The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (15 page)

“There’s more?” Tiadaria asked, astounded.

“Just a bit.”

The Captain withdrew a sword belt and pair of scabbards. The supple leather was dyed the same color as her armor, the clasps and hardware silver that danced and sparkled in the sunlight. The scabbards were curved, like his, but the hilts of the weapons that stuck out above them were nothing like any weapon she had ever before seen. The grips were polished to a bright silver shine and were crafted in the likeness of a winged horse, the wings spreading out to form the guard before sweeping back along the hilt. The legs of the beast lie alongside the guard, giving it the appearance of gliding.

He circled her waist with the belt, pulling it tight so the scabbards rested at her hips. He fussed with it a bit and then apparently satisfied, buckled it. “The Pegasus is a noble, honorable, and highly intelligent creature. One that has been gone from Solendrea for hundreds of years. They represent a legacy of swiftness and passion that I now pass on to you. You’ve learned everything I can teach you, young Tiadaria. Now it’s your turn to fly.”

The Captain reached into the chest and Tiadaria wondered what could be left. He had already given her so much. Her throat was tight and she was on the verge of tears already. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep herself together.

Taking an oddly shaped, matte black instrument from the chest, he beckoned her to him. She recognized the device and her heart skipped a beat. It was the same tool that Cerrin had used to lock on her collar.

“I thought the collar was permanent,” she asked, puzzled.

“It most cases it is. Faxon happens to be a good friend of mine. He knows quite
a lot
about the enchantment of witchmetal and the tools used to manipulate it. He invented it, after all.”

He fitted the end of the instrument over her collar and she suddenly knew what he intended.

“Sir, wait, please!”

His grip on the tool slackened and he looked at her questioningly. “You’re a slave no longer, Tiadaria. You shouldn’t wear a collar.”

She took his hand in hers and gently removed the device from the band around her neck. She folded his hands over it, and then her hands over his.

“I came to you as a slave, as property, but you never treated me like your property. You trained me, taught me, and you helped me find my purpose. Everything that I am, or want to be, I learned from you. The collar has never defined me. You showed me how to
choose what I wanted for myself. I’d like to keep it. It’s a reminder that things happen as they’re supposed to...and that freedom can be found in the unlikeliest places.”

“It’s a tactical liability,” he protested. “An enemy could use it against you. A strike against the collar could render you vulnerable at the worst time. Gasping for breath on the battlefield isn’t how you want to die.”

“No, it’s not,” she admitted with a wry smile. “We’re all vulnerable in our own ways, Captain. This is no better, or worse, than any of them. Please respect my decision. You’ve taught me well, and I choose to keep the collar to honor the man who made certain that it would never bind me.”

“If that’s really what you wish.” He tossed the instrument back into the chest, looking at her with thinly veiled skepticism.

“It is, Captain.”

