Sevenfold Sword: Warlord Read online

  SEVENFOLD SWORD: WARLORD

  Jonathan Moeller

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  Description

  The quest of the Seven Swords has unleashed catastrophic war.

  Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the only Swordbearer in the realm of Owyllain. He is allied with the noble King Hektor Pendragon, who fights to reunify the Seven Swords and to end the destructive war they have unleashed.

  But the tyrannical King Justin Cyros is marching to war against Hektor, and King Justin knows the secret of the malevolent New God, a secret that will kill everyone in Owyllain.

  Starting with Ridmark and his family...

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  Sevenfold Sword: Warlord

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Smashwords Edition.

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

  Ebook edition published November 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.

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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 Demon In The Forest

  Thirty-one days after the quest of the Seven Swords began, thirty-one 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 moved in silence through the redwood forest, his boots making no sound against the ground.

  The forest was quiet, but Ridmark knew that would not last.

  He walked in haste and in silence, making his way around the massive roots of the great redwoods. The huge trees rose like the pillars of a soaring cathedral, their branches arching overhead to blot out the sun. Given how harsh and hot the weather of Owyllain was compared to that of Andomhaim, Ridmark did not mind the shade. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the leaves overhead, casting patches of light onto the forest floor.

  A dead orcish soldier lay in one of those pools of light.

  Ridmark went motionless, his bamboo staff in his right hand, his gray cloak stirring around him in the faint breeze that rustled the leaves far overhead.

  He did not move, but listened and looked.

  It was an old, old trick, he knew.

  Kill one enemy, leave his corpse in plain sight, and then wait to ambush his friends when they came to investigate.

  Ridmark remained still and silent, looking at his surroundings, but he did not think any enemies waited to attack him. The mighty redwoods were spaced far apart from each other, which left little room for enemies to hide. In some parts of the Qazaluuskan Forest, the trees were so thick that men could stand a dozen paces apart and not realize the other was there. The lines of sight were far clearer here.

  He counted to a hundred under his breath, but no foes showed themselves.

  Satisfied that it wasn’t a trap, Ridmark strode forward and examined the dead orc.

  The orc had been a warrior of Vhalorast, a city-state to the north whose Warlord Khazamek had allied with King Justin Cyros in his quest to reunite the Seven Swords and bring Owyllain under his rule. Like all the warriors of Vhalorast, the dead orc had a tattoo on his green-skinned face, a swirling pattern of red that encircled his left eye and spread across his temples and jaw. Most of the orcish warriors of Andomhaim wore topknots. The warriors of Vhalorast eschewed that custom, and instead shaved their heads bald, growing long, drooping mustaches bound with bronze rings. The mustaches made for a stark contrast with their white tusks. The dead warrior had been wearing good armor – a shirt of interlocking bronze rings backed by a leather cuirass, bronze greaves and bracers, and a shield of wood and hide on his left arm.

  None of that had been enough to save him.

  His leaf-bladed bronze sword and bronze dagger were still in their scabbards. The orcish warrior’s throat had been cut, his chest green with blood.

  Green and wet, come to think of it. The blood hadn’t had time to congeal.

  Ridmark went to one knee and put a finger on the orc’s forehead.

  The green skin was still warm.

  The orc hadn’t been dead long. Less than an hour, Ridmark thought.

  But who had killed him?

  Ridmark didn’t think anyone in King Hektor Pendragon’s army had done it. The Arcanius Knight Sir Parmenio commanded King Hektor’s scouts, and while they were all competent men, they would have either shot the orc with an arrow or avoided the fight. For that matter, the cut across the warrior’s throat had been done with a blade of unusual sharpness. Iron was rare in Owyllain, which meant that steel was nearly nonexistent. Every man in Hektor Pendragon’s army carried a weapon of bronze, and bronze could not hold as sharp of an edge as a steel blade. Ridmark had seen many, many wounds in his life, and he knew that a bronze sword had not done this.

  A glint of green caught his eye. Blood was pooling beneath the dead warrior. Ridmark got to his feet and used his bamboo staff to lever up the orc’s torso.

  The orc had also been stabbed in the back with uncanny precision, right between the bronze rings of his mail. It hadn’t been a fatal wound, but the sequence was plain enough. Someone had stabbed the orcish warrior in the back, but before he could recover, the attacker had cut his throat.

  It left Ridmark uneasy.

  King Hektor’s army was marching north through the forest, towards the dry hills surrounding the fortress of Castra Chaeldon. Somewhere north of Castra Chaeldon waited the army of King Justin Cyros, marching south to smash Aenesium and Hektor’s allies. A long distance separated the two armies, but bands of scouts had been stumbling into each other with increasing frequency.

  If one of Hektor’s men had not killed this orcish warrior of Vhalorast…then who? An ally?

  Or a creature that was taking advantage of the chaos to kill?

  If a creature of dark magic was loose in the forest, Ridmark was the best one in Hektor’s host to face it.

  He stepped back from the dead orc, scrutinizing the ground.

