Broken World Book Two - StarSword Page 10
The soil beneath Chanter's beckoning hands thrust up and opened like a blossoming earthen flower. Crumbling petals of soil fell away into a mound as others opened within them. More and more pushed up, opened and fell aside, until a heap of freshly turned earth had formed. The last of the frosty circle melted away as something intensely hot rose from the centre of the mound. Kieran retreated as a glowing spear of molten metal thrust up. Shimmering heat waves surrounded it, and the fallen leaves curled and crisped at its proximity. The Mujar was unaffected, his hands spread towards it as if to soak up the pleasant warmth of a campfire. The long spear of white-hot metal hung in the air, turning slowly.
Chanter stepped closer and caressed the burning steel, his fingers engulfed in blue-white flames. Kieran stifled an involuntary grunt of amazement and winced. Chanter handled it as tenderly as he might the soft skin of a lover, his hands flowing over it. With slow, graceful motions, he moulded the molten steel, stroking the length of it until it formed a slender glowing blade as straight and true as the best Kieran had ever seen. With a delicate touch, the Mujar smoothed the blade, flattened and lengthened it, drawing it to a fine edge. With one finger, he drew the blood groove down its centre, then slid his hands up to the rough, unformed hilt.
The metal seemed to writhe in his hands, forming, as if of its own volition, the crossbar and hilt. Chanter closed his eyes and smiled, his expression ecstatic as he caressed the forming metal, whose shape grew more intricate. Tiny lines crazed it, swirling into strange patterns that held a mysterious meaning, a sense of forests and land, of snow and sunlight, wind and sea. The pattern spread down the blade, filling it with enigmatic lines of Mujar power, then they sank into it and vanished, leaving it mirror smooth. Only the lines on the hilt remained, imprinted on the glowing metal.
Chanter opened his eyes. His hands closed on the hilt, and he plunged the blade into the ground with a soft hiss, steam rolling up it. When the glowing sword was buried to the hilt and the cloud of steam had almost obscured him, he released it and made another series of strange, slow gestures. Frost covered the hilt in a flash of icy white, then melted away as Chanter took hold of the sword again. He pulled it out, the shining blade now as black as the night sky. The hilt held tiny glints of silver, flowing lines that gleamed along the inscriptions. He released the sword, and once more it hung in the air before him, turning slowly. Spreading his hands, the Mujar drew patterns of blue fire in the air, strange symbols that held no meaning for Kieran. With a flick of his fingers, he sent the fiery runes into the sword. They kissed the blade in a flash of white fire and vanished into the metal.
Chanter turned to Kieran, his eyes glowing with the light of his power. The sword that hung in the air moved with him, and swung towards Kieran, who backed away.
"Take it."
After a momentary hesitation, Kieran reached for the weapon. His hand closed around the smooth, cool hilt, which fitted into his palm as if it had been born there. A faint vibration ran through it, a soft thrum of power that thrilled and frightened him. Slowly he raised it, swinging the point upwards. The weapon lifted easily, almost weightless, with buoyancy that seemed to magnify his movement, as if it was an extension of him. Never had he held a weapon so pure and true, balanced as perfectly as Nature itself. Experimentally he swung it, fascinated by the ease with which it obeyed him, having none of the heaviness and momentum of an ordinary blade.
"Release it."
With a startled glance at the Mujar, Kieran obeyed, and the sword floated free once more, swinging point down. Chanter beckoned, and the sword flew to him, stopping within his reach. He grasped it and flung it into the air. Kieran stepped forward with a startled exclamation, but Chanter ignored him, his eyes fixed on the rising, tumbling blade. It rose high above the treetops, flashing in the golden light of the setting sun, flung higher than Kieran would have thought possible.