She threw her arms around him, drawing him close and laying her head against his chest. They stood there for a long time, bathed in the golden sun
light of the rapidly dying day.

~~~~

Royce and Tiadaria were among the last to enter the council chamber. The vaulted ceilings, each with a pai
nting of some important moment in Solendrea’s history, were normally a delight for Royce. Today, however, his mind was elsewhere. Tiadaria had changed. She still wore the collar, which he thought was a distraction at best and a hazard at worst. It had been her decision to keep it and he had to respect her wishes.

Collar or not, she had changed. No longer did she follow behind him. She kept step at his side, a smaller version of the warrior whom she did her best to emulate. Her chin was tipped a little higher, her eyes flashing with the stubborn defiance that Royce had come to know and understand very well. She had become a powerful warrior in her own right, no longer overshadowed by his skill, but a fitting complement to it.

There was a cold ache in his belly that had nothing to do with this council or the battles that they soon would face. Over the past few days, the medicine in his flask had done little to ease the gnawing pain that had grown worse with every morning. He had spied himself in the mirror this morning before they left the inn. He was pale and haggard. Royce thought, with no small amount of remorse, that their departure from the inn would mark the last time he would stay in such an establishment. There were many things that were drawing to a close now.

As they crossed the threshold into the council chamber, all activity stopped. Faxon and Adamon looked up from the table where they had been talking. Torus and his men, gathered around a large map, paused in their strategizing and looked up at them. Even the
King, high on his council chair, peered at them as they entered the room. Let them stare, Royce thought. Every one of these men, save the quints, had once followed him into battle. Let them see that he had passed the torch to the spectacular young woman who stood beside him.

Tiadaria was resplendent in her royal blue armor. The witchmetal rings caught no light, but seemed to ripple in waves of shadow across the fine silk. Her weapons hung at her sides, their silver hilts sending motes of reflected lantern light dancing across the floor. If anyone noted the collar, they ignored it.

Torus raised his hand, greeting her as an equal. The mages nodded gravely. The King, leaning on his cane, made his way down the few steps to the floor of the chamber and met them as they crossed the room.

“I’d have thought you would do something about that collar, Royce.”

“He attempted to, Your Grace,” Tiadaria bowed respectfully from the waist. “I asked to keep it.”

“Keep it?” Heron Greymalkin was aghast. “Whatever for?”

“Because it is a solid reminder that one can overcome the worst adversity if one sets their mind to it...and has the right kind of teacher.”

The
King peered at the girl, then to Royce, then back to the girl. Royce suspected that the King would have still preferred her to be without the collar, but in the end, it wasn’t his decision. Tiadaria had decided what was best for her, and Royce wasn’t inclined to argue. She was perfectly capable of making her own decisions now. She’d have to. It was time for her to stand on her own and make her own legacy, or die trying. Just as he had.

“Well, young Tiadaria, when this mess is over with, you’ll come see me. You’ll have a writ signed by my own hand, with my own
seal, which states that the collar you wear is by your own choice, not because any man holds dominion over you.”

“I’d like that very much, Your Grace.”

Royce couldn’t help but smile. Stubborn as she was, she was learning diplomacy and tact at a frightening rate. He was sorry that he wouldn’t get to see her grow into her new role. He had a feeling that she would surpass even his expectations.

The
King grasped her shoulder for a moment, and then called the room to order. They gathered around the map, Royce on one side of the King, Tiadaria on the other. The quints and the soldiers gathered round. Dragonfell was laid out before them, every road and alley, every twist and turn. Colored markers dotted the surface and Heron wasted no time in pointing some of these out to his council.

“Scouts went out last night and this morning. We have confirmed sightings from some of our best men that the
Xarundi are indeed moving on Dragonfell.” He pointed to a few of the markers with a crooked finger. “In addition, there is a splinter group that has split off from the main column and has turned toward Blackbeach.”

“Gatzbin’s gonads!” Faxon swore under his breath. The
King looked at him, cocking one bushy eyebrow at his outburst.

“Gatzbin’s gonads, indeed.” The
quint inclined his head in oblique apology and the King went on. “We’ve released our fastest messengers to Blackbeach. Five of our swiftest coursers are on their way to the Academy even as we speak. We have confidence that the Xarundi won’t be able to intercept all five. We’ve asked for their assistance, after they’ve dealt with the beasts on their doorstep, of course.”

“Your Grace,” Adamon put in quietly. “I would like to send my own messenger to the tower, if that’s alright?”

The King nodded. “Of course, man. Any help is good help right now.” He pointed to a different set of colored markers. “We have defensive troops here, here, and here. They cover all the approaches into the valley. We don’t expect them to be able to hold these choke points, so I’ve issued standing orders that any regiment that gets overrun should fall back behind this line.”

The
King drew a wide semicircle with his forefinger, indicating an area of crop fields just beyond the edge of the city proper. The regrouping area was far too near the city for Royce’s peace of mind, but the valley was relatively small and if they had any chance of keeping the civilians safe, they would need to funnel their attackers away from the innocents and into the waiting arms of the infantry.

Heron tapped the map, looking at each of them in turn.

“This is where you will make your stand, for good or ill. I want the lot of you and your people on this line. You are the last line of defense before those mangy beasts sack Dragonfell and I want you to teach them exactly why they spent the last thousand years hiding in their holes.”

“Your will be done,” Royce said solemnly.

“As you command,” Faxon replied, bowing his head.

“Yes,
Your Grace,” Torus answered, clicking his heels together and throwing up his hand in a sharp salute.

The
King returned the salute, then leaned over the map, indicating the area where they would meet the advancing enemy. 

“I don’t need to tell you lot what is at stake here.” He passed a hand over his face, the weariness of the last few days evident in the lines around his eyes and the dark circles under them. “All of Dragonfell is depending on you. Hell, all the Imperium. That’s a tall order to fill, but I have faith in each and every one of you.”

