Sevenfold Sword: Sovereign Read online

  SEVENFOLD SWORD: SOVEREIGN

  Jonathan Moeller

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  Description

  The quest of the Seven Swords has been a trap all along.

  For the dark elven tyrant known as the Sovereign will use the power of the Swords to ascend to godhood and enslave the world for all time.

  And only Ridmark Arban stands in his way...

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  Copyright

  Sevenfold Sword: Sovereign

  Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published June 2019.

  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.

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  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, along with a chart listing the nine cities & Kings of the realm of Owyllain, the bearers of the Seven Swords, and the seven high priests of the Maledicti.

  A map of the realm of Owyllain is available on the author's website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=8238).

  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).

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  Chapter 1: The Host of Owyllain

  One hundred and fifty-four days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, one hundred and fifty-four days after the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King of Andomhaim’s court, Ridmark Arban looked at the assembled kings and lords of the realm of Owyllain.

  “My lords!” he called. “I have an idea.”

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

  The rulers of Owyllain and their allies had met in the fortified camp of King Hektor Pendragon. The banner of the Pendragons of Aenesium, a sigil of a bronze helmet upon a field of red, flew in front of the King’s pavilion. In the distance, about a mile to the north, rose the gleaming white walls and strange, alien towers of Urd Maelwyn. The seven kings, one queen, and one regent of Owyllain stood in a semicircle, flanked by their advisors and household knights. Earl Vimroghast of the jotunmiri leaned on his massive bronze-bound club, and Warlord Obhalzak of Mholorasti glowered behind his tusks, his hands resting atop the haft of his massive double-bladed axe.

  They should have been annoyed at Ridmark’s interruption, but they were not. The kings and lords of Owyllain looked at him expectantly. They had come to trust him. It should have been daunting, but he understood why they felt that way. He had killed Justin Cyros and Taerdyn and helped the men of Owyllain take Tusked Skull Citadel and Urd Maelwyn. Ridmark knew how close and desperate those battles had been, but from the perspective of the kings of Owyllain, those victories had been a miracle. The War of the Seven Swords had been deadlocked for twenty-five years until Rhodruthain had brought Ridmark and his family here.

  He thought that Calliande had forgiven Rhodruthain for that.

  Mostly.

  “Lord Ridmark,” said Hektor Pendragon, King of Aenesium and bearer of the Sword of Fire. He was a craggy-faced man in his late fifties, with iron-gray hair and beard and a voice made hoarse from decades of shouting commands over the roar of battle. He wore the bronze plate armor of a Companion knight, no more ornate than those of any other knight of Owyllain, though he did wear a circlet of red gold upon his gray hair.

  The Sword of Fire in its scabbard on his left hip was all the insignia he needed.

  “What is your idea?” said Hektor.

  Ridmark took a deep breath. “It may be possible to reach Cathair Animus before the Confessor’s army.”

  A stir went through the lords and kings.

  “How?” said King Aristotle Tempus, the ruler of the city of Echion. He was over seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his bronze cuirass adorned with reliefs of roaring lions. A cloak of red silk streamed from his shoulders, and the helmet tucked under his arm had been wrought in the shape of a roaring lion’s head. “The Confessor’s army has a two-day head start on us. Even if we ran day and night, we could not catch them, and even if we did, we would be exhausted from the exertion. The Confessor would overcome us easily.” He shook his head. “Perhaps if we had some of these horse creatures that you have described, we could overtake the Confessor. But this is Owyllain, and we fight and march upon our feet.”

  “I speak not of horses, King Aristotle,” said Ridmark, “but magic.”

  “Magic!” Master Nicion Amphilus of the Order of the Arcanii made a scoffing sound. He was a spare, wiry man with a lean face and a balding head. He had a perpetually sour expression, but ever since he had learned that his old mentor Talitha had not betrayed Owyllain, he had looked increasingly weary. Perhaps sheer anger and spite had kept him going for the last quarter of a century. “It is not possible to transport ourselves through magic.”

  “Pardon, Master Nicion, but that’s not true,” said Calliande. Ridmark looked at his wife, and concern went through him. Her blond hair was tied back from her pale face, and her features looked sharp, almost gaunt. The signs of the ordeals of the last few weeks were all but written upon her features, and it reminded him of the awful months after their daughter’s death when grief had consumed her. Yet her blue eyes were clear, and they glittered with her old fire. She was tired, but she wasn’t grieving, and despair was not gnawing at her.

  Perhaps she had figured out what he intended.

  “The Guardian Rhodruthain brought us here through magic,” said Calliande.

  “I did,” said Rhodruthain, the Guardian of Cathair Animus. He looked like a weathered man in his forties. Except he had the brilliant golden eyes, pointed ears, and sharp features of the elven kindred, and he was actually fifteen thousand years old, if not older. The vague, unfocused confusion that Ridmark had seen on Rhodruthain’s face earlier was gone since Calliande had burned the corruptive magic of the Maledictus of Shadows from his mind.

  “Though he dropped us in the middle of the Chaeldon hills without telling us what was going on,” said Calliande.