As it started to descend, Chanter raised an arm and pointed at it. A flash of blue-white fire shot from his finger and engulfed the sword. A loud crack ripped the air as the weapon seemed to explode in a shower of bright sparks. The flaming blade plunged to earth, and the Mujar stepped back as it thudded into the ground where he had been standing. Buried to the hilt once more, the sword sizzled amid a cloud of steam. Chanter pulled it out with a swift yank. It appeared unchanged, apart from a faint blue sheen that now ran along the ebon blade, and, as the Mujar turned it, it flashed silver.
Chanter raised the weapon before him and kissed the blade just above the hilt. The Mujar mark formed on it like a blossoming flower inscribed in silver, a simple circle with a cross through it, like the one on Talsy's forehead. Chanter caressed the blade, running his fingers along it. Raising his eyes, he looked at Kieran.
"Use it well, Kieran. It is forever yours. No one but you may wield it. It's a Mujar weapon, the first of its kind. It's endowed with two Powers. Earth and Fire. It will cut stone like butter, and if you point it at something and speak the word 'fire', whatever it points at will burn."
Holding it across his palms, he offered it to the warrior. Kieran almost wanted to kneel when he took it, a strong sense of reverence filling him. Resisting the urge, he took the sword. His eyes were drawn to the ebon blade, and he studied it, then found that he was gazing into it. Like a piece of the heavens, a blade made from the firmament, it held a night sky filled with stars within it. He returned to reality with a jerk as Chanter clasped his shoulder.
"Don't stare at it."
Nodding, he turned it, studying it without allowing his eyes to be captured by the starry sky it held. "I shall call it Starsword."
The Mujar smiled. "A good name."
"What else can it do?"
"Many things, but you know enough."
"But surely, if it's mine..."
Chanter turned away, running a hand through his hair. "You'll discover the rest of its secrets in time."
"You say that no one can wield it but me, yet surely you can?"
"I have no wish to."
"So you can...?"
The Mujar glanced at the weapon. "I created it." He hesitated. "Just one word of warning. Don't ever use it for evil or selfish gain."
"What will happen?"
Chanter strode away through the forest. "Let's hope you never find out," he called over his shoulder.
Kieran hurried after him, still studying the sword, turning it in his hands. He marvelled at its beauty, discovering that the Mujar mark was on both sides of the blade just below the hilt. Somehow, the mark spoke volumes about the weapon's nature, created by the peace loving Mujar who would not kill.
"Put it away," Chanter said without turning his head, and Kieran slid the blade into his scabbard. It swung at his side, and he felt complete once more.
Shern hurried up to them when they entered the camp, his eyes darting to the glistening black hilt protruding from Kieran’s scabbard. Wisely he asked no questions, but awaited Chanter's orders. The Mujar turned first to Kieran.
"Go and find her now. Bring her back safely."
"It would be better if I had a horse," Kieran pointed out.
"That, I can't help you with."
Kieran nodded, accepting that. He had noticed, as they all had, the Mujar's penchant for releasing the beasts of burden he found. He turned to Shern.
"Which direction did they go?"
The seer pointed into the forest, and a man approached to thrust a bag of provisions and a water bottle into Kieran’s hands. He nodded his thanks as he turned away, heading in the indicated direction.
Chanter watched him trot into the forest until the trees swallowed him, then looked at Shern.
"Gather your people, we go now."
Shern glanced around at the gathering dusk, then hurried away to get everyone on their feet and ready to go. The free chosen had given the former slaves a motley collection of ill-fitting clothes, and many were wrapped in blankets against the chill. With a little soft muttering and the wailing of tired children, the chosen followed Chanter into
the forest, away from the road and back towards the place where he had left Sheera and the others from the ship.
Kieran soon found the tracks of four horses, one carrying a double burden. The trail was easy to follow, for the knights had made no attempt to hide their tracks. Clods of freshly turned earth and disturbed leaves showed that they moved at some speed, and Kieran cursed his lack of a horse. He settled into a steady trot, not wishing to grow tired too soon, but intent on gaining as much ground as possible during the night. His breath steamed before him, and he negotiated the terrain deftly, as used to the vagaries of a forest as the deer that dwelt here. The moon rose and set as he continued at a steady pace, and his legs ached by the time the first streaks of pale dawn light tinted the sky. Battle fatigue still plagued him, and grew more acute as he used up his remaining reserves of strength, but Talsy's danger goaded him to fresh efforts.
