A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Luka Orm glanced up at the bulkheads as if he could see the sky and smell the air. “With this wind, some days. Unless it changes to aid us.” Then he proceeded to what was most important to him. “We are agreed, then. We have kept our bargain. You will tell your commanders this? We land you at the time and place you wish, and go our way.”

  Kessler’s mouth tightened on the word ‘commanders’ but he said, “You get us there. Then, as far as I’m concerned, you are on your own.”

  * * *

  —

  Captain Heraford’s ‘boat’ was a tender, built for speed.

  While Christoph had no liking for Prince Glenn of Everon, he understood the need to warn the king, and he was not about to let Puddlenose sail alone. It took at least two to handle the tender. They traded off sailing and sleeping, scudding before the friendly summer winds sweeping down the strait out of the west.

  It was this same wind that caused the Venn ships to tack and tack again, fighting their way northwest toward Drael.

  The boys caught up by the second day, and trailed the fleet with reefed sail until well into the night. Dousing their lanterns, they sped silently by as far away as they could while still being able to watch through their field glasses. As it was, all they could see were tiny figures moving about on the deck, and blocking the golden pinpoints of light in the scuttles belowdecks. There seemed to be a lot of people on board.

  They’d nearly given up when a sail being changed briefly silhouetted a slight masculine figure who otherwise would have been completely invisible in the gloom. He stood on the captain’s deck, at the rail—

  Christoph gasped. “He’s watching us!”

  Puddlenose shrugged. “So? He can’t see us any better than we can see him.”

  “It’s Kessler. I’ll never forget that silhouette, standing at the top of the dungeon entrance.”

  “Yeah, but would he recognize us, on this tiny thing? Out of all the people he threw in his dungeon?”

  They each tried to convince the other as well as themselves that Kessler couldn’t see them, but both were relieved when the ship sank beyond the horizon, leaving them alone under the peaceful summer sky.

  The wafting night breezes strengthened into the winds of oncoming weather by morning, bringing up gray, heaving seas with frothy whitecaps. Rejoicing—those big three-masters would lug with the wind directly on their forward beam—the boys felt the tender come alive, surging and plunging into the waves as the taut sail vibrated overhead.

  They reached the Everoneth harbor late that night, which looked ruined through the glass. So they bypassed it in favor of one of the smaller coves farther north. They drew into the shallow waters, bowsed the tender up tight, and dragged sea wrack onto the narrow stern in hopes it would remain invisible from the sea.

  Then they waded ashore, and grimly toiled up the vertical palisades. As they climbed, they tried to figure out where to go first: up the river to the capital, or the short way to the harbor? But what if the Norsundrians held it?

  They were still arguing when they topped the palisade at last, as early dawn light spilled like milk along the horizon behind them. Around a grove of cedar rode a patrol of Knights. The boys dove behind a tangle of flowering vines at the sound of horse hooves, but the sight of the patrol brought them out again, waving and yelling.

  After a short exchange, the patrol leader sent Puddlenose with a fast escort toward the capital, and took Christoph up behind her to report to her captain at the harbor.

  * * *

  —

  Puddlenose and his escort reached Ferdrian as the sun set. By then he was nearly fainting with hunger, not having eaten since a scanty meal of stale bread the day before.

  The Knights took him straight to King Berthold, who glanced at Puddlenose, red-eyed and fighting yawns. “Whatever it is can wait. You need food and rest.”

  “No it can’t,” Puddlenose said, propping his shoulders against a wall in spite of the scandalized glances of the more correct of the two ever-present bodyguards. “Kessler is coming.”

  “Who?”

  Puddlenose groped for words, not knowing where to start.

  The king turned to his steward. “Get something hot into him.”

  Puddlenose was too weary to protest.

  By the time he’d wolfed down a substantial meal, he was nearly falling asleep at the table. He sat back, gazing heavy-eyed at the pattern of twined leaves and flowers carved under the ceiling, until familiar voices roused him. He sat upright as the king walked into the dining room, with Christoph and Rel in tow, both mud-splashed to the eyebrows, Rel having been posted to the retaken harbor as a courier, and subsequently tasked to bring Christoph.

  The king said, “Now, let us begin again. Who is coming?”

  “Kessler Sonscarna,” Rel and Puddlenose said at the same time.

  Rel added, with a hand turned toward Puddlenose then toward Christoph, “At least, they’re pretty sure.”

  “I saw him,” Puddlenose stated. “We both did.” A thumb at Christoph, who nodded, his mouth full of pastry. “Yes, it was dark, and the ships were far apart. But I know it was him. I will never forget that silhouette.”

  Rel agreed with a “Yes,” on an outgoing breath.

  King Berthold gazed from one to the next. He could not recollect ever seeing Puddlenose serious. “Who is this man? Sonscarna, the ‘ssler,’ it all sounds Chwahir.”

