Swordsmaster, p.1
Swordsmaster, page 1
SWORDSMASTER:
DECEPTION
by William Mangieri
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by William Mangieri
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
ISBN 979-8-2150-7707-8
https://williammangieri.wordpress.com/
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Caladon Map
Map of Northern Lands
Glossary
Kept in the Dark
Highborne Conspiracy
Lord Brent’s Vendetta
Vigilance in the Ruins
Anticipation
A Wedding in Reithal
Restoring a Myth
Mountain Ambush
Homecoming
Contentions
The Auraelian Dilemma
Conversations at Gnaef
Cold Influence
Manipulations
Protecting the Plan
A Useful Highborne
An Unsettled Winter
A New Weaver
Auraelian Revelations
Tembrol and Karina
Knowledge Lost
Conspiracy Exposed
Plans in Motion
Willful Ignorance
Preparations
Departures
Doorways
Apprehension
Stealing in the Dark
Treachery
Personal Matters
A Missing Lord
A Delayed Discovery
Nightmare at Gnaef
Transmission Failure
Driven and Drained
Remanded
Highborne Wedding
Solitary
Leave-Taking
A Lifeless Sleep
Escaping Notice
Planned Pursuit
Clandestine Conversations
A Troubled Journey
Return to Calhorn
Duty and Doubt
Dillan’s Rift
A Fruitless Search
Hide and Seek
Realization
A Near Thing
Deception
Origins
About the Author
GLOSSARY
Aerh
Magic, as some would call it. Outlawed and spurned by Haval.
Allemande
The unfortunate southern neighbor of Haval, suffering the brunt of the empire's expansion.
Aurae
Sometimes called bright-eyes for their eyes' distinctive golden glow, these are natural born wielders of aerh. Rare and mysterious in modern times, and looked on with uneasy superstition. Sandrik is the first born in living memory.
Caladon
Haval's northernmost earldom. Formerly known as Etaer, it has been part of the Haval empire for 400 years. Ruled by the Tarlenons.
Etaeren
The former inhabitants and rulers of what is now Caladon, legendary for their wielding of aerh. All that remains of their bloodline since their conquest by Haval 400 years ago is what was mingled with the general population.
Haval Empire
Once a raiding culture, has evolved to be more "civilized” as it expands into the more genteel lands to the south.
Highborne
Hereditary nobility.
Iberia
A series of independent city-states south of Allemande, along the southern shore of the northern continent.
Jarrun
Haval traditionalists who resent the empire's cultural changes and long to return it to its raiding roots. They present a challenge to order, particularly in Caladon.
Slette
Nation on Caladon's western border that retains a raiding culture.
Southron
One from the southern continent.
Tarlenon
Both the capital of the Caladon Earldom and its ruling Highborne family
Tor-Haval
The royal seat of the Haval Empire, established by self-proclaimed King Tormundt.
Uterbrom
Haval’s capital city.
return to Table of Contents
KEPT IN THE DARK
andrik was a bright-eye, an heir to the powers of the Aurae of old. The dark curtain of his bangs swung above his green-tinged, unnaturally golden eyes, eyes that glowed with a peculiar brightness. He crossed the mountain fastness of Taernfeld, sensing the aerh flows it was built on, his skin prickling like the steady anticipation of lightning from a spring storm.
The young man had inherited his above average height from Mikael, but he resembled his father in little else. His slender frame and dark hair came from his mother Vassa, and was reminiscent of the Etaeren whose lands these had been. Straight black hair fell to his shoulder blades; it was highlighted with deep purple strands that seemed to shine with their own light.
He strode through the stark white limestone streets, until he reached the section of the ancient ruins furthest from the gate, in the deepest shadows of the mountain’s overhang.
Sergeant Horace Reman stood guard by the crypt’s steel door. He was built like a typical Haval, large and heavy-boned, although his hair and full beard had a red tint rather than the usual Haval blonde. His sharp blue eyes followed Sandrik’s approach. Sandrik could not assure Reman that the passages and chambers beyond the crypt did not lead to the outside, so he always posted a guard on the door. There being only a dozen guardsmen in the garrison, Reman sometimes took that duty on himself.
“The gods smile on you, Sergeant,” Sandrik said.
“And on you, Under-Sergeant.”
Their official ranks did not fully explain the garrison’s hierarchy. Horace Reman had been Sandrik’s superior when he had first joined the guard, but the circumstances of their presence in Taernfeld resulted in a division of authority. Sergeant Reman was the commanding officer of the garrison, but Sandrik was in charge of Taernfeld for the villagers, and in any matters pertaining to aerh. Considering Sandrik’s unique skill with aerh and the uneasiness most people had with the “forbidden arts”, this division suited Horace Reman just fine. He already knew more about these things than he was comfortable with.
The sergeant had grown up with the stories, like most who lived in the north. He had doubted the legends, but those doubts had vanished when he charged into that invisible wall at the height of the fighting last summer. His notion of a normal world was further toppled by those walking corpses that had been summoned to guard this place; they had killed many a good man.
