By Shield or by Sword

 

The walls of Charn rose from the dusty plain like a brooding cloud on the far horizon; ominous and unwelcoming.

 

Sigrith Andravos fixed her gaze upon their towering crenellations and tried to dispel the notion that the gloomy sight was a portent of things to come. Charn was a place she had left behind long ago, and while she had not been entirely unhappy growing up within its environs, nor was she in any particular hurry to revisit the old haunts of her youth.  

 

She tried to shake the ill sentiment that threatened to settle over her. 

 

These walls were not designed to keep her out.

 

No. But they were once a cage to keep me in.

 

Deciding that her only recourse was to deal with matters as swiftly as possible, Sigrith leaned forward in her saddle, urging her mount on. The beast was also tired from the long ride, however, and resisted her imprecations with a snort. 

 

“Quite a sight, is she not?” This from the messenger who rode to her left. Sir Marlowe had been dispatched to urge Sigrith to attend her former patron, Lady Welstead, here in Charn. He was a knight of the Rite of Honor, styled in its gold livery, with all the associated pomp. And yet, despite his position and the knights’ reputation for aloofness, Sigrith had found him to be a considerate and kindly man.

 

“The city,” he clarified, in case she had mistaken his meaning. 

 

Sigrith inclined her head. “A sight that does not change. The walls are just as I remember them.”

 

Marlowe frowned. “Forgive me, Lady Andravos, but I sense your hesitation. Is all well?”

 

“Revisiting the past is ever a lesson,” said Sigrith. “One that must be borne with grace and fortitude.”

 

Marlowe smiled, not unkindly. “I see. How long since you last visited the fortress city, Lady Andravos?”

 

“Nigh on a decade,” said Sigrith. 

 

A decade since she had seen her would-be mother. 

 

The next few hours were going to be interesting indeed. 

 

“I suspect you’ll find that, just like the walls, life inside the city hasn’t changed much either,” said Marlowe. 

 

“No,” agreed Sigrith, eyeing the approaching outer gate. “I don’t suppose it has.” 

 

---

 

“You look different. You have more color in your cheeks. And your eyes have grown hard.” The woman waved a hand. “You’ve grown up. And I don’t just mean you’ve come of age, Sigrith. I see the change in your demeanor. You’re more than just a woman now. You bear the honor of a Legacy, and the weight that entails.”

 

Sigrith stood in the reception chamber of Lady Welstead’s manor, surrounded by opulent white marble wall panels, each of them precisely carved with scenes illustrating the great deeds of ancient knights of the Welstead line. These were the Legacy bearers of old, the most feted of all warriors of the Rite of Honor, and their stories echoed back for a thousand years or more, to the time just after the Fall, when Selejia was being reforged in the aftermath of that great calamity. 

 

Flickering torches cast the figures in deep relief, imparting a kind of magical life to the long-dead heroes. As a young woman, coming of age in this household as a charge of Lady Welstead, Sigrith had adored these friezes, tracing their every line with her fingertips, recalling all of the wondrous stories of an age gone by. 

 

An age that, if she had anything to do with it, might one day be restored.

 

She studied the woman before her. Lady Welstead was showing her age, which was only to be expected. Her blonde hair was giving way to gray, and the thin lines around her mouth and eyes had begun to deepen. More than that, though, she looked tired. Concerned. As if, behind the airs and graces of the fine robes and exquisite jewelry that had replaced the armour she had now retired, something was deeply troubling her. Sigrith recognized this was hardly a revelation—her old guardian would hardly have summoned her across half Selejia simply to catch up. 

 

“I suspect you’ll be pleased to be home,” Lady Welstead continued. “You’ve been missed. We follow all of your achievements, of course, but the house is quiet without you. Too quiet.” She gestured vaguely towards the ceiling with a wave of her left hand. “Your room is still there, of course. I always insist the servants keep it for you, just in case.”

 

Sigrith caught the woman’s gaze. “What is it, my lady? Why have you called me here?” 

 

Lady Welstead pursed her lips and regarded Sigrith appraisingly. When she spoke, the affected airiness had slipped from her voice. “You really have changed, haven’t you? Never before would you have been so direct. It suits you.” 

 

“Lady Welstead…” pressed Sigrith.

 

“Jothan is missing.” The words were short, clipped and staccato, as if the woman was trying to force them out as quickly as possible, so as to render them somehow less real. “Inside the Malediction.”

 

Sigrith slowly exhaled. 

 

Jothan, who had tormented her so as a child. 

 

Jothan, who had grown into a jealous, spiteful man, bitter that she, Sigrith, a mere orphan who had once had the temerity to be cared for by his mother, had been granted the gift of a Legacy with her finding of the Andravon.

 

Jothan, who had fought to claim the family Legacy for himself, despite it being destined for another.

 

He was perhaps the most tenacious person that Sigrith had ever met. His warmongering had earned the Welsteads a brutal but glorious reputation.

 

And now he was missing.

 

Inside the Malediction. 

 

And he only had himself to blame. 

 

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said.

 

Lady Welstead narrowed her eyes. “Come now, child. Remember who I am. I know you better than anyone in all Selejia. You are not sorry. You probably think the foolish boy deserves everything that he gets.” She turned away, unable to meet Sigrith’s gaze. “And you’d probably be right. I know who he is, who he’s become. Marred by ambition over duty. But he is still my son, Sigrith. Just as you are still my daughter, in spirit if not in name.” 