  “He is. He wanted to take over the world,” Puddlenose said.

  King Berthold burst out laughing, but when he saw no corresponding smile in his guests, he looked askance. “You cannot mean to tell me he had a chance.”

  “He’s crazy, but his plan might have worked. For a time.” Puddlenose was taken by a sudden yawn. “Rel, explain.” He blinked watery eyes.

  “Kessler’s plan was not to invade with armies. He trained assassins to take out kings—”

  King Berthold interrupted, his expression genial. “Who would he put in these dead kings’ place? Himself, of course. From where did he plan to rule this empire, or would he hop about as the sun moves?” The king leaned against the table, his silken tabard gleaming in the rich candlelight.

  Puddlenose thoughtfully moved a plate of butter away from a careless fold of that silk.

  Rel said, “No, he planned to place people on thrones who had demonstrated merit. By his standard.”

  “Since I never heard about it, I take it he failed.” King Berthold laughed indulgently. “Then he couldn’t have been very smart, eh? Or let us say, not very experienced? How old is this prodigy?”

  Rel said reluctantly, “Not much older than I am.”

  And watched the king smile and shake his head. “So this formidable world-conquerer is coming by ship as well? Do you think he’ll attack the harbor, or will his highly trained teams land along the coast and scramble up the palisades like spiders?”

  The king got his expected chuckles from his attendants, and not all of those were obsequious, but when he saw the stolidity in the three faces before him, especially Puddlenose, who was always first with a joke, he relented.

  “You came at great cost to warn me, and I will not forget that. Boys, get some rest. You earned it. Rel, return to the harbor in the morning. It’s late, and isn’t that thunder in the distance? Yes, morning will do. Tell Captain Berneth to send scouts within line of sight along the coast in both directions, equipped with those magic rings. And tell him what you know about this Kessler Sonscarna, so that he may provide a suitable welcome. Will that do?”

  Perforce the boys agreed.

  The king then turned to one of the equerries behind him. “I want you to apprise Commander Dei, and tell him to be prepared for Henerek to be attacking the harbor from landward, in support of the newcomer. That is probably our biggest worry.”

  * * *

  —

  Rel couldn
’t sleep.

  He tried. Ordinarily he slept through thunderstorms with no problem. But every flash jolted him from sinking below the surface of constant thought into the dream world of deep sleep. And each jolt was welcome, because he knew that what lay in wait in those depths were not dreams but nightmares forming around memories of the days cooped in an underground cell with Puddlenose and Christoph, waiting for death as they listened to the cadences and clashings of steel as Kessler trained his assassins.

  When the storm lifted, leaving the air outside his windows a musical concert of drips, Rel got up and dressed. Being a scout and courier for the Knights, he had access to horses whenever he wanted; rather than rouse up sleepy stable hands, he chose one he was familiar with, strong enough to easily bear his size for a long ride. He saddled up and set out under the full moon high in the sky.

  He chased the storm eastward, gradually catching up until the starry sky gave way to a thick layer of clouds that made it seem he would forever ride in semi-darkness.

  He was tired enough to be unaware of the time after he’d changed his third horse. It wasn’t until he crested a hill and saw the bright glow in the east that he thought gratefully, sunrise at last.

  But wait. As the horse slowed, ears alert, head tossing, Rel caught up mentally. Sunrise was long past, he just hadn’t noticed the gradual lightening under the gray overcast.

  So what was that glow above the harbor?

  He clucked at the horse, urgency burning the lassitude from his tired body. The horse pranced nervously, ears twitching, nostrils spread. She snorted explosively. Rel couldn’t see anything wrong. He snapped his legs to her sides, and she plunged forward, her gait jerky, ears flattening. When they rounded a curve, Rel stared down into the valley emptying into the river above the harbor, and made out a massive column of brown smoke pushing up against the undersides of the clouds. Flame glowed the entire length of the harbor.

  Smoke. That was what the horse smelled, the scent still too far away for Rel to catch, as the wind was at his back.

  The horse turned in a circle, fretting; Rel was trying to decide what to do when a couple of horsemen bore down from either direction. He wheeled his mare and kicked her sides, but she was too tired to outrun pursuit, and Rel was surrounded.

  One Norsundrian caught the bridle, and the other leveled a crossbow at Rel, who sat back, hands raised, his heartbeat thundering.

  “You’re wanted,” one said in Sartoran, rather than the Fer Sartoran dialect spoken in Everon. That meant they knew he was not a local.

  Rel sighed. He hadn’t so much as looked right or left in the past few hours. Of course he had been spotted. The worrisome aspect was the possibility he was recognized.

  A short ride later, they crested the last hill before the harbor, from which he could see most of the surrounding countryside. They reached a makeshift camp, no more than a fire and bedrolls piled beside a string of horses being saddled. A force of maybe forty sat on rocks or the ground, eating from shallow travel pans as a faint whiff of wild onion carried on the air.

