145), Ghost in the Pact (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6629), and Ghost in the Winds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6694) along with the short stories Ghost Sword (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4911), Ghost Price (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5105), Ghost Relics (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5265), Ghost Keeper (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5481), Ghost Nails (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5504), Ghost Lock (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5776), Ghost Arts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5937), Ghost Vigil (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6153), Ghost Mimic (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6648), and Ghost Vessel (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7028), and read the combined short stories in Exile of the Ghosts (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7936).

The Ghost Night Series

Caina Amalas was once a deadly Ghost nightfighter, a spy and agent of the Emperor of Nighmar. Now she only wishes to live quietly with her husband.

But civil war grips the Empire, and Caina's skills are needed against the cruel sorcerers of the malevolent Umbarian Order.

And Caina has a dangerous connection to the Umbarians.

For Caina's mother had many deadly secrets, secrets that might yet kill Caina herself...

Read Ghost in the Ring (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7928).

The Third Soul

RACHAELIS MORULAN is an Initiate of the Conclave, the powerful order of mighty mages. But to become a full Adept of the Conclave, she must first survive the Testing. Those who survive the Testing never speak of the trials they endured.

Those who fail the Testing are never seen again.

And now the Magisters of the Conclave have come to take Rachaelis to undertake the Testing. And there she shall face perils to both her body and her sanity.

And creatures that yearn to devour her soul.

If Rachaelis survives the Testing, she will face even more dangerous foes. The demons of the astral world watch the world of mortal men, desiring to rule it for themselves.

And some Adepts of the Conclave are eager to help them.

Read The Testing (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1538) for free. Rachelis's trials continue in The Assassins (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1540), The Blood Shaman (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1542), The High Demon (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1544), The Burning Child (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2756), The Outlaw Adept (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3341), The Black Paladin (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3343), and The Tomb of Baligant (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=3345). Read the entire series in The Third Soul Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4021) and The Third Soul Omnibus Two (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4061).

The Frostborn Series

A thousand years ago, the last grandson of Arthur Pendragon led the survivors of Britain through a magical gate to a new world, a world of magic and high elves, of orcs and kobolds and stranger, darker creatures. Now the descendants of the exiles rule a mighty kingdom, peaceful and prosperous under the rule of the High King.

But a shadow threatens to devour the kingdom.

RIDMARK ARBAN was once a Swordbearer, a knight of renown. Now he is a branded outcast, stripped of his sword, and despised as a traitor.

But he alone sees the danger to come. The Frostborn shall return, and unless they are stopped, they will cover all the world in ice and a neverending winter.

CALLIANDE awakens in the darkness, her memories gone, and creatures of terrible power hunting her.

For she alone holds the secret that can save the world...or destroy it utterly.

The secret of the Frostborn.

Read Frostborn: The First Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4439), followed by Frostborn: The Gray Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4069), Frostborn: The Eightfold Knife (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4437), Frostborn: The Undying Wizard (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4776), Frostborn: The Master Thief (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5007), Frostborn: The Iron Tower (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5183), Frostborn: The Dark Warden (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5330), Frostborn: The Gorgon Spirit (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5330), Frostborn: The Broken Mage (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5860), Frostborn: The World Gate (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6028), Frostborn: The High Lords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6403), Frostborn: The False King (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6865), Frostborn: The Dwarven Prince (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7270), Frostborn: Excalibur (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7414), Frostborn: The Dragon Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7549), and Frostborn: The Shadow Prison (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7803), and the prequel novels Frostborn: The Knight Quests (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6384) and Frostborn: The Bone Quest (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=8069) along with the short stories The Orc's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5661), The Mage's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4784), The Thief's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5012), The Assassin's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5186), The Paladins's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5328), The Knight's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5865), The Soldier's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6045), and The Soldier's Tale (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6409). Read the first three books combined in Frostborn Omnibus One (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5671).

Sevenfold Sword

Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the defender of the realm of Andomhaim.

The realm is at peace after a long and terrible war, but dark powers threaten other lands.

And when a mad elven wizard comes to the High King's court, Ridmark finds himself fighting not only for his own life, but for the lives of his family.

For the quest of the Seven Swords has begun...

Read Sevenfold Sword: Champion (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7831).

Mask of the Demonsouled Trilogy

MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has prevailed over terrible foes and now rules the Grim Marches with firm justice. Yet ancient evils are stirring in the shadows, freed at last by Mazael's own hand. Unless Mazael fights with all his strength, the world will fall.

SIGALDRA is the last holdmistress of the Jutai nation, the final defender of her people. Now the darkness comes to devour the final remnant of Sigaldra's home and family. Even Sigaldra's courage may not be enough to turn aside the darkness.

Read Mask of Swords (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5429), Mask of Dragons (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6511), and Mask of Spells (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7196) along with the short stories The Ransom Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5446), The Bronze Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6531), The Serpent Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5856), and The Rune Knight (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7183).

The Tower of Endless Worlds

THOMAS WYCLIFFE just wants to finish his dissertation in peace and quiet. So when a man in a black robe appears in his closet, claiming to be the last of the Warlocks, Wycliffe figures it is a bad joke.

But he soon realizes the last of the Warlocks can give him power beyond imagining.

And all it will cost is his soul.

SIMON WESTER needs a job. Badly. So when a rich and powerful Senator offers him employment, he jumps at the chance. Sure, Simon expects to find some corruption, some shady deals.

He doesn't expect to find black magic.

LIAM MASTERE is a Knight of the Sacred Blade, defender of the mortal races. But can swords stand against guns? As bullets and bombs destroy his kingdom, Liam must risk everything to save his homeland's one chance of salvation.

By daring the horrors of the Tower of Endless Worlds...

Read The Tower of Endless Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2073) for free. The saga of the Tower continues in A Knight of the Sacred Blade (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2076), A Wizard of the White Council (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2078), and The Destroyer of Worlds (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=2080).

Cloak Games

In 2013, a gate to another world opened, and Elves used their magic to conquer Earth, crushing all resistance before them.

Three hundred years after the Conquest, the exiled Elven High Queen rules an orderly but stagnant Earth, with humanity forced to fight in the High Queen's war against the traitors on the Elven homeworld.

Nadia Moran doesn't care about that. She doesn't care about the High Queen, or the Rebels seeking to overthrow her. All she cares about is getting her baby brother the treatments he needs to recover from his potentially fatal disease...and those treatments have a steep price.

Fortunately, Nadia has magic of her own, and she's a very, very good thief.

Unfortunately, the powerful Elven lord Morvilind has a hold on Nadia. If she doesn't follow his commands, her brother is going to die.

Of course, given how dangerous Morvilind's missions are, Nadia might not live long enough to see her brother's death...

Read Cloak Games: Thief Trap (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=5969), Cloak Games: Frost Fever (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6072), Cloak Games: Rebel Fist (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6225), Cloak Games: Shadow Jump (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6713), Cloak Games: Shatter Stone (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7325), Cloak Games: Truth Chain (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7426), and Cloak Games: Tomb Howl (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7598) along with the short stories Wraith Wolf (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=6735) and Dragon Pearl (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=7473).

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## About the Author

Standing over six feet tall, _USA Today_ bestselling author 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 series of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write THE GHOSTS sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the COMPUTER BEGINNER'S GUIDE series of computer books, and numerous other works. His books have sold over three quarters of a million copies worldwide.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Visit his technology blog at:

http://www.computerbeginnersguides.com

Contact him at:

jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on his Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189) or Twitter feed (https://twitter.com/moellerjonathan).

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