 

“You want me to go after him,” said Sigrith. 

 

A wan smile tugged at the corner of Lady Welstead’s mouth. “I want you to go after the Spear.” She paused, as if weighing the import of her own words. The calculated coldness inherent in her request. Then, with a slight bowing of her head, she continued. “If Jothan is still alive, then I shall welcome that blessing. But the Legacy…” She trailed off, but the implication was clear. The Legacy carried by Jothan—the Spear of Cadisar—was a rare survivor from an ancient age, believed to have been forged by Oster himself during the Great Everlasting War. It was a symbol of power within the Order, entrusted to the House of Welstead for a score of generations. It was a status that the Welsteads could ill afford to lose. 

 

Sigrith sighed. She understood now why her former guardian had summoned her here. The stakes could not have been higher. If the Spear were to fall into the hands of others… 

 

“You think me heartless,” said Lady Welstead. “But I must be practical, my dear. I wish for nothing more than for Jothan to simply walk through that door,” she gestured at the far end of the reception hall with a flick of her wrist, “but if the Spear were lost, there would be no door. For good or for ill, it has become the foundation upon which our family’s future is built.

 

Sigrith nodded. “I understand. I must seek counsel.”

 

Lady Welstead seemed to wince at her words. “Counsel? What further counsel do you need? You see my predicament. Would you allow our family’s fortunes to fail so?”

 

Our family. 

 

The words cut Sigrith to the quick. Had that ever been true? Had she ever truly been a part of Lady Welstead’s family, or was it merely convenient now, after ten years, to call on her again? Now that she had the means to find Jothan and the Spear. Now that she was useful again.

 

Sigrith took a deep breath, and let it out.

 

Perhaps she was being unkind. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Lady Welstead was right. Recovering the missing Legacy was paramount to the standing of the Welsteads and to the esteem of the Rite itself.

 

And yet, still she had her own duty to consider.  

 

“I serve a cause far greater than the bonds of family or Rite,” she said, her voice tight. “That is my predicament, my lady. I must not allow my personal feelings to lead me from the chosen path.”

 

Lady Welstead took a step back, her eyes alighting on the rim of the ornate shield strapped to Sigrith’s back. “You speak of the Andravon.”

 

Sigrith inclined her head. “My duty and my life,” she said. “It must have its say in what comes next.” 

 

Lady Wealstead reached out and clasped hold of Sigrith’s hand. “So be it. You always were an honorable child. That’s why Jothan despised you so. You always showed him up.” She gave a wan smile. “This family’s fate is in your hands, Sigrith. Yours and those of the soul residing in that shield you bear.” 

 

---

 

“Only from the womb of darkness may the dream of light be born.”

 

Sigrith knelt on the cold stone floor of the Welstead Chapel, a small but elaborate structure at the rear of the main manor complex, dedicated to the majesty of the Triumvirate. Here, three immense, robed statues looked down upon her imperiously, as if judging her as she prostrated herself on the ground before them. 

 

Resting on the marble steps before her was the Andravon itself; its face of cool perfection carved from pale stone, its panel rimmed in bronze and gold. Its mouth did not move as it spoke its riddle-like words, and yet streaks of bloody tears streamed from its sightless eyes, pooling on the steps below. 

 

“Only with surrender to the wilderness can the true path be identified, for it is in venturing into the unknown that we find our way.” 

 

“Then I should follow this course of action?” asked Sigrith. “I should seek Jothan and the Spear of Cadisar?” 

 

The Andravon’s voice was a low, rumbling groan. “Before you is a choice. A fork in the road. One route leads to desolation for those you once held close, but avoids a confrontation that threatens future peace. The other leads to the Malediction and all that has been lost, but embraces the chaos of an uncertain future.” 

 

Sigrith swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “What futures are certain? All is ever in flux. And is this not the wilderness of which you spoke?”

 

The Andravon made a low, rumbling sound that Sigrith knew to be a laugh. “Then you have already decided and your path is clear.”

 

Sigrith exhaled. 

 

Good. 

 

Into the wilderness it is, then.

 

---

 

Even the skies here were wrong. 

 

Sigrith had walked the corrupted pathways of the Malediction more times than she would care to consider, and yet every time she faced the dead air, the red, curdled skies, and the shuddering, malformed landscape, it felt like the dawning of a new horror. Here, contained within the vast Wall of Galdrun, was oblivion. 

 

And yet it was also the key to their salvation. For hidden in the depths of this nigh-on-impenetrable place of nightmare was the key to restoring the Everlasting, the immortals who had once caged Ymiris and built the walls to contain her wrath. Here, too, were the relics of that bygone age, waiting to be unearthed and claimed, and utilized in that holy crusade to bring about a new era of peace and prosperity. 

 

So it was that she was once again trudging beneath that broken sky, through which the distant constellations of another time might still be glimpsed, and bruised clouds scudded like smears of blood across the surface of the world.   

 

Behind her trod a score of valiant souls who had sworn themselves to her cause. Those faithful of the Order who had rallied to her call. These men and women understood all too well the dichotomy of the Malediction; its enticing lure and its deadly embrace, but they knew, too, the essence of duty and honor. 