  Rhodruthain sighed. “That I did. But as you’ve mentioned, I wasn’t thinking all that clearly at the time.”

  “One wonders,” said a woman’s voice, familiar and acerbic, “how much longer you will keep mentioning that.”

  Ridmark looked at Morigna. It was still strange to hear her voice coming from the elven features of Lady Ansalia, the daughter of the last king of Cathair Valwyn. In Morigna’s first life, her human life, she had been Ridmark’s lover. Then she had been murdered, and he had married Calliande. But the archmage Ardrhythain had made Morigna into the Guardian of humanity, and by accident, her spirit had entered the empty body of Lady Ansalia, and Morigna now had a second life in the body of a gray elf.

  It was a strange thought to consider, and an even stranger thing to see firsthand.

  There was a time when meeting Morigna again would have been one of the hardest things Ridmark had ever done. But that time was past. Ridmark was married to Calliande, and he would not change that. And Morigna, the woman he had loved, was gone. In her place was the Guardian Morigna, who had guided Tamlin and Kalussa and Third and Selene to fight the Masked One, who had worked with R
hodruthain to stop the rise of the New God.

  “Given the errors I have made, I hope the Keeper will keep reminding me so that I might avoid future mistakes,” said Rhodruthain, and Morigna rolled her eyes at that. “But I cannot transport us to Cathair Animus, lord King. In my madness, I left the wards armed around the city, and I cannot use magic to return, nor even to travel anywhere nearby. And even if I could, I could not transport an entire army. Not even the Sovereign at the height of his power could have summoned so much magical force.” He sighed. “I fear there is no spell to move an entire army through magic.”

  “I did it,” said Ridmark. “Not once, but several times.”

  Hektor looked startled. “You, Lord Ridmark? I have never seen you use magic. Not unless you are a wizard in addition to a Swordbearer.”

  “I wasn’t always the Shield Knight of Andomhaim,” said Ridmark. “Before that, I was the Dragon Knight.”

  “The Dragon Knight?” said Hektor.

  Rhodruthain opened his mouth to explain, but Morigna beat him to it. She didn’t notice the amused look the older Guardian cast her way.

  “In ancient days, the Dragon Knight was the champion and defender of the high elves,” said Morigna. “He bore the sword of the Dragon Knight, whose name could only be spoken by its bearer, and that sword contained the power of the ancient dragons. With the sword, the Dragon Knight could summon storms of flame, slow and hasten the flow of time, and open magical gates to anywhere in the world.”

  “A mighty weapon,” said King Brasidas, the ruler of Talyrium, who stood straight and proud despite his advancing years. “Do you have it with you?”

  Ridmark shook his head. “No. I gave it back to the high elves.”

  Aristotle looked taken aback. “Why? With such a powerful sword, you could have swept your enemies before you like chaff upon the storm.”

  The reason Ridmark had given the sword back to Ardrhythain was because of men like Aristotle Tempus. Many lords and knights of Andomhaim had demanded that Ridmark use the sword of the Dragon Knight to annihilate the realm’s enemies, to bring all lands and nations and tribes under the sway of the High King. Ridmark saw how easily that power could be abused. So, he had traveled to Cathair Solas and surrendered the mighty sword back to the keeping of Ardrhythain.

  In exchange, Ardrhythain had given him Oathshield. Given how often Oathshield had saved his life and the lives of others, Ridmark thought it a fair trade.

  And perhaps Ardrhythain had given Ridmark counsel as well. When he had been recovering from manticore poisoning, Ridmark had dreamed of Cathair Solas and Ardrhythain. Except he was convinced that it hadn’t been a dream, that Ardrhythain had been giving him counsel. That the archmage had been showing Ridmark the path he needed to walk if there was any hope of stopping the Confessor or the Masked One from seizing the Well of Storms and transforming into the darkest power ever to blight the world.

  “Because the sword of the Dragon Knight was too much power for any one man to wield,” said Ridmark. “I bore it, for a time, when it was necessary. Because there was no other way to defeat the Frostborn. There was too much temptation to abuse the sword’s power, so I gave it back to the keeping of the high elves.”

  Aristotle did not look convinced, which was yet another confirmation for Ridmark that he had made the right decision by giving up the sword of the Dragon Knight. It had occurred to Ridmark, more than once, that if he still bore the sword, he simply could have opened a gate back to Tarlion and taken his family home. In some of the darker moments of the last six months, Ridmark wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off doing just that.

  But if Ridmark had carried the sword of the Dragon Knight when Rhodruthain had come to High King Arandar’s court, he might well have killed the Guardian on the spot. And if Ridmark and Calliande had not come to Owyllain, then the Masked One’s plans would have continued uninterrupted. The Necromancer of Trojas or Nerzamdrathus of the muridachs would have destroyed Owyllain, and by now the Masked One would have taken the Seven Swords to Cathair Animus and become the New God. Or maybe the Confessor would have outwitted his former master and claimed the Well of Storms first.

  Either way, disaster would have consumed Owyllain, and Ridmark would not have learned of it until the New God enslaved Andomhaim.

  “You no longer carry the sword of the Dragon Knight, but the soulblade Oathshield,” said Hektor, “and Oathshield does not have the power to open these magical gates.”