In the half light, he stopped to rest and eat, sipping water from the bottle. Dew dampened his clothes and skin, mingling with the sweat that ran from him. It had been years since he had run so far, and it brought back memories of his childhood in the forest, guided by Dancer. While his father had taught him to fight and hunt, Dancer had shown him the forest's beauty. The icy streams that chuckled over mossy stones, hollows filled with bracken and ferns that sheltered fragile fawns awaiting their mothers' return. Between them, they had moulded him into a fearless fighter who loved the forests and all that lived in them.
Finishing the bread, his thirst quenched, Kieran rose and forced his tired legs to carry him onward, ignoring their aching protest.
Talsy woke to a rude jolting and opened her eyes, her anxiety returning with a rush of unpleasant memories. The cold, soggy cloth gag chafed her mouth and the ropes rubbed her wrists, but she could not even ask for them to be loosened. The soldiers sat next to her, staring ahead with dull eyes, and the knights rode beside the cart, two on either side. She wriggled into a slightly less uncomfortable position and studied the passing scenery. The sun had just risen, and they traversed a frost-rimed land. It crunched beneath the horses' feet and the wagon wheels, the only sound other than the occasional snort or grunt from the animals.
The guards ignored her muffled attempts to communicate the terrible thirst that raged in her mouth. Her stomach groaned emptily, but, worst of all, her bladder made an urgent demand that could not be refused. Giving up the attempt to communicate her desperate need, she managed, through a series of contortions, to wriggle off the furs and open her leather leggings with her bound hands. While the guards watched, she relieved herself into the bottom of the wagon, where it ran out between the boards. Cursing their unfeeling attitude, she crawled back onto the furs and lay down.
Talsy jerked from her uncomfortable doze at midday, when the wagon jolted down a bank and splashed through a broad, shallow river. Sitting up, she stared ahead, amazed by the sight that greeted her. Beyond the far bank, a narrow belt of hardy trees gave way to struggling scrub and then rolling dunes of golden sand. The horses laboured to drag the wagon through the soft sand, and a cold wind rippled it, wiping away the tracks behind them. Talsy shivered, not only with cold, but with fresh foreboding. The desert seemed unnatural, out of place so close to lush forests and grassland. This desert was not caused by heat or lack of water, but something else.
As they travelled, the sand became more and more orange, until, by the afternoon, it turned blood red. Talsy's foreboding turned to fear, and she shivered despite of the fact that the air was calm and warm. The footing grew firmer, and the driver whipped the horses into a trot, the wagon rattling over stony ground.
By the time the sun sank into a glorious crimson medley over rolling dunes of bloody sand, Talsy was almost fainting from thirst. It seemed as if the world had turned red, for the dust the horses kicked up settled over everything, and the sun's red light added to the illusion. She stared at the darkening sky, hardly aware that trees now lined the road. The wagon rattled on after dark, and she levered herself up to look over the side. Lighted windows twinkled in the darkness; scattered houses nestled amid trees and shrubs. A vast structure loomed ahead, the high windows ablaze with light giving an idea of its size. The wagon rattled through a massive torch-lit gateway into a courtyard. When it stopped, the soldiers jumped down to drag Talsy from it with rough hands, and she staggered on rubbery legs.
A knight approached and removed the gag. She licked dry lips and stared around as he untied her hands. High walls of grey stone surrounded her, and the light from nearby windows added to the brightness of the many torches on the walls. Several doorways led off the courtyard, and the knights led her to one. They pushed her along a short passage and into a larger corridor with many more doorways. The few poorly dressed people who scuttled past her with bowed heads and averted eyes seemed furtive and fearful. As she stumbled along, Talsy took the opportunity to call for help.