 

Sir Marlowe, too, had volunteered to attend her for this rescue—or recovery—mission, although Sigrith wondered how much of the decision was down to his own chivalry, and how much to Lady Welstead’s desire for a redundancy plan. If Sigrith were to fall, too, during this quest into the unknown, then perhaps Marlowe, at least, could be on hand to claim Jothan’s Legacy and return with it to Charn. That, and the Andravon.

 

Or perhaps she was just growing cynical. 

 

Maybe she was more like Lady Welstead than she cared to admit.

 

Ahead of them, the landscape was a barren plain, rumpled and broken by a series of pronounced ridges, as if the ground beneath had tried to shed its outer skin with a heaving shrug, and then given up, leaving the earth ruptured and cracked.

 

“What is this?” said Marlowe from close on her left. His voice was a quiet rasp, his words almost lost completely on the scouring winds blowing in from the direction Sigrith figured was probably East–although this deep inside the Malediction, she had no way to be sure.

 

She turned to regard the site of Marlowe’s confusion. 

 

A few meters from where he was standing, several pale, brittle-looking structures jutted from the coarse earth, towering almost twice his not-inconsiderable height. They might have been some kind of sacred structures; strange, abstract archways or henges, raised in tribute to the Great Betrayers. But Sigrith knew well enough that they were something far stranger.

 

“Bones,” she said, coming to stand beside the knight. 

 

“Bones?” he repeated, as if in disbelief. “What manner of creature could have bones so great that a single limb could tower thrice the size of a man?”

 

Sigrith smiled. Once, she had shared such naivety, such incredulity, before the Malediction had revealed deeper truths and marvels. “It’s the remnants of a giant,” she said. “One of those who built the Thorn.” She indicated the rust-colored earth around the base of the jutting bones. “Look more closely. It still bleeds. It remains alive, even in this state of partial decay. Even entombed in the earth as it is.”

 

Marlowe stared at her with open wonder. “But… I thought they were just stories. A metaphor. Creatures of legend.”

 

Sigrith put a hand on his shoulder. “And now you know the truth,” she said. She turned to peer at the horizon. “There are others here. I sense them.”

 

“Other giants?” said Marlowe, his face creased in concern.

 

Sigrith shook her head. “No. Others who seek the Spear. We are not alone.”

 

Marlowe adjusted his sword at his belt. “Then I shall waste no more of your time with questions, my Lady. Come. We shall find your brother before these others, and reclaim the Spear for the Rite of Honor, and for the House of Welstead.”

 

Sigrith watched his back as he fell into lockstep with the others. 

 

She only wished she could claim such certainty, such clarity of purpose.

 

What was it the Herald had told her, when last they’d spoken? 

 

There is no such thing as certainty. Not in this Life.

 

Sigrith sighed. 

 

Never had a truer word been spoken.

 

---

 

“Has it ever steered you wrong?”

 

This from the strange, golden-eyed figure who walked beside her, resplendent in its shining silver armor, its huge, metallic wings spread wide behind its back, so that its feathers shimmered in the pleasant breeze.

 

“I do not believe so,” said Sigrith, as they walked the narrow paths of the temple gardens, nestled in the inner walls of the vast complex of Sanctorum. Around them, the somber visages of innumerable saints stared down at them from their pedestals of stone, faces chiselled from glistening white stone. The trees seemed to whisper amongst themselves as they rustled in concert with the wind, scattering leaves across their path like offerings. Birds twittered and darted in and out of the low, box hedges. Elsewhere, three priests walked a ponderous circuit of the same grounds, locked in some deep and heated theological debate. 

 

The Herald of Salvation—the woman who had once been Sigrith’s dearest friend, Kaleana, before her miraculous transformation into the holy being who now walked beside her—cocked her head, her smile broad. “Then why do you fear it shall do so now? All evidence suggests the contrary.”

 

They were speaking of the Andravon, of the ever-increasing demands the entity placed upon Sigrith, of the sheer weight of responsibility she bore in carrying the artifact. 

 

Lately, Sigrith had found herself, if not doubting, then at least questioning how much of herself she had ceded to the Legacy. How little she allowed herself to choose which path to walk. Despite the entity’s evident wisdom—for it was a being that had existed for millennia, and had accrued the knowledge and experience commensurate with such longevity—she had begun to wonder whether its agenda was always entirely in keeping with her own. Or perhaps even those of the Order itself. 

 

Sigrith could not deny that the years during which she had served the Andravon had been fruitful. And were the outcomes of their expeditions into the Malediction not beneficial to the Order?

 

She turned to regard her friend, disconcerted momentarily by the amber glow of their gaze. “But how can I know? How can I be certain?”

 

The Herald laughed. “Since when have certainty and faith been easy bedfellows?”

 

Sigrith allowed herself a grin. “I’ve known many a priest to be certain of their own importance.”

 

The Herald laughed. “True enough. But you twist my words, Sigrith. I mean merely that there is no such thing as certainty. Not in this life. One cannot discern the future, nor can one know for sure whether the path left untrodden might have ended in a fairer result. It is all we can do to blunder through and hope.” She smiled. “The Andravon is not the solution to this dilemma. It is merely a tool to help you navigate the choices that you do have. An advantage in the great fight against ignorance.” 