  There were no tracks from the orc’s killer, which was strange. Ridmark spotted the slain orc’s tracks, marked among the dirt and the fallen leaves. The warrior had been walking with a steady, untroubled pace, heedless of his enemy and his impending death.

  Stranger and stranger.

  Ridmark decided to follow the tracks.

  He hurried forward at a light jog, bamboo staff in hand. Oathshield remained in its scabbard at his left hip, bouncing off his leg every so often. The soulblade was a far superior weapon to the bamboo staff, but Ridmark was the only Swordbearer in Owyllain. Best to keep the enemy unaware of his true capabilities. And Ridmark had noticed that the human and orcish warriors of Owyllain held the quarterstaff in contempt as a weapon.

  He had taught quite a few of his enemies the error of that belief. His sons, too, would grow up knowing how to use a staff and how to defend against
one…

  Chasing enemy scouts through a forest was not the time to worry about his sons. He could do that later, constantly.

  The ground grew rockier as he followed the trail to the northwest, and soon massive gray boulders jutted from the earth. That hadn’t seemed to slow the redwoods down, which towered as high as ever. It did force Ridmark to slow his pace, keeping an eye out for any foes.

  He heard the orcish soldiers arguing before he saw them.

  There were three of them. Ridmark slowed and approached one of the massive gray boulders, staff ready in his hand.

  “I’m not going out there again,” said the first orc, speaking the orcish tongue with the distinctive jagged accent of the city of Vhalorast.

  “Don’t be a damned coward,” said a second orc, contempt in his voice. “Aye, Hektor Pendragon’s host is in the forest, but they’re seven miles south yet. The blood gods hate cowards and cravens.”

  “The blood gods hate morons, too, and they repay stupidity with death,” said a third orc. “You’ve seen the corpses. None of them were cowards, but the demon took them.”

  Demon? If there was indeed a creature of dark magic loose in the redwood forest, it seemed to be preying on King Justin’s scouts. That said, there was nothing that would stop it from attacking King Hektor’s men. And Ridmark was a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade, sworn to oppose creatures of dark magic. He could not in good conscience let an urvaalg or an ursaar prey upon anyone, even if the creature’s victims were serving a man like Justin Cyros.

  But an urvaalg or an ursaar wouldn’t have left precise wounds like that. It would have torn its victims apart. Ridmark wondered if an urshane or an urhaalgar or even an urdhracos was loose in the forest.

  “They shouldn’t have gone out alone,” said the second orc. “The Warlord wants us to cover as much ground as we can, aye, but going out alone is stupid. I say we head north and rejoin the main host. The Warlord needs to hear the news. If there’s a devil in the forest, the High Warlock can deal with it. Or King Justin can turn it to stone with the Sword of Earth.”

  “Aye,” said the first orc, “but think how much glory we shall win if we slay the creature and bring it before the Warlord’s throne!”

  “Or it will kill us all and our bodies will rot in the forest,” said the third orc. “It has to be an urshane or maybe an urdhracos, or some horror crawled up from the Deeps. We’re scouts, and a scout who fails to return to report is useless. Let us bring the news to the Warlord and the High Warlock, and they can deal with it.”

  “The Dark Arcanius won’t like it,” said the first orc.

  Ridmark’s fingers tightened against the staff. The Guardian Rhodruthain had founded the Order of the Arcanii among the men of Owyllain, teaching them to use elemental magic against the armies of the Sovereign and his lieutenants. In Andomhaim, the Magistri occasionally turned to dark magic. Unfortunately, it seemed the Arcanius Knights had turned to dark magic far more often. It happened so often, in fact, that the Order of the Arcanii had split in half after Kothlaric Pendragon’s disappearance, and a rival Order had set itself up under the protection of Justin Cyros, an Order that tolerated and encouraged the use of dark magic and necromancy.

  The Dark Arcanii, as they were called, had become some of Justin’s most effective and feared servants.

  “The Dark Arcanius,” said the third orc, “can take his precious authority and shove it sideways up his…”

  Ridmark was not familiar with the dialect of orcish spoken by the orcs of Vhalorast and did not recognize the term, but he was entirely certain that the rest of that sentence was not complimentary to the Dark Arcanius.

  The other two orcs laughed.

  “Fine,” said the first orc. “We are agreed? We will return and report to the Warlord. He can decide what to do about the demon.”

  “Very well,” said the third orc, and the second rumbled agreement.

  Ridmark decided to take a risk. The orcs knew more than they had said, and perhaps he could persuade them to speak with him. A brief parley and he might find out everything he needed to know about this “demon” and where to find it.

  His mind made up, Ridmark strode around the boulder, staff held crosswise before him.

  “Hold!” he said in orcish. “Men of Vhalorast, I would parley with you!”

  The three orcish scouts looked as he had expected, wearing the same kind of armor and facial tattoo as the dead warrior he had seen earlier. They whirled as Ridmark came around the boulder, yanking their bronze swords from their scabbards.