  “It does not,” said Ridmark.

  Aristotle snorted. “Then what has been the point of this discussion? If you cannot open gates, then we might as well wish for wings so we could fly over the Tower Mountains.”

  “I cannot open such gates any longer,” said Ridmark. He pointed at Rhodruthain. “But he can.”

  Rhodruthain blinked his golden eyes. “I fear I am unable to create magical gates. I have neither the knowledge nor the power.”

  “But I have the knowledge,” said Ridmark. “I am not a wizard, but I have the memory of how I opened those gates while I still bore the sword of the Dragon Knight.”

  Rhodruthain blinked again, the faint beginnings of an idea starting to go over his alien features. “Even if I were able to reach into your mind and find that knowledge, I would not have the power to open a gate.”

  “You don’t,” said Ridmark. He gestured at the sheathed sword hanging at Rhodruthain’s belt. “That does, though.”

  The Guardian frowned and touched the scabbarded sword. It was identical to the Sword of Fire, save that it was a golden color instead of the red-orange of Hektor’s blade. The Sword of Fire let Hektor command elemental flame. The Sword of Life’s powers were stranger. It had split Master Talitha into seven lives, allowing one of those lives to survive to oppose the rise of the New God. It had also healed Ridmark from manticore poisoning, and its power had allowed Rhodruthain to survive the attacks of the Maledicti, though it hadn’t been able to protect his sanity.

  He had needed Calliande for that.

  “The Sword of Life does possess tremendous power,” said Rhodruthain with a cautious nod. “But it’s the wrong kind of power for a gate. Its magic is focused on healing and the manipulation of life, not the opening of magical gates. It would be like trying to use a waterfall to start a fire.”

  “You wouldn’t be shaping the power,” said Ridmark. “Calliande would.”

  “I would?” said Calliande.

  Ridmark nodded. “You told me that was how you healed me from the manticore venom. Rhodruthain summoned the magic of the Sword of Life, and you shaped it into the healing spell.”

  “I did,” said Calliande, “but that took the entirety of my skill and concentration. I’m not sure I would be able to target the spell. I wouldn’t have enough concentration left to use the Sight.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ridmark, “but you’re not the only one here with the Sight, are you?”

  Calliande frowned, and then smiled as she looked Morigna.

  “Me?” said Morigna.

  “Rhodruthain summons the power and reads my mind to learn how to shape gates,” said Ridmark. “Calliande directs the power. And Morigna targets it.”

  “That…could work,” said Morigna. “That could well work.”

  “But the spell would fade quickly,” said Rhodruthain. “We might be able to open a gate, but it would not last long. No more than a few minutes, I fear. Hardly long enough for the entire army of Owyllain to march through. We need something with its own magic to serve as an anchor for the gate…”

  For a moment, Ridmark was at a loss, and then the answer came to him. It wasn’t something that he should have realized on his own. He was more and more certain that his dream hadn’t been just a dream, that Ardrhythain had given his thoughts a push in the right direction.

  “Such as the magical crystal from the Staff of Blades?” said Ridmark.

  Kalussa Pendragon Whitecloak flinched at that. She was a fit, pretty woman with thick blond hair bound in a tight braid, a
nd her eyes looked either green or blue depending on the light and whether or not she was angry. She wore the armor of overlapping golden plates they had taken from the ruins of Cathair Selenias. Both her hands were wrapped around the dark metal of the Staff of Blades, the misshapen blue crystal at its end shivering a little with repressed tension.

  “The Staff, Lord Ridmark?” She stood a little behind Calliande. Kalussa’s husband Calem waited next to her, a white shadow in his wraithcloak, his hand near the silver hilt of the Sword of Air. “But the Staff is a weapon. It doesn’t create, only destroy. It…”

  “I’ve seen you use it to create shields,” said Ridmark. “Walls to divert floods when we fought the Confessor. Could you use it to fashion an archway to serve as the anchor for the gate?”

  Kalussa frowned as she thought about it, and then her eyes widened. “I think so. I have enough control over the Staff to manage it now.”

  “Just don’t accidentally shoot anyone in the skull with that thing,” said Tamlin Thunderbolt in a dry voice. Like Calliande, like everyone, he looked tired from the battle yesterday, his face unshaven and his gray eyes bloodshot. But the young knight’s vitality was still there, and he seemed excited at the prospect of taking the battle to the enemy and reaching Cathair Animus before either the Confessor or the Masked One.

  Kalussa gave a disdainful sniff. “I assure you, Sir Tamlin, that the spheres from the Staff of Blades go exactly where I wish them to go, and nowhere else.” But she smiled as she said it.

  “What say you, Keeper?” said Hektor. “Your counsel has not led us wrong before. Will this work?”

  “I do not know,” said Calliande. She drew in a long breath. “But we must try.”

  “We should begin at once,” said Ridmark.

  ###

  Hektor had never claimed the title of High King, but he had ruled Owyllain for twenty-five years nonetheless, and his authority was unquestioned. At a few words from him, the council of kings and lords headed outside the camp, following Calliande and Ridmark and the others.