 

Sigrith paused beneath the bow of a cherry tree, the scent of its bright blossom filling her with an overwhelming sense of contentment. How lucky she was to be here, now, with her friend, in such a beautiful place, at peace.

 

Perhaps the Herald was right. Surely this, now, was the sum of all the choices she had made before. The path that had led her here, to this very moment, guided by the Andravon. All the bloody battles she had waged, all the enemies she had cut down in the name of the Order, all the doubt—perhaps it was all for moments like this. 

 

Time, she supposed, would tell.

 

---

 

“Down there. But I must warn you, my lady—it is a difficult sight to bear.”

 

Sigrith eyed Marlowe over the top of the Andravon. “Sir, allow me to assure you, I have plumbed the depths of this sorrowful place, and faced terrors beyond even the most fevered imaginings of most mortals. I am not afeared to look upon the face of death.”

 

Marlowe seemed about to swallow his next words, but then decided better. “Yes, but… Jothan was… is… family, is he not?”

 

By way of response, Sigrith merely pushed him aside and approached the ridge that overlooked the foot of the valley.

 

Here, the ground was littered with stone and dust, tinged red by the dry soil, lending the place a grim hue, the color of dried blood. What she had first assumed to be natural rocky formations had proved, upon closer inspection, to be the remnants of mortal-made structures, so dispersed and eroded to be easily mistaken as the fruit of ancient volcanic eruptions. 

 

Here and there, smaller bleached bones jutted from the dirt, worn smooth by the passage of eons. 

 

People lived here once. Before the blighting of the world. Before the Fall. 

 

Sigrith had seen the like before, but the revelations of this place never failed to arrest her. Now, though, she had other, more pressing concerns.

 

She peered down into the crease of the valley.

 

Marlowe was right: it wasn’t a pretty sight. The remains of Jothan’s band were spread out in a loose circle around a central point, almost as if they’d been thrown back by some kind of explosive force. But their deaths had not been caused by any magical means, at least as far as she could ascertain from up there on the ridge. It was more that they had, to a person, been hacked apart in a series of vicious, brutal assaults. 

 

What made matters worse was that, from the manner in which they had fallen and the lack of any combatants belonging to another party, it looked to Sigrith as if Jothan’s people had done this to themselves. They had turned on one another.

 

Something had driven them to shed the blood of their kin. 

 

At the center of this grisly mess of bloodied corpses towered a grim monument; an ashen-hued pillar of corrupted and petrified flesh, from which a pale, pulsating light emanated in the strange gloaming of the ravine.

 

A Husk.

 

This was what was left of Jothan. 

 

This was what became of all Relic bearers who died within the twisted confines of the Malediction, as their physical forms were molded and reformed by the power emanating from the artefacts, creating a fleshy shell around the object to protect it. For a Legacy bearer to succumb to the same fate was a slow and terrible process, and spoke of Jothan’s recklessness and arrogance.

 

This, then, was the resting place of the Spear. And the final, ignoble end of the would-be sibling who had tormented her so in her youth.

 

Sigrith’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected to feel his loss so acutely. She’d hated Jothan almost as much as he’d hated her. 

 

And yet, here was another tether to her past that had been severed. Another degree of separation from who she was before she took the name of Andravos.

 

“And so the ties that once bound are set free,” rumbled the voice of the Andravon.

 

“But the memories remain,” replied Sigrith, her voice a mere murmur. “And do they not constitute bindings in their own right?”

 

The Andravon’s laughter was like prickling needles, and she bristled at her own inadequacies. Sometimes, she was all too human. 

 

Sigrith glanced up, sensing movement. A figure had appeared on the opposite ridge. They were little more than a silhouette, framed by the eerie, swirling lights of the Malediction, but Sigrith knew them to be a Seeker like herself, drawn to this site of misery and death by the lure of the Legacy now waiting below.

 

As she watched, others spilled over the opposite side of the ravine, scrabbling down towards the Husk and its dead companions.

 

“You have the advantage,” said the Andravon. “These others have faced battle already this day. See how many of them carry wounds. You have the high ground. You could pick them off as they scrabble in the dirt for their prize. If you strike now, it will be a quick, decisive victory, garnering only minor losses.” The spirit in the shield paused. “Or…”

 

“Go on,” urged Sigrith. This was the way of the Legacy. Never did it command her, but merely guide her to a choice. 

 

“Or you might attempt the path of diplomacy. Less blood will be spilled, but the followers of Molech may not agree to your parlay. You risk losing what advantage you have.”

 

So… the other Seeker was of the Conclave, his very blood woven with the magic of Liastrum. Battle would be dangerous indeed. And to Sigrith’s mind, there was no such thing as a minor loss. All life was sacred… and if there was a way to avoid bloodshed, then she was duty-bound to attempt it.

 

“I shall speak with their Seeker,” she said, raising her voice so the others could hear.

 

“My lady,” said Marlowe, stepping forward. “I cannot allow it. The risk…”

 

Sigrith unslung her shield and threaded her arm through the straps. She turned, placing the Andravon between herself and the knight. Gently, but firmly, she used it to push him aside. “It is not your decision to allow or disallow. Stand aside or join me. The choice is yours.”

 

Marlowe looked as if he were about to object when he caught the look in her eye, and the words died on his lips. “As you wish, my lady.”

 

She gestured to the others to await her on the top of the ridge. She knew they would act the moment she gave the signal, or before, if any of the Conclave were to initiate hostilities.