Sandrik had explained that Svaerd was trapped within the haeld-sword. The sorcerer had escaped its confines once before, which was why they had waged battle in Reithal and here in Taernfeld’s ruins. Svaerd constantly sought to escape, and so the bonds that held him needed reinforcement every week.
“I take it that it is time again,” Reman said.
“Yes, so if you would be so kind.” Sandrik gestured toward the door.
The sergeant produced a key and stepped aside. Sandrik turned the key in the lock. Reman tensed slightly when the door opened, as though he expected someone or something to spring from the darkness beyond. But all was still, even the air. No one was allowed to enter the crypt aside from Sandrik, not that Reman or any other of the Guard had the slightest desire to do so.
Sandrik returned the key to the sergeant.
“I would appreciate it if you would unlock it when I am done.”
“I will consider it.”
Sandrik glimpsed the smile buried in Reman’s full beard; he knew he would open the door when Sandrik knocked. There was no point increasing Reman’s discomfort by weaving aerh in his presence, so Sandrik stepped inside and waited for the door to seal him into total darkness. Once he heard the telltale “snick!” of the key in the lock, he cupped his hands and wove aerh into a bluish ball of light.
The crypt did indeed go deep. The smooth white limestone was carved into stacks of three shelves along either side of the straight corridors. Each shelf held a corpse, either one of the Etaeren Aurae interred there four hundred or more years ago, or the village seers who had resumed watch over Taernfeld in later years. The oldest remains were closest to the door.
The air was crisp and cool, with no odor of decay. Perhaps it was simply the dryness of the crypts, or an effect of the aerh which pooled at this place, but the bodies had deteriorated far less than one would expect. Some were down to bones and what metal they may have had on them, but many were still fully intact.
Sandrik proceeded further in, toward the more recently deceased. He reached the section where eleven members of the last Aurae Council had been laid after Svaerd slaughtered them four centuries earlier. He had drained them of the ability to move on from this world to the next. They wandered about Taernfeld from then until this day. Wispy blue spectres s tood by their bodies as their lips moved in a silent chant.
Naelga was the only spirit remaining who was capable of communication in this world. She had been their leader, second only to her son Craen in power. She could not undo their silence, but she had shown Sandrik how to feed a trickle of aerh into the essence of each, to undo some of the damage Svaerd had done to their spirits. It was a tedious process, though eased some by the recent increase of aerh in Taernfeld’s reservoir. As Sandrik passed them, Kaenna suddenly flared into a bright blue mist and was gone. The eyes of the others were drawn to the spot where she had stood, and when they finally looked away, their lips moved with a renewed vigor.
Beyond the Council members were the bodies of the dozen white-robed village seers who had served as the caretakers of Taernfeld. These had not been wielders of aerh, but instead had conducted the rituals the mountain folk invented to explain this place. The last were so well preserved, they looked to be sleeping.
Old Gaemel had been old indeed when he had passed away two years ago. Mikael followed him this past summer. Sandrik’s father lay there, not in the white robes of the seers, but in the purple that his wife had woven for him.
Sandrik studied him–a large, blonde-bearded man with a firm, yet gentle look to his features. The harsh, domineering air that had come over him when Svaerd had possessed Mikael’s body was gone. Sandrik would rather that his father still lived, but at least Mikael had retaken control of his body–as brief as it had been–before his final murder.
Sandrik still felt guilty about Mikael’s death. If he had not allowed Svaerd to so beguile him, Mikael would still be alive. His loss reinforced the need for caution when dealing with the treacherous sorcerer.
Beyond his father, on a shelf by itself, was the haeld-sword. The shelf felt different from the others in the corridor. Sandrik could see the blue streams of aerh he had guided into position from Taernfeld’s reservoir, so that he could more reliably power the wards that kept Svaerd in his prison.
The haeld was a plain-looking long sword. Nothing distinguished it from others, save for the runes etched into the blade. The haelda rune was prominent–three parallel vertical lines whose lower ends hooked left and merged, the lynchpin of Svaerd’s prison. The back of Sandrik’s left hand itched as he looked at the sword; he rubbed the matching scar the hawk had scratched there four years earlier.
Sandrik held his hands just above the blade and closed his eyes as he gathered in the strands of aerh he would use to infuse and strengthen the wards. He felt the tingle of energy being drawn into his pores, filling him with life. A warmth traveled up his arms and coursed through his veins, and the hair on his arms and head rose slightly. Once the aerh had built sufficiently in his body, he touched the sword, and the aerh flowed into it. The rune glowed a vibrant blue.
MIKAEL WOULD HAVE LIVED IF HE HAD NOT INTERFERED.
Svaerd’s thoughts pushed at Sandrik, but he was no longer the same naïve young man who had found the sword. He had seen too much death since then, and the sorcerer had revealed his true nature in his arrogance. Svaerd had enslaved Sandrik, Mikael, and even Merith, and would have killed them all if he had not been thwarted. Sandrik was fortunate he had only lost his father to Svaerd’s ambitions.