  The biggest two of Rel’s captors closed in on either side, and all three horses walked a little ways beyond the camp to where a familiar slim, taut figure stood. Sick with helpless fury, Rel recognized Kessler Sonscarna, who stood at the edge of the cliff, sweeping the land with a glass.

  At the sound of hoof beats thudding in the turf he turned, and when he recognized Rel, he said, “Ah.” He made a quick gesture with two fingers, and Rel’s captors turned away, leaving Rel still mounted on his horse, his sword untouched in the saddle sheath.

  “You joined the Knights?” Kessler asked, looking interested, the faint orange glow from the distant fires side-lighting the planed bones of his face, the heavy-lidded eyes that were shaped so unsettlingly like Atan’s.

  “I’m serving as a scout,” Rel said.

  “And so you rode to the capital to report my landing to Berthold? No, that couldn’t have been you on the little boat. Never mind. Whatever orders you bear are immaterial. They’re all dead.” Kessler jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the harbor.

  Rel’s throat closed, rendering him unable to speak.

  Kessler’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “Henerek has run out of time. So they sent me.”

  Rel fought against shock. “He’s no longer in command?”

  “He has other things to occupy him right now. Like a broken knee, a fractured jaw, and a set of cracked ribs. He objected to my taking over the command, so I gave him something else to think about.”

  Rel remembered Henerek: big, husky, brutal. He stared down at Kessler, short, slight, but made of solid muscle.

  Kessler’s soft, slightly husky voice changed to that reasonable tone he’d always used at his maddest. “The fastest way to clean up his failure is to burn my way to the capital. Put anyone who gets in my way to the sword.”

  Rel’s fury congealed to dread. He knew Kessler would do it without any hesitation.

  Kessler ran a hand through his short, curly hair. “Slaughtering civs is boring. There’s no sport in it. But some of them think otherwise.” He tipped his head toward the camp a few paces away, where Norsundrians went about finishing their morning meal as if nothing had happened.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Rel heard the sharpness of tone, the cracking laughter of after-action triumph. Anticipation.

  Kessler took a step nearer, and lifted his hand back toward the road. “Run.” He swatted the shivering mare’s hindquarters.

  The horse leaped into a gallop, nearly unseating Rel. As he clutched at the reins, he heard raucous laughter rising behind him.

  Rel’s dread sharpened to terror, no longer for himself, but for the unheeding people along the east-west road. Kessler never made idle threats, or exaggerated. When he said he was going to burn his way to the capital, he was going to do just that.

  Rel didn’t waste time trying to figure out why Kessler would tell him, much less save his life. It had to be some kind of game, or contest, or challenge he was playing with the Norsundrians who commanded him—Rel knew that Kessler had not gone to Norsunder willingly.

  None of that mattered. What did was getting the word out, as fast as possible.

  The royal roads were straighter than the old, civilian roads that wound around hills alongside meandering streams, and circumvented ancient borders. The royal roads tended to avoid villages and towns, whose traffic would slow up couriers.

  So Rel turned off the royal road and watched ceaselessly for the first sign of civilization. When he spotted farmland, he left the road and kept his tired horse at her best speed until he came across a small hamlet alongside a river. He dismounted and banged on every door, and when disgruntled people came out with questions and demands, he pointed to the smoke cloud in the east, and said, “They’re coming. Now.”

  In a short time he’d borrowed a fresh horse from someone with animals to spare, who offered to keep the mare from the royal stable with her.

  An old baker pointed out the road—not much more than a wheel-rutted path—to the next town, and Rel took off at a gallop, leaving people scurrying to pack what they could, gather their livestock, and head deeper into the hills. He forgot them within moments, goaded by the ghost of Kessler’s voiceless laughter.

  He crossed three streams, then rode down into a river valley as a rainstorm passed overhead. He forded the slow-moving waters and surged up the riverbank toward the cluster of buildings on the other side.

  His new mount, a young stallion, splashed dramatically through puddles into the square, tail high even after that long run.

  Rel gathered what strength he had left and bellowed, “Fire!”

  A couple of apprentices busy carrying display tables outside paused to laugh. Everyone else, shopkeepers, customers, strollers, stopped what they were doing, with various expressions, hope for entertainment foremost.


  Rel tightened his middle and lifted his hoarse voice. “Norsunder has burned the harbor, and they are going to fire their way to the capital. That means you are next. If you don’t believe me, climb on the roof of the highest house, and look toward the sea.”

  His horse circled, head tossing and ears twitching.

  Faces changed as the two teenage upholstery prentices dropped their samples onto the display tables and raced one another up either side of the carved supports holding up their awning.

  Gathering villagers watched the boys clamber over the gabled windows upstairs, then one boosted the other to the roof, the first reaching to pull his friend up behind him. A clattering of loose tiles, and the two reached the