"Shyass, help me," she mumbled.
Even as she made her plea, she wondered why the knight had removed the gag now, after she had been forced to wear it for so long. There was something wrong with this place, and not only because of the unnatural desert that surrounded it. An eerie tingle suffused the air, a shiver of Dolana or something like it. Something powerful resided here.
The knights marched her through an ornate archway that two black and silver-armoured soldiers guarded, sending her stumbling into a brightly lighted room that many torches made smoky. After the bare corridor, the room's sumptuous furnishings seemed out of place. Lush silken hangings framed a pillared aisle that led to a low dais in front of a golden depiction of some strange, bat-winged animal. The creature had an eagle's head, its blood-red eyes the same hue as the stone background. On the floor before the dais was a rough and rather uneven oval of green jade set in a circle of pale marble. The knights led her onto the jade oval and forced her to her knees, kneeling themselves as they bowed their heads to the man who rose from the gilded throne atop the dais.
Talsy stifled a gasp of shock and astonishment as she glanced up into hard black eyes set in a lean, bearded face. Apart from the beard and the flash of silver in his hair above one brow, he looked exactly like Kieran. His rich garb of gold-embroidered black velvet told her that he was of high rank, and the silver circlet on his brow added to his regal air. He descended the two steps to join her on the floor, a slow, cruel smile curling his lips. One of the knights raised his head.
"My Prince, we have brought the girl, as you ordered."
The Prince nodded, not taking his eyes off Talsy. He stopped in front of her. "Get up."
Talsy stood a little shakily and met his granite gaze. "What do you want with me? Why have you brought me here?"
His smile broadened. "Have you called the wind yet?"
"Yes."
"It won't do you any good." He shook his head and circled her. "Nothing can help you here."
"Where am I?"
"In my castle, of course. And at my mercy."
Talsy turned to frown at him. "Why have you brought me here?"
"I need what only you can provide."
"What's that?"
"A Mujar."
"Why?"
The Prince stopped in front of the throne. He was just as tall as Kieran, though not as well built. "Because the Hashon Jahar are coming, of course."
"Chanter won't help you."
"Normally he wouldn't, but to save you, I think he will."
She shook her head. "You can't blackmail a Mujar."
"Not usually, but times have changed, haven't they? Whereas before Mujar did nothing but loaf and beg, now he's gathering the chosen and helping them to reach the appointed place. You're the First Chosen, without you none of this would be happening, and that makes you important."
"He still won't do it," she said. "Why would he care if the fate of Truemen is changed again?"
"Perhaps not, but at least if I'm to die at the hands of those monsters, no others will be saved."
"How do you know so much? Who are you?"
Tyrander dismissed the knights with a wave and took her wrist in a firm grip. Talsy had no choice but to follow him through a silk-hung doorway into a grey-walled room with pale marble floors that a carved table and chairs of dark, polished wood furnished. A feast covered the table; platters of roast fowl, smoked ham and a plethora of garnished vegetable dishes were arranged between bowls of sauce and gravy. Jugs of wine, mead and water stood together at the centre of the spread with golden goblets arranged around them, waiting to be filled.
Talsy poured a goblet of water, sniffing it before drinking. Tyrander watched her with obvious amusement, and picked at the meat before helping himself to a cup of wine. Ignoring him, she settled down to eat, washing down the tender meat with swigs of clear spring water. The Prince sat opposite.
"So, you want to know how I know so much. Well, I'll tell you, since it serves my purpose that you should know." He nibbled a slice of ham. "My grandfather was a friend of the Mujar, you see. In fact, he could almost have been the First Chosen. It was about the time that most Truemen had grown sick of the lazy buggers and started throwing them into the Pits.
"My grandfather offered them sanctuary and comforts, which, of course, they were happy to take. When they offered him gratitude, he asked for clan bond and knowledge. These they gave him, and he learnt a great deal from them, which he set down in a book. Naturally, I have inherited this book and all its secrets."