 

“I do not like this,” said Marlowe, as, together, they set off down the ravine towards the waiting enemy.

 

“You would like it a lot less if it ended with your head being cleaved from your shoulders, or your mind subsumed by burning Liastrum,” said Sigrith, a little more harshly than she’d intended.

 

Marlowe rested his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword. “It might still come to that,” he said, quietly.

 

Sigrith nodded. “It might yet. Let us see, shall we?”

 

---

“Halt your approach, Sigrith Andravos. You are not welcome here.”

 

Sigrith made a point of taking several steps further into the basin of the ravine before showing any sign that she had heard the man’s words. When she did, it was to stop just a few meters away from the towering pillar of the Husk. The stench of its strange, malformed flesh—the flesh that had once belonged to Jothan, but had now been twisted into this grotesque caricature of a monument—caused her nose to wrinkle in disgust. Around her, the bodies of Jothan’s followers, those others of the Order, lay sprawled in the bloody mess of their deaths.

 

She sensed, more than saw, several of the Conclave party bristle at her blatant disregard for their master’s order, weapons singing from sheaths.

 

 

She looked up. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she said, casting an appraising eye over the Conclave Seeker. 

 

He was—she guessed—in his late twenties, with a muss of dark hair, pale skin, and a beard that looked as if it had once been well trimmed, but had recently been allowed to run wild. 

 

The man wore an ornate silver vambrace on his left arm—Sigrith could sense intuitively, or through some latent connection with the Andravon, that this was the source of his own power, the Legacy that marked this man out as a Seeker. 

 

He carried a vicious-looking wound across his left breast, where the talons of some creature or beast had torn through his robes, raking the pale flesh beneath. His every movement made him wince, breath hissing through gritted teeth.

 

Undeterred by her contempt for his order, he met Sigrith’s gaze, his eyes bright. “You’re shorter than the stories would have you,” he said. “But your infamy precedes you.”

 

The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Yet yours does not.” 

 

The man did not appear to share her amusement. “I am Seratrin Etraxis, of Sphere Virtahn,” he said, with a low growl, “and you, my lady, have had a wasted excursion. By the seventeenth bylaw of the fifth conical of the Waypoint Accord, I claim this battlefield on behalf of the Conclave of the Spheres.”

 

Sigrith shrugged. “You know as well as I do that the laws of the accord do not apply here, Master Etraxis.” She took a step towards him. Behind her, Marlowe rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, anticipating violence. “The only laws inside the Malediction are those of Ymiris herself.”

 

Seratrin narrowed his eyes. “Nevertheless, this husk has been claimed. Tell your friends to move along. Battle would serve none of us well.” He turned away dismissively, regarding his troops. 

 

Such arrogance. 

 

Sigrith felt the Andravon vibrate on her arm, as if urging her to take advantage of this moment, to strike the arrogant fool down while she had a clear view of his back. 

 

And yet, her weapon remained sheathed.

 

“I would parlay,” she said. 

 

Seratrin emitted a short, bitter laugh. “Parlay?” He turned back to face her. “And you speak for the all-powerful Order of the Shattered Throne in this?”

 

“I speak for myself,” said Sigrith. “And the Andravon.”

 

Seratrin’s eyes flicked to the ornate shield on her arm. She could see the hunger in that gaze; the spark of intrigue. The mention of the shield had roused his interest. “And what could you possibly offer that would dissuade me from this prize? I have come for the Legacy,  and I shall have it.”

 

All eyes were on Sigrith now. She looked from face to face, taking in the weary, pained expressions of the injured Conclave warriors. None of them looked like they wanted this fight. Whatever had mauled them prior to their arrival here had already divested them of what strength and motivation they’d once had. All except Seratrin. “My people carry fresh supplies,” she said. “We shall tend your wounds and do what we can to heal you all. We shall then escort you safely out of the Malediction.” 

 

Mutterings spread like a ripple amongst the Conclave warriors, and a younger man, dressed in the same deep-blue robes as Seratrin, stepped forward, his hand clasping Seratrin lightly on the shoulder. “Master. We must consider this offer made in peace. There is wisdom in the lady’s words, and many of us are wounded.”

 

 

Seratrin dashed the other man’s hand away with a violent jerk. “That is not for you to decide, Bellame.” He turned to regard his followers. “It is not for anyone but me.”

 

The man named Bellame took a step back, chastened, but evidently in deep discordance with his Seeker. The stirrings amongst the others of the Conclave ceased. Their Seeker had spoken. He returned his attention to Sigrith, as if surprised to discover she was still there.

 

“You would offer only this in exchange for a Legacy so powerful it has drawn the mighty Lady Andravos into the depths of the Malediction to claim it?” he said. “Platitudes and healing herbs?”

 

Sigrith took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. This man was trying her patience. “The Spear of Cadisar belongs to the Order of the Shattered Throne. Jothan, its bearer, was my kin. It is my duty to return it to my family and my people, and I will not be turned away.”   

 

“So it is the Spear, indeed! Little wonder you are so set on its return. It is almost as infamous as that shield you carry, Lady Andravos. Very well,” said Seratrin. “Then I have a counteroffer.” He regarded Sigrith slyly. “The Andravon. Give me the Andravon and you may take the Spear without interference.”