  “Greetings,” said Ridmark. “I wish to speak with you about this demon.”

  The orcs stared at him.

  “Kill him!” yelled one of the orcs. “The one to land the killing blow can take his armor!”

  Ridmark sighed.

  So much for a parley.

  The three orcish warriors charged, drawing back their swords to strike, and Ridmark moved to meet them. They came in a rush, no doubt assuming they could overwhelm one foe armed with a staff. Ridmark dodged to the side, deflected the stab of a sword, and swept his staff before him. The staff hammered into the back of an orcish warrior’s knee, and the orc lost his balance with a cry. Before he could recover, Ridmark hammered the end of his staff into the orcish warrior’s throat. The blow crushed his windpipe, and the orc began the noisy business of asphyxiating to death.

  The remaining two warriors spread out, trying to come at Ridmark from the left and the right simultaneously. Ridmark sidestepped and jabbed his staff, catching the orc on the left in the belly. The orc stumbled with a grunt, and Ridmark hit him in the head twice in rapid succession. On the second blow, there was a cracking sound, and the orc went down, blood leaking from his nostrils and ears. The final orc went into a furious attack, slashing and stabbing with his bronze sword, and Ridmark retreated, dodging the swings and using his staff to deflect the thrusts.

  At last the orc’s momentum played out, and Ridmark parried a blow, shoved, and sent the orc stumbling back.

  His staff found the orc’s stomach, and the warrior doubled over with a pained wheeze. Three sharp blows to the back of the head, and the fight was over.

  Ridmark stepped back, breathing hard, and raised his staff in guard, his eyes sweeping the boulders for any more foes, but none appeared. Ridmark lowered his staff, rolled his aching shoulders, looked at the dead orcs, and grimaced. That had been a waste. He had hoped to get some useful information from them, but once the orcs had seen his dark elven armor, they would not have stopped before they had killed him and claimed it for themselves.

  Still, at least King Justin Cyros had been denied the service of three more scouts.

  The logic was brutal, but such were the demands of war.

  Ridmark considered the ground, noting the locations of the tracks. The rocky ground did not leave much in the way of usable footprints, but he thought the three dead orcs had come from the north. Ridmark headed in that direction, following the tracks as they wove through the boulders. Another mile, he decided. One more mile and he would see if he could find any evidence of the demon that had been haunting the forest. Too much further, and he risked running into a band of foes he could not handle on his own.

  One more mile, and then he would return to King Hektor’s army. If the creature of dark magic, whatever it was, decided to go after the men of Aenesium, Ridmark would be ready to face it…

  Something jolted on his left hip.

  Ridmark looked down. He shifted his staff to his left hand, reached down, and grasped Oathshield’s hilt with his right hand, drawing it a few inches from its scabbard. The blade of blue steel glittered in the dim sunlight, and both the soulstone in the pommel and the soulstone in the blade were glowing with white light, white flames starting to dance around the weapon. Through his link to the sword, Ridmark felt the soulblade’s sudden wrath, felt its desire to be drawn and wielded in battle.

  There was a creature or wielder of dark magic nearby.

  Ri
dmark drew Oathshield from its scabbard and stepped back, staff in his left hand and sword in his right. Oathshield burned with white fires, the flames crawling up and down the blue blade. He took a few steps back, looking for any approaching enemies.

  A flicker of blue fire caught his eye, and Ridmark strode around another boulder.

  He came into a clearing formed by a ring of large boulders about forty yards across. Had Owyllain’s climate been a little less arid, perhaps a pond would have formed in the shallow depression. The loose ring of boulders reminded Ridmark of the circles of black standing stones the dark elves had raised in ancient days, but these were only natural boulders, not menhirs carved with sigils of dark magic.

  The source of the dark magic stood in the center of the clearing.

  It was a human man of about thirty, wearing the bronze armor favored by the Arcanii, plates of bronze overlaid upon a leather cuirass, bronze greaves on his legs and bronze bracers upon his forearms. A crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, and on his head, he wore a plumed bronze helmet with a T-shaped slit.

  Beneath the helm, Ridmark saw that the man’s eyes glowed with harsh blue light.

  He was an Arcanius Knight, but he was wielding dark magic. Already Ridmark saw shadows crawling around the Arcanius Knight’s fingers as he gathered power for a spell. He was one of the Dark Arcanii, a member of the rival Order that had formed to support Justin Cyros.

  “What is this, then?” said the Arcanius. His voice had a faint, insect-like buzz to it. Dark magic sometimes caused mutations in its users. To judge from the sound, and to judge from the grayish corpse-like pallor on the Arcanius Knight’s fingers and neck, the process had begun. “Are you the creature that I have hunted through the woods?”

  “As it happens,” said Ridmark, lifting Oathshield and watching the Arcanius, “I also was hunting for the creature.”

  “That was foolish of you,” said the Arcanius. “When I find the creature, I shall bind its will and enslave it, and wield alongside the others in battle. If you find it first, it shall slay you.”