The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (16 page)

The cannon on the left flank lit the night, throwing the shapes of their attackers into start relief against the flash. The cannons were impressive, Tiadaria thought, but they were too slow to load and ready for firing. By the time the great guns were ready, she’d have sliced her way through a score of
Xarundi bodies.

Brilliant luminescent globes appeared above the battlefield, and Tiadaria shifted her focus long enough to see that they were just as bright in the real world as they were in the sphere. The
quints had summoned miniature suns and set them blazing above the warzone. The humans quickly recovered from the sudden blindness and pressed their enemies back.

Tiadaria spun and whirled, her blades seeking out the center of her attackers, trying to make each strike a lethal one. Claws raked down her arm, the searing pain knocking her out of her commune with the sphere. She spun on her heel and lopped off the head of the creature that wounded her.

She fell back behind a knot of soldiers to assess her wounds. They were long and bleeding freely, but they were shallow. She could wait to dress them until after the battle. A medic was already wading through the sea of bodies to reach her, but she waved him off and once again slipped into chaos.

The Captain was far off to her left, flowing through the tide of
Xarundi bodies as effortlessly as she had just moments before. He was covered in blood. It was sprayed across his face like war paint. Tiadaria touched her cheek and found that she was covered in it as well. There was no time to think about how many enemies she had killed to be coated with that much blood. The Xarundi were pressing their attack and she had to defend.

Shifting, she launched herself back into the fray. Later, when she thought about that night, Tiadaria wouldn’t be able to say how long she had fought or how many
Xarundi she had slain. She only knew that as the battle ground toward its end, that the battlefield was thick with the dead and dying from both sides and that it was difficult to walk on the blood-slicked grass.

* * *

As they loped toward the human city, Xenir and Zarfensis growled orders to the Chosen, ensuring that each pack knew their objective and their assigned targets.

It wasn’t long at all before the opposing forces were locked in combat. Darters remained behind the frontline warriors, sending their poisoned projectiles into the human army and roaring with pleasure as the vermin dropped from their barricades.

For each Xarundi that fell, there was a shaman waiting to reanimate the corpse. Those Chosen who had failed and fallen in battle would regain their honor in becoming the automatons that would fight without fear of death or injury for their still living brethren.

As combat raged around them, Xenir and Zarfensis met in the center of the battlefield.

“There! That one!” Zarfensis pointed with a long claw to the human warrior clad in his unique armor. Xenir nodded his agreement.

“And there!” The Warleader said, motioning to the impressive bulk of the leader of the vermin’s army. “Cut the head from the viper and the rest will wither and die.”

They clasped forearms, a brief gesture of support, and then they were gone. As Zarfensis and Xenir moved through the writhing bodies of the Chosen, several of the warriors broke off from their packs to protect their leaders.

The fighting nearest the city was the most intense, with the Chosen tearing into the vermin with claw and fang. Zarfensis relished in the savagery of it all. Not only would they grind the vermin under their heel, they would drive them from their city as well.

As if granted a boon from the old gods, a momentary lull in the fighting opened a clear path between Zarfensis and the human warrior.

Without hesitation, the High Priest raced forward, claws extended to their furthest reach. He collided with the warrior without checking his speed. They flew, entwined together, into a mass of scurrying vermin who scattered, running away from the conflict.

Zarfensis realized, nearly too late, that this human warrior was different. He was stronger and faster than ordinary vermin and he stank of disease. The smell of corruption filled Zarfensis’s nostrils as they fought.

The High Priest was forced to admit that the human warrior was almost his equal in skill. Claw rang against blade as both of them drew on the power of the sphere to grant them any advantage.

Their battle went on for what felt like an eternity. Strike, counterstrike. Feint, counter-feint. The human warrior swung wide, a blow meant to decapitate. With a burst of speed, Zarfensis drove his claws deep into his surprised opponent and lifted him over his head.

He called to the Chosen, wanting to share his victory, but no answering call came. He glanced to his left, but Xenir was nowhere to be seen. The other
Xarundi were falling back, driven into retreat by the human mages who had returned to the battlefield as bodies had thinned.

Zarfensis drew his free hand back, determined to sever the vermin’s head from his shoulders. His world exploded, throwing him backward. The High Priest landed hard, his leg cracking and buckling under his weight. He plunged into darkness.

* * *

The tide of the battle had turned. The
Xarundi were in retreat, the human soldiers and quintessentialists giving chase across the field. As Tiadaria prepared to follow, a searing pain shot through her head and she dropped to her knees, her weapons slipping from her hands. A soldier behind her decapitated a straggling beast-man as it fell toward her, its claws extended.