 

Sigrith regarded the man before her in silence. 

 

The moment stretched.

 

“My lady—” started Marlowe, advancing a step, before Sigrith waved him silent.

 

“You know that is impossible,” she said. “I could no sooner part with the Andravon than you could part with the vambrace you wear on your arm.”

 

“Then we are at a stalemate,” said Seratrin. “You claim the Spear for the Order, and yet I must have it for my research. What is to be done? Will you now attempt to murder us all?” He gestured with a sweep of his arm as if to take in his fellow warriors of the Conclave.

 

Sigrith felt her hackles rise. And yet still she knew the path of peace to be the route she must tread. Not until she was certain that there was no other means of resolving the matter would she take up arms.

 

“Perhaps we should both retreat for a short while, to allow cooler heads to prevail. Your wounded need respite, and my people can tend to the dead of the Order.” In her haste to intercept Seratrin, she realized she had not yet accounted for the reason Jothan’s people lay fallen around his husk, with no evidence of any enemy combatants.

 

She eyed Seratrin. Had this been his doing? Surely not. His claim that he had not known the true nature of the Legacy had seemed genuine enough, and besides, the wound on his chest suggested his warband had done battle with something wild and bestial, not the finely honed knights of the Rite of Honor. 

 

“Perhaps Bellame is right, after all,” said Seratrin. “Perhaps you do speak some sense, after all.” He sighed. “We shall see to our wounded. Then we shall speak again.” 

 

Sigrith nodded. A reprieve, then, if just for a short while. She would seek the counsel of the Andravon again. 

 

However, just as she was turning to issue a command to Marlowe, she caught a glint in Seratrin’s eye—a look that spoke at once of both ambition and guile. 

 

“No!” she bellowed, too late, as Seratrin launched himself at the husk.

 

Appalled, she swung the Andravon around as the Conclave Seeker jammed his right arm through the husk’s ash-like crust, wrenching the spear from its fleshy grasp with a wet, sickening tear.

 

His arm smeared with gore up to the elbow, he spun, twisting the spear in his grip as he raised it above his head, before thrusting it in a downward arc, aiming directly for Sigrith’s chest.

 

She heard Marlowe bellow from behind her as she raised the Androvan and dropped to one knee, acting on instinct alone. The spear tip struck the shield with a calamitous screech, discharging a cascade of spiky, fork-like magic, tinged with a pale blue light. The fingers of the magical discharge skittered across the Andravon’s face, as if seeking purchase, attempting to worm their way around the shield’s rim to reach her.

[Shield of Andravon]

With a gargantuan effort, Sigrith pushed herself back to her feet, using the shield like a battering ram to shove Seratrin back.

 

Around her, the others of the Conclave had fallen back into a defensive line, and she could tell from the faint reek of petrichor that they were brewing up a storm of liastrum-fuelled magic.

 

From behind her, the whicker of bows and the thunder of pounding feet told Sigrith that her own forces were charging down the ravine to meet the enemy. Marlowe, bold as ever, had already engaged two of the Conclave warriors, whose blades fizzed with that same, strange blue light inherent in all Conclave magic.

 

Before her, Seratrin had regained his footing and was circling, the spear clasped in his fist, the vambrace faintly glowing with a strange, inner light. “The Spear is mine,” he spat. “You shall not have it.”

 

He thrust again, and this time Sigrith side-stepped, allowing the spear tip to slide past her on the left as she turned, swinging her sword around the edge of her shield in a cleaving motion that would have seen Seratrin’s head sundered in two, if it hadn’t been for his assistant, Bellame, whose own blade intercepted her swing, deflecting the angle of her blow. 

 

The two blades clanged in a flare of blue liastrum light, but the downward force of Sigrith’s blow was enough to wrench the blade from Bellame’s inexpert fingers, sending the weapon skittering away across the gravel. She turned and slammed the Andravon up beneath the man’s chin, causing his head to snap back and sending him tumbling backwards atop one of the sprawled dead.

 

She rounded just in time to see Seratrin coming at her again. His eyes were hard, his face a sneering mask, lips curled back from bared teeth. He looked animalistic, as if all sense of refinement had fled him, leaving him overcome by a sudden desire to kill.

 

Sigrith stepped back, just as the spear came at her again, and this time, not only was the light that flickered from it blue, but also tinged with swirling black, as if the shadows themselves had risen and bound themselves to the Legacy’s magic.

 

She swung her sword arm up, intercepting the blow, but the liastrum flickered, extending the reach of Seratrin’s spear tip, grazing her upper arm and causing her to stagger back. It seemed the mages of Sphere Virthan were adept at wielding their arcane powers in closer quarters than many of their brethren.

 

Sigrith rallied, swinging her blade in a wide arc to drive Seratrin back one, two, three paces, as he fought to bring the spear to bear in such close quarters. Yet he was a skilled warrior, and despite the evident fury that drove him desperately on, he was able to parry her every attack.

 

Around her, blue light scoured the air as the Conclave mages unleashed their violent storm upon her people. She watched one of her knights go down, his chest bursting open in a fizzing eruption of blood. Another, close by, sighed as a shaft of pure liastrum punched through the back of her skull, before toppling in a heap atop the corpse of one of Jothan’s men.

 

Both were well beyond the healing powers of even the Order’s most skilled wielders of the Oathbound Light.