“It took you four hundred years to escape last time, and you will not have such an opportunity again. You may be interested to learn that Kaenna has been freed from your trap. The others will soon follow her.”
But it was not in Svaerd’s nature to give up.
THOSE FAILED GHOSTS WERE NEVER A MATCH FOR ME. I CAN TEACH YOU SO MUCH MORE THAN THEY EVER COULD.
Sandrik had heard it all before. “I have learned enough of you.”
He lifted his hand from the sword, and Svaerd’s intrusion into his mind ceased. He made the intricate passes just over the blade’s surface that Naelga had shown him to weave power into the haeld rune. Once the aerh’s warmth left him, he stepped back to the other side of the corridor to recover.
The weekly task to refresh the wards was simple enough, but taxing. It required some of his personal aerh to control the process; he often felt fatigued when done, as though he had spent an hour training with the master at arms.
The contact with Svaerd did not make the task any easier. Each time that Svaerd tried to worm his way out of the haeld, Sandrik wanted to oblige him, but he would only do so if he could then consign him to oblivion. Unfortunately, Svaerd had been linked to the haeld for so much time that as long as Sandrik lacked the knowledge and power to destroy it, Svaerd’s spirit would persist. He could not be truly eliminated until the haeld-sword was.
Sandrik returned to the crypt door and extinguished the ball of light in his hand, then wrapped his knuckles against the steel in the distinctive pattern Reman had insisted on:
Rat-tata, rat-tata, rat tat tat!
vaerd would have thrown his hands up in frustration, but he had no physicality within the haeld. Twice he had been close to possessing Sandrik, both mind and body. But there was no point in probing his prison further, not now that the boy had learned to feed aerh into the wards. The supply that pooled at Taernfeld would keep his prison secure.
DAMN THAT CRAEN! IF HE HAD NOT HELPED THE BOY…
Craen had trapped him in the haeld four hundred years ago, and then had returned from the grave this year to imprison him once again. Railing against his nemesis served no purpose. He needed to focus on what he could change.
Svaerd had tried to leverage the boy’s distrust of him, so that Sandrik would fear to leave the sword behind on his brief trips to the valley. But Naelga had taught him how to shield his mind, and now Svaerd’s attempts were limited to the moments that Sandrik touched the sword. The boy was only a glorified goatherd, but with Naelga’s help he had been able to thwart Svaerd’s attempts. The sword was always left in Taernfeld, securely warded.
HE IS LEARNING TOO MUCH. I SHOULD HAVE DRAINED NAELGA AS I DID THE REST OF THE COUNCIL–THEN THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN NO ONE TO TEACH HIM. AT LEAST SHE FEARS ME ENOUGH TO AVOID OUR SESSIONS. GIVEN ENOUGH TIME ALONE WITH HIM, I MIGHT YET CREATE AN OPENING.
But he knew that was unlikely to happen. The boy had been gullible at first, but his willingness to trust had proven a danger. He would never listen to Svaerd again.
YOU CANNOT HAVE GOTTEN THE BETTER OF ME AGAIN, CRAEN!
At least he need not endure that interfering fool’s presence, as had been the case when he was forced back into the haeld. Even though he knew Craen had abandoned this existence, Svaerd yet thought he heard his nemesis’ laughter echo in the darkness.
I HAVE BEATEN YOU HERE! YOU GAVE UP THIS WORLD, BUT I WILL PREVAIL–I WILL RULE HERE IN THE END!
Craen’s laughter echoed even louder at that. Svaerd tried to distract himself by picking away at the hidden door deeper in the crypt. There was a weakness in the stone he hoped to exploit, and eventually clear a path to the outside of the mountain. Not that it would do any good without someone to carry the sword out of this place.
But then Svaerd realized that it was not merely Craen’s laughter; he also heard words.
“That is all for today,” Sandrik said.
“Until next week, then.” Svaerd recognized Sergeant Reman’s voice. This situation cannot come to an end soon enough for me.
WAIT! Svaerd realized. HE IS NOT SPEAKING–THOSE ARE HIS THOUGHTS! HOW AM I HEARING THEM?
Svaerd had been unable to read the thoughts of anyone who was not holding the sword, unless they had become attuned, as Sandrik had been, and Craen before him. In the ancient days when there were other aerh-wielders he had been able to read the Aurae, and even the Auraelians–although he could not influence them from within the haeld, not once Craen had placed a muting ward on the sword.
But the goatherd was ignorant of that particular weave, and if Svaerd could hear Reman’s thoughts, he might be able to speak with him.
REMAN!
The guardsman did not reply; he was unaware of Svaerd’s presence.
BUT IF I CAN HEAR HIS THOUGHTS, THEN I MIGHT BE ABLE TO DO MORE.
Svaerd scanned the guardsman’s heart flame, and was rewarded with a clear, though disappointing view. The cool blue indicated he was a lowly mundane, with no aerh-wielding potential. Svaerd would have been able to speak inside Reman’s mind or any other mundane’s if he was outside the haeld, but it was useless to try from within.