The beast crumpled and Tia struggled to stand, fighting against a wave of nausea so powerful that it threatened to overwhelm her. At first, she thought the collar had been the cause of the sudden pain, but looking across the field, she saw a massive
Xarundi warrior, half again as tall as the others. The beast held the Captain aloft, his long talons protruding from the Captains back, glistening with blood.

The creature raised its other arm to strike at the Captain, but it never got the chance. Spells from Faxon and Adamon slammed into the beast, spinning it into the air and away from the Captain, who fell in a crumpled heap to the ground.

Leaving her swords where they lay, Tiadaria raced toward him, vaulting over bodies and dodging still living warriors as they came between her and her only goal. She ran for what seemed like hours, but finally she reached him.

The Captain’s armor was marred by huge gashes, the metal rings broken around the ragged edges of wounds that went all the way through his body. His lower half was slick with blood, the same blood that trickled from his nose and bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Tiadaria called for a cleric, but she knew in her heart that there was no magic powerful enough to save him. His eyes rolled, showing far too much white and she grabbed his head, crushing him to her chest as if she could take his entire essence into her.

“You...” He coughed, blood and spittle flying from his lips. His breaths came in long, wet rattling gasps. “Made me proud. Little one.”

“Oh Sir,” Tiadaria sobbed, tears etching tiny pale paths through the blood spattered on her face. “Please don’t leave me, I need you.”

He shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. For a moment, Tiadaria was sure that he had gone. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her, saw her, with total clarity.

“You’ll always have me in your heart, little one.” His voice was strong, and clear, an echo of the brass thunder that had called the warriors to arms just a few hours before. He raised his hand to caress her cheek, and then he was gone. The tension went out of his body and he was still.

Tiadaria held him that way for a long time. Finally, she reached up and brushed his eyes closed with the tips of her fingers, closing the eyes that had seen so much and told her even more. It wasn’t for another few moments that she realized that her sobbing was the only sound she could hear. Looking up, she saw faces around her she recognized. Torus and Faxon, Adamon, the soldiers she had fought beside. Valyn stood there, a bloody graze across his forehead, his armor much dented, pierced by claw, and burnt by spell. They were ranged around her in a wide circle; sword and staff plunged into the earth.

In that simple accord, all of them standing as one, in unison, they honored their fallen hero. For the Captain had been a hero to all of them, on the battlefield and off, for as long as any of them could remember. Their vigil touched her in a way that no words ever would. Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak. The men bowed their heads even as a pathway opened up through the ranks.