 

The fighting was close now, swarming all around the duelling Seekers, as holy steel clashed with the liastrum-infused weapons of the Conclave. To her right, a hurried glance told Sigrith that three of her other knights had been caught exposed after slaying their enemy combatants, while around them, the Conclave mages brewed another storm of flickering blue. The knights circled, weapons raised, but there was no time for them to close the gap between themselves and the enemy mages. 

 

Sigrith grunted, slamming the Andravon forward, feeling it vibrate with power as it crashed into Seratrin, pushing him back and creating a moment’s grace for her to launch herself towards her fellow knights.

 

Three powerful strides took her across the battlefield, and she raised the Andravon above her head, throwing out a bright, shimmering field of light, that extended out from the shield at its epicenter like a shining barrier, encompassing the three knights in its protective embrace, just as the mages’ spellweaving reached its zenith.

 

 

 

Flickering blue light skittered across the glowing dome like a deadly, fizzing wave, dispersing with a scouring hiss as the light of the Andravon faded. Bellowing holy mantras in Sigrith’s name, the three knights scattered, weapons raised as they sought the blood of their foes.

 

Sigrith swung left, sensing movement, but she already knew that she was too late. In protecting her fellow knights, she’d left herself open.

 

Seratrin’s spear tip glanced Sigrith’s hip, slicing deep and scoring bone as it slid past. The crackling magic spread like a grasping hand, clutching at her, fizzing and burning where it touched, and Sigrith howled in pain, falling back, stumbling, attempting to raise the shield to ward off Seratrin’s inevitable follow-up attack.

 

But the blow did not come.

 

Sigrith watched through pained eyes as the Conclave Seeker turned away from her, raising the spear, jabbing wildly at the next nearest combatant. She saw one of her knights go down, pierced through the chest, as Seratrin issued a wicked, exultant laugh, jabbing a second and third time at the corpse, before launching himself at the next person, and the next, apparently ignorant of the fact that both of them bore the insignia of Conclave Virtahn.

 

She watched as more of them staggered back, wide-eyed, protesting, as Seratrin set upon them, one after the other, a wild and deadly thing, blue-black magic crackling from the tip of the spear, marring the corpses of the dead with sickening burns.

 

Sigrith’s own hip screamed at her as she tried to move, drawing herself up, preparing herself for whatever must come next.

 

Her knights had begun to retreat under Marlowe’s directives as Seratrin kept on and on, thrusting, killing, driving the hungry spear through any and all who stood in his way.

 

This, then, was what had become of Jothan and his people. 

 

This was the curse of the Spear of Cadisar. A deadly madness. An unfathomable, insatiable hunger for inflicting death.

 

As Sigrith watched, the Conclave mages turned on their master, coruscating blue light filling the ravine as they unleashed their all against their would-be killer.

 

Sigrith, edging forward, her left leg trailing, threw the Andravon up to protect two fallen knights, who lay amongst the dead, clutching at vile wounds but clinging to life with the tenaciousness of all who served the Order.

 

The sky was ablaze with the unearthly light of liastrum, but in the midst of the conflagration, Seratrin continued his dogged pursuit of the living. He was sheathed in the blood of his own people, head thrown back in glee, as he charged again and again, shrugging off the crackling magic even as it peeled away layers of his very flesh.

 

He turned, then, his eyes meeting hers across the field of the dead. 

 

All sense of his humanity was gone, subsumed by a legacy he was too weak-willed to wield, just as Jothan had been. 

 

He laughed, then turned away from her, returning to his grisly work.

 

I will not let you turn your back on me again.

 

Sigrith ran. 

 

Her hip exploded in pain, so sharp, so acute, that her vision was momentarily fogged by white-hot light.

 

Behind her, the two wounded knights screamed as they were consumed by the blue glare of the wild liastrum.

 

Still, she ran.

 

She dropped her shield arm, swinging her sword up and around as she bellowed a prayer to the Everlasting.

 

Seratrin swung around to meet her, just as Bellame launched himself at his master, a wicked curved dagger clutched in his fist.

 

The dagger struck deep, sinking deep into Seratrin’s shoulder and causing him to wheel around, face contorted in pain, dropping his guard just as Sigrith reached him.

 

Her blade came down, shining with the Oathbound Light that flowed through her, just as Seratrin extended his arm to strike at his traitorous subordinate.

 

Seratrin’s flesh and bone parted with a wet thunk as she took his arm off above the elbow, spraying arterial blood in a fine mist as the limb—along with both the vambrace around the wrist and the spear in its grip, thudded to the ground.

 

Seratrin turned, gaping, his lower jaw flapping as he tried to comprehend what was happening, but Sigrith thought only of the merciful justice of the Everlasting as she flicked her blade up and around, opening the man’s throat, before shoving his maimed body away from her with the Androvan.

 

Spasming, he fell to the ground and was still. Close by, Bellame dropped to the ground, skittering back, his dagger still buried in his master’s shoulder.

 

For a moment, Sigrith stood there over Seratrin’s corpse, mouthing another silent prayer. Around her, the ravine had lapsed into a silence that seemed unnatural after the terrible brutality that had taken place just moments before. 

 

The Conclave mages were either dead, or had silenced their spellcraft.