There was an uneasy silence, and Royce knew that every individual was reflecting on what was to come. He knew that this would be Tiadaria’s first battle, but her face was so pensive and still that he was certain that her thoughts were turned to what would soon be happening outside the city.

“You have about an hour,” the
King said, breaking the silence. “May all the Gods be with you and watch over you.”

With his benediction, they scattered. The mages went in one direction, the soldiers another, Royce and Tiadaria in a third. As they reached the corridor, Royce looked back over his shoulder. The
King stood in the center of the empty chamber, leaning on his cane, his head bowed. It pained his heart to see such a noble man disheartened so.

“Come,” he said to Tiadaria. “Our destiny waits.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Royce stopped in his tracks.

“I’m not Sir to you anymore, Tiadaria.”

Tia smiled and reached up, laying her gloved hand against his cheek. Her eyes were sad and knowing. His heart skipped a beat at that intimate glance.

“You’ll always be Sir to me, Captain. No matter what.”

“Then let’s go, little one. We have a war to win.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Though it was the last time Royce left the palace, he did so with lightness in his heart that he had seldom felt before. He knew the battle would be long and tiring, but with Tiadaria fighting at his side, he was sure they would overcome this menace and drive them back into the earth to hide for another millennium.

* * *

The attacking wave of
Xarundi warriors spilled through the pass like a swarm of locust. There were so many of them, so close together, that Tiadaria thought it looked like a black, rolling fog was descending into the valley.

The defending lines at the choke points had been turned almost as soon as the two armies met. The soldiers pushed back as much as they could, suffering heavy losses in the face of so many enemies. In the end, they had been routed and forced back to the rendezvous point with the bulk of the Imperium’s army.

They returned to the main group just ahead of the mass of Xarundi that were chasing close on their heels. Line commanders ordered the returning troops behind the line to rest and resupply. They would be needed later in the battle to replace their fallen comrades.

As the
Xarundi ranks closed, some of the more zealous archers brought their weapons to the ready and Torus shouted out orders for them to hold their fire. Their enemy would need to be much nearer and the bowmen would need to make every shot count. There were a finite number of arrows and seemingly no end to the mass of bodies that raced toward them.

A long, ragged howl went up from the attackers as they raced toward the city. They came on in a crouch, all four powerful limbs propelling them forward with unbelievable speed. The archers loosed the first volley of arrows and they fell on the
Xarundi in a deadly rain. Many of the beasts leapt out of the way of the incoming projectiles, in some cases coming up completely off the ground and executing intricate maneuvers to avoid being skewered.

More arrows were fitted to bow strings. Tiadaria could see the burning blue luminescence of their eyes now, tiny points of light that glittered and flashed in the gathering twilight. She drew her swords, relishing in the once painful shock that reminded her of her unique bond to the Quintessential Sphere. She heard the twang of bowstrings and looked past the physical realm, into the one beyond. Sphere-sight showed her each arrow, a streak of light piercing the blackness that massed before her. Where the arrows struck true, there would be a brilliant flash of white that replaced the black shape. Too many of the white streaks were fading out as they fell, their targets unscathed by the airborne fury.

Up and down their ranks, their fighters burned gray or brilliant white. The Captain shone the brightest of them all, a dazzling presence that seemed to pulse with intensity. He stood atop a hastily constructed barricade, his scimitars tracing lazy figure eights. She shifted her sight back to the realm of the living. Their part of the battle would start soon. The first line of Xarundi was almost upon them.

There was a roar from the flanks as the
quints unleashed their spells. Magic missiles, white and glowing, streaked across the battlefield, exploding into showers of light when they hit their targets. Balls of flame, shards of ice, and all other manner of magical projectiles slammed into the Xarundi ranks. The beasts were beginning to reply in kind. Small darts fired from their blowguns zipped through the air like angry wasps.

The soldier immediately to Tiadaria’s right was hit in the throat. He spun off the barrier, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers. The
Xarundi shamans were reanimating their dead, sending the corpses of their fallen brethren shambling into battle for them.

The archers riddled them with arrows, but they continued on their inexorable course toward the humans. A cluster of the undead beasts had nearly reached the far right flank of the defending forces when one of the two cannons on the battlefield roared to life.

The canister shot loaded into the large gun exploded outward in a cone of devastation. The undead Xarundi were torn asunder and the human warriors roared with approval. With the Xarundi ranks weakened, Torus ordered the right lines to attack.

Archers called for resupply, but were met with answering shouts that ammo supplies were critically low. The Captain bellowed for the archers to withdraw and they climbed down off the platforms. The front lines were nearly on each other now. At the Captain’s command, the assembled soldiers drew their weapons. The sound of ringing metal echoed up and down the line as blades were drawn from their scabbards. Tiadaria spun her scimitars back and forth, testing their balance and her range.

Faxon called retreat for the quints. The mages would fall back and reassemble to offer what support they could, but their offensive powers were limited by the close quarters the battle would take. There was too much of a risk of hitting their own people accidentally. The armies met, steel clashing against claw.

Tiadaria slipped into sphere-sight and ran for the edge of the platform. At the end, she leapt into the air, tumbling head over heels, out over the front lines and down into the mass of
Xarundi warriors. Her arms flashed out as she fell, one blade slicing easily through a skull, the other severing a spine below the ribs. Her dance was as graceful as it was deadly. To her eyes, masses of black vanished in pulses of brilliant white light. Darkness had fallen in the physical realm, the soldiers struggling to hold the line in the black.