Heron Greymalkin, stooped over his cane, made his way slowly into the middle of the circle where the Captain’s body lay. He dropped to his knees beside Tiadaria and took her hand in his. Then he wept.

~~~~

The morning outside her room was cold and gray. It matched the numbness that she felt. Tiadaria had stayed in the palace after the battle, given a fine room with a deep, plush bed. The curtains were velvet and royal purple. The rugs were expertly woven and soft on her bare feet. It was a spectacularly beautiful room and it would have made her very happy if she had been able to experience it.

Instead, she stood at the window and peered out from the open maw of the cavern, across the city. The battlefield was hidden from view by a hundred different intervening buildings, but she could feel it. That was where the Captain had died, where she had held him for the last time. Where her heart had broken. It had only been two days ago, but it felt like two years. They would put his body in the ground today, the last remnant of the legacy of the great man he had been.

There was a light rapping at the door, but she ignored it. She didn’t want to see anyone and she certainly didn’t want to talk to anyone. It seemed like all she had left to offer anyone who came calling were tears and bitterness. There was another rap at the door. Still she didn’t move. She stood there, standing, staring, her eyes straining as if she could see through the buildings to the spot where he had died.

Tiadaria heard the door open and whirled; ready to demand that she be left alone. It was Faxon who entered, his chestnut brown beard a stark contrast to his pale skin and cream-colored robes. He looked as tired and drawn as she felt. She couldn’t even muster the strength to cast him out, so instead she turned back to the window. He closed the door softly and came to stand beside her.

They stood together in silence for a long time. Tiadaria had almost forgotten he was there when he spoke.

“I have something for you. Something that Royce asked me to keep for him, just in case something happened to him. He wanted you to have it.”

Faxon reached into his robes and produced a folded parcel, the deep blue wax embossed with the Captain’s personal seal. Tia took it from him and went to the bed. The mage settled himself in the chair by the window, looking out at the dismal sky spread low over the city. Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal, unfolding the sheaf of papers. As she did so, something fell out of the stack and landed between her feet on the bed. It was the curious little cottage key on its length of black ribbon. She read the letter.

Tiadaria--

Little one, if you’re reading this letter, it means that I’ve fallen. Either to sickness or in battle. I’m sorry that I won’t be around to witness you becoming the powerful warrior I know you will be, but it pleases me to have been the instrument that guided you on your path to destiny.

You are now the last swordmage. Faxon is the only person who I trusted to know my secret. Now he knows yours. If you have questions about your powers or abilities, he can be trusted. Trust no one else. He alone will bear the burden that comes with knowledge of our unique gift.

I hope by now you’ve found the key. The cottage and all my possessions are yours now. The deed to my land is enclosed. Use them as you see fit. Start a new life for yourself. A good life. A happy life.

Try not to mourn overlong, little one. I knew my time was short when I met you, but oh the joy you brought to my last days. I was a better man for having known you.

--Sir

Tiadaria traced the looping scrawl with her finger. Reading the short letter a second time and then a third. Finally, she carefully refolded the parcel and laid it on the bedside table, placing the cottage key reverently on top of it.

“He never spoke of anyone the same way he spoke of you, Tiadaria.” Faxon said from his seat by the window. “He’d known he was dying for a long time. You gave him a sense of purpose and a reason to see this last battle through. You saved him.”

He chuckled, glancing at her.

“Hell, girl, you probably saved all of us. Without the two of you on the battlefield, things would have ended much differently. We might have won, but at what cost?”

“The Captain said I could trust you...with my...secret.”

“Did he?” Faxon raised his eyebrows waggishly. “He probably also warned you about telling anyone else. Heed that advice. The Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences exists in black and white. There is good, there is bad, there is no middle ground. The untrained are not to wield magic of any kind, those that do face censure or death. Most mages would rather die than face censure, so it’s often the same thing.”

“Then why do you keep our secret?”

“Because the world doesn’t operate in black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray between good and bad, righteous and evil. As a man, I recognize this. I’m nothing if not a pragmatist.”

“So you’re hedging your bets,” Tiadaria said bitterly.

“Not exactly.” Faxon shrugged. “I believe in the right tool for the right job, regardless of how that tool came to be, or how it’s used. There are many who believe that magic in the hands of the uninitiated is the gravest danger we face.”

“Do you?”

“Obviously not. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I did.” Faxon steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at her a moment before continuing. “I believe the gravest danger we face is ignorance. You saw what happened out there. How many people would have honestly believed that the
Xarundi had returned before they had seen it with their own eyes? Had their own blood spilled?”

“Not many.”

“Precious few,” Faxon snorted. “You and I...Torus, the Captain...even the King to some extent...we are breeds apart. We don’t see the world how we want it to be. We see it how it is.”

“For all the good that does us.”

The mage spread his hands in an expansive gesture, encompassing the palace and everything beyond.

“We’re here. Good triumphed over evil. The realm was spared. We live to fight another day. It is because of us that the rest of the world can live in blissful ignorance. That they can sleep at night without fear of the demon lurking in the dark. We live on to serve.”

“Most of us.”

Faxon waved a finger at her.

“Your bitterness does you no credit, girl. Royce knew he was dying before he set foot on the battlefield. If you honor him half as much as you claim, you know in your heart that dying in bed wasn’t his way. He died with a blade in his hand. There is no finer way for a warrior to die. Don’t sully his sacrifice because you’re wallowing in pity.”