 

Sigrith turned, her white habit, her face, her arms, spattered in dark blood. Close by, Marlowe was shepherding the last of the surviving knights towards safer ground. Only three Conclave mages still stood, along with Bellame, who was getting unsteadily to his feet.

 

Sigrith glared at the mages, eyes narrowed, but each of them held their hands before them in abject surrender, still trembling from the horror they had witnessed here.

 

Bellame looked as if he was about to speak, but seemed unable to form the words.

 

Ignoring them, Sigrith slid her sword into its scabbard, and then reached down and pulled the spear from Seratrin’s dead hand, peeling back the fingers that still gripped the smooth metal shaft.

 

She could sense the Legacy’s power, vibrating through it, still hungry, calling to her. With a shudder, she pulled at her tabard, tearing it free, and hurriedly wrapped it around the spear. She would not hold it again. She would not test her own strength against such power, lest she, like Seratrin and Jothan before him, found herself wanting. The Legacy had become corrupted. She would return it to its rightful place with House Welstead, who would take it to the holy Lucidi and attempt to cleanse it with the Oathbound Light.

 

Sigrith took a faltering step, wincing at the sharp pain in her hip. Her leg buckled, and she dropped to one knee, just as Marlowe came hurrying over, speaking platitudes that she barely registered as pain and blood loss threatened to overwhelm her.

 

“Come, my lady. Rest a moment.”

 

She allowed herself to be led away, to the edge of the battlefield, where her remaining people had gathered.

 

The three Conclave mages were watching her uncertainly, assuming themselves to be hostages and clearly waiting to see what she would command. She knew she should order their deaths. They’d seen too much. 

 

But had there not been enough death this day already? And had they not helped to defeat the true enemy, their own Seeker?

 

Marlowe had stripped his own cloak and was using it to form a compress around her waist, to bind her wounded hip until the healers could do their work. She hissed in pain as he pulled it taut.

 

From the corner of her eye, she sensed movement, and saw that Bellame was crouched over his master’s severed limb, engaged in prising the vambrace from its wrist. 

 

Sigrith issued a weary groan.

 

So, self-preservation had played a part in it, but perhaps this mage simply saw an opportunity to supplant his master. 

 

Another reason to kill them.

 

But surely what Bellame was doing was simply the same as what she had done, laying claim to the Legacy of her kin? Taking back what was already theirs. And more than that, the man had helped her strike down his master, distracting Seratrin at the crucial moment. He had prevented the deaths of so many more of her people. 

 

She knew many amongst the Order would view it differently, of course. Would accuse her of failing in her duty to collect such a valuable treasure for their armoury. 

 

“I shall fetch a healer, my lady,” said Marlowe. “I shall return momentarily.”

 

Sigrith watched as Bellame slid the vambrace onto his own wrist, and then stood, gesturing to the three Conclave mages. 

 

“They are going to run,” said the Andravon, in its familiar, rumbling voice. “And so it is that you face another choice.”

 

Sigrith sighed. She already understood the choice before her. But as ever, she bade the Andravon to speak. “Go on.”

 

“Cut them down as they flee and return triumphant to Charn, bearing not only the Spear, but the vambrace treasured by the enemy. This will, of course, ignite the fury of Sphere Virtahn.”

 

“Or?”

 

She could almost sense the Andravon’s hesitation. “Or you might allow them to live and escape with the vambrace. They will bear you no ill will for the deaths that occurred here. However…be aware that if you deign to show mercy, then it is likely that one day, your own life will prove to be at their mercy.”

 

Sigrith smiled, remembering the parting words of the Herald, that last time they had spoken in the Gardens of Sanctorum.

 

 

“Only you can choose which path to walk, Sigrith. The Andravon may be your guide, but while it is skilled in interpreting the weave of causality, only you can appreciate the moral complexity of your choices. Sometimes the shield might urge you to traverse the easy path, when you will know better that the hardest path is your only real option.”

 

 

Sigrith eased herself back against the rocks. Footsteps approached, crunching on the loose gravel. Marlowe and the healer.

 

“My lady,” said Marlowe, indicating the fleeing remnants of the Conclave warband with the tip of his sword. “Should I run them down?”

 

There was no choice, Sigrith knew. 

 

“Let them go,” she replied. She watched as Bellame, ushering the three mages away, paused briefly to look back. Their eyes met, and he offered her the slightest hint of a smile. “Let them live to fight another day.” She winced as the healer began untying the makeshift tourniquet around her waist. She laughed. “I’m injured, after all.”

 

“And we have the Spear,” said Marlowe, nodding in understanding—although Sigrith wondered if anyone would truly understand her choice.

 

“That we do,” agreed Sigrith, wondering if Bellame would show her the same mercy when the time eventually came, some time in the unknown future. “That we do.”

 

Sigrith sighed gratefully as the healer’s magic flowed around her like a warm embrace. After a moment, he stepped back with a short, satisfied nod. She returned the gesture, flexing her leg to test the mending. It would be sore for some days, but would suffice for now. “Sir Marlowe,” she said, extending her hand. “Help me up. We have a long journey still ahead of us.”

 

On her arm, she sensed the Andravon’s silent amusement.

 

Sometimes, she thought, the Herald’s words still echoing in her mind, the hardest path is your only real option.

 

Truer words had never been spoken. 

 

She took her first tentative step on the long and winding path that lay ahead of her.

 

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