Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

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. Usually they’re 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.