As much as it hurt her to hear it, she knew in her heart that there was no place the Captain would have rather been than on the battlefield, defending the realm and the people who he had dedicated his life to protecting. If she disparaged the manner of his death, she also dismissed the man, and the Captain was more deserving of respect and honor than anyone she had ever known.

“You’re right,” she chuckled ruefully. “He’d slap me with the broad side of his sword if he knew I was acting this way.”

Faxon rose, his heavy robes swirling around his feet like an ebbing tide. He walked to her and took her shoulder in his hand, a gesture not unlike that of the Captain.

“Don’t be afraid to mourn,” he said softly. “We all miss him and likely will for the rest of our days. Just don’t allow your mourning to consume you.”

“You’ll be there tonight?” she asked, almost plaintively. “For the interment?”

“Of course. We’ll all be there.”

With that, he left her, sweeping out of the door as quickly as he had entered, leaving her to her thoughts and to the memory of a man who had been more her father than the man she had known from childhood.

* * *

The infection spreading through his left leg smelled like death and decay. The most powerful magic at his disposal had done little to stem the spread of the disease. Zarfensis was cold with more than the chill of night. His body was afire with its attempts to burn off the sickness.

He had cut through the elven lands on his way back to the Warrens, but he was in no condition to fight. Every patrol meant hiding, biding his time, waiting until the cousins of vermin had traveled far enough beyond that he could evade them, even in his current condition. That meant many days spent hiding in caves and outcroppings, one eye and ear wary for any danger while he tried to catch sleep where and when he could.

The night was reserved for travel, when his augmented vision would give him the advantage over nearly every other creature on Solendrea. Now he was nearing the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels that would lead him into the Warrens and to his salvation. The descent into the earth took an agonizingly long time, but eventually, he slipped past the last fissure into the cathedral hall.

The Warrens were in chaos. All around the cathedral chamber lay dead and dying chosen. Clerics and shaman dashed to and fro, trying to ease the suffering of the injured, or offer a quick death to those too far gone to recover. The sheer number of wounded underlined how badly they had been routed. Their losses were staggering.

Zarfensis sighed with relief as he saw a familiar hulk lope out of the cathedral. Xenir, then, had survived. Perhaps his second sight had spared him from the worse ravages of battle. The High Priest limped toward the massive Warleader, who had stopped to offer comfort to some of the injured. He felt the weight of many eyes on him as he passed. He knew that many of the Chosen would blame him for this failure. He wondered how many of the Chosen had known that Xenir had predicted their defeat.

“Your Holiness!” Xenir bounded to Zarfensis, offering him a shoulder as the High Priest stumbled. “You are injured!”

The Warleader howled and a
Xarundi in cleric’s robes bounded over to them. The Warleader and the cleric escorted him inside the cathedral and onto a stone bench. As the cleric inspected his wounds, Zarfensis spoke to Xenir.

“It would seem that your feeling was well founded, Xenir.”

The Warleader bowed his head and Zarfensis reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

“The fault does not lie with you, Xenir. I was the one who made the decision. I was the one who pressed the attack. Any blame for this, if there is blame, is mine to hold.”

“There will be blame,” the Warleader said sadly. “I was on my way to find you when we met. I was sent to bring you to the Assembly.”

Zarfensis experienced a sudden chill that had nothing to do with fever. The Warleader hadn’t said the pack council, which was the ruling body of the Chosen. He had said the Assembly. He licked his muzzle, a nervous habit he had acquired as a pup. It wasn’t lost on the Warleader, who nodded.

“Yes, Your Holiness. The rest of the Seven are here.”

“When did they arrive?”

“The last of them arrived this morning.”

“I see.” Zarfensis dismissed the cleric with a flick of his claws. “Be gone, sister. No cleric can save me now.”

The Warleader shifted, his unease palpable. “Allow me to walk with you, Your Holiness?”

Zarfensis shook his head.

“Not this time, my brother. Where I must go, you cannot follow.”

* * *

The coach wound its way down the narrow path that led to the cottage. It felt like a lifetime since she had last been here. After the battle, she hadn’t wanted to leave Dragonfell. It was irrational, she knew, but somehow, it felt as if leaving the place where the Captain would lay for eternity, she was abandoning him somehow. She felt a special kinship with the city and its people.

Tiadaria had passed the winter in the city, splitting her time in residence between the palace and Ecera’s inn. She had taken the time to explore the city and learn the history of the land from its vast libraries, its people, and even from the
King. They had needed each other, those first few weeks. The Captain had been like a son to him, and a father to her. Together they had weathered the worst of their grief, coming into spring with a renewed appreciation for life and vigor. Though it was hard for her to say goodbye, she also knew it was necessary. Staying in Dragonfell meant living in the past and that was something she just couldn’t do.

Torus reigned in the horses and turned in his seat to face her. The battle and his loss had weighed heavily on him. The creases around his eyes were deeper and the eyes themselves were sadder. Still, he managed a smile for her.

“I could stay,” he offered tentatively. “You know, for a while. To get you settled.”

Tia laid her hand on his cheek, returning the smile.

“Thank you, Torus.” She patted his cheek gently, and then folded her hands around the letter that lay in her lap. “But that won’t be necessary. This is the only place that’s ever really been home.”

The mammoth man looked out over her shoulder and nodded. He swallowed hard. Tia looked down into her lap. Tears seemed to come much easier for all of them, these days. Clutching the worn letter in her hand, she dropped from the coach and went to the gate. The hinges were rusty and squawked in protest as she pushed it open. They would need to be oiled. There were probably a hundred little things that needed to be put back in order.