Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

The rune was their power. It was a physical link to the power of the Quintessential Sphere. The living embodiment of death, disease, and decay. The Xarundi had held this rune, and its power, for a thousand years, since before the time of the Great Cleansing, when men had all but wiped the chosen from the face of the world. Zarfensis and his holiest priests had studied it, learning its ways, learning to keep it at bay enough that they didn’t go mad, but were still able to wield the terrible powers it held.

Necromancy, pestilence, and horror were the way of the Dyr. The power of the rune let them call forth the dead and inflict the living with plagues that would literally eat the flesh from their bones. Then, as they died, the Xarundi would take control of their corpses, turning them against the very men they had fought shoulder to shoulder with. The terror that the Xarundi unleashed against the army of man would be unimaginable. They would pay, Zarfensis swore, for every Chosen whose blood had ever been spilled.

He stepped off the stairs and into the tiny chamber that held the rune. He could feel its sickness now, writhing inside him like a snake coiled around its prey. It tried to burrow into his mind, thin ice cold tendrils of hate and fear that pushed relentlessly at his thoughts. How easy, he thought. How easy it would be to let the rune take over, to control his body and his thoughts. Zarfensis growled, doubling his effort to keep the allure of the rune at bay. To give oneself over to the raw power flicking within it was to be lost, forever. It would consume the soul and leave only a rotting, withering husk in its wake. The rune offered incredible power, but the price was damnation.

The High Priest reached out, his claw tracing the embossed symbol on the surface of the rune. He felt the power crawl up his arm, like the legs of a thousand spiders burrowing into his skin and chewing their way toward the base of his spine. The power was intoxicating and Zarfensis threw his head back in sensual pleasure, panting as he fought to keep his identity safe from the grasping claws of the rune. The infusion continued, heightening his senses until he could feel every crease and crack in the stones under his feet. Finally, the insistent pressure of the rune was unbearable, and Zarfensis bounded up the circular stairs, two at a time.

It wasn’t until he was in his quarters, with the secret door sealed behind him, that he felt the siren call of the rune slowly begin to fade. It knew it had lost its quarry…this time. It would allow him to take the power he had gathered from it, knowing that he would be back for more. No matter, Zarfensis thought, the power would grant him the victory over the armies of man and then what happened to him didn’t matter. The rune could have him and he would be consumed happily.

Zarfensis’ nose twitched. There was someone else in the cathedral. He left the rectory and returned to the sanctuary. Xenir, the Warleader, was crouched before the altar, his long snout tucked down into his chest, his tail flaccid, ears limp. It was an uncharacteristic pose for one of the most fearsome warriors that Zarfensis had ever known. So immersed he was in his supplication that he started when the High Priest laid a heavily muscled hand on his shoulder.

“Have you so little faith in me, brother?”

The Warleader unwound from his crouch and got to his hind legs. He stood a full head taller than Zarfensis and his skin was marred with thick scars and patches of missing fur. One milky eye was lost in a mass of scar that traveled from forehead to jaw line. His good eye blazed, piercing the priest like a white hot brand. He reached out and grasped Zarfensis’ arm, their forearms pressed together, clawed hands wrapping around elbows

“My faith in you is absolute, your Holiness.” The Warleader gestured at the altar. “I come to the rune’s altar because it helps settle me before battle. I’ve been…restless.”

Zarfensis cocked his head to one side, his critical regard ranging over the Warleader’s face. Xenir was well-known for his ability to see all the different layers in the Quintessential Sphere. If he was troubled, there was probably a good reason. Zarfensis was sure of their victory, but if the Warleader had seen a portent, it would serve them well to listen.

“You’ve had a vision?”

The Warleader snarled. It was a sound of impatience and frustration. “Nothing so clear, your Holiness. I feel…something. I’ve seen nothing in the swirling eddies of the Sphere, but it feels as if there is something out there. Waiting. Biding its time.”

“No indication of what that something might be?”

Xenir tossed his head, his gums pulling back from his teeth in a feral growl. “No Holiness, not for lack of trying.”

Zarfensis laid his hand on the Warleader’s massive shoulder.

“No matter, Warleader. The Dyr will lead us to victory against the armies of man. Your portent will become clear in its time.”

Nose flaring, Xenir shook his head slowly. “I can smell your uncertainty, your Holiness. I have failed you.”

“Nonsense,” Zarfensis replied with more conviction than he felt. “Your second sight is a warning, nothing more. You need to rest. We march tomorrow.”

“Yes, your Holiness.”

Zarfensis watched Xenir until he had left the cathedral. He stood there for a long while after, worrying over the hidden omen and wondering how they could best heed a warning they didn’t understand. Finally he retired to his chambers, putting his own advice into practice.

* * *

Motes of dust danced in the shaft of sunlight that fell through the window of the room she shared with the Captain. When she had woken, he was already gone. There was a note on the table instructing her, in no uncertain terms, to stay within the confines of the inn and the courtyard beyond. Though she wasn’t well pleased with the restriction, Tia knew better than to defy him, especially considering how well her last excursion into the city had gone. She contented herself with pacing the length of the room and back again.

Though the wait was infuriating, she had resolved to remain in the room, not even going as far as the common area. It was stubborn of her, but she wanted to prove that she could follow his orders. Still, not knowing where he was or when he would be back was getting to her. She had chewed all the nails off one hand and had started on the other before she heard the door creak open behind her. She turned and watched the Captain enter the room behind her. He carried a long cedar chest in his powerful arms.

As he turned to place it on the table, she saw her name carved into the front, just above the hasp.

“What is this, Sir?”

The Captain stepped out of the way, gesturing to the box. “Something you’re going to need a lot in the very near future, I’m afraid.” He smiled at her when she hesitated, her hand outstretched tentatively. “Go on, open it.”

Conquering her apprehension at the guarded tone of his voice, she went to the table and lifted the lid of the chest. She peered inside and the lid slipped from numb fingers, slamming closed with a loud bang. Left there holding nothing but air, Tiadaria tried to process what she had seen. Then the Captain was by her side, lifting the lid and folding it as far back as the hinges would go.

He lifted out the fine silk tunic, dyed a rich cobalt blue. Over the thin material, thousands of tiny black metal rings joined with each other. A matte black lattice that spread out from the center of the chest, down the three-quarter sleeves, and all the way to the bottom hem.

“I thought,” he said quietly. “That the blue would look good on you. It brings out your eyes, little one.”

He offered her the tunic and after another moment of trying to pull herself together, she took it from him. Shrugging out of the coarse linen she had been wearing, she slipped into her armor, all sense of modesty forgotten or disregarded. She longed to feel the weight of it on her. It fit perfectly, hugging shoulder and hip and breast, no excess fabric for an enemy to grab hold of, no give in the chain to catch on something. Her fingers danced over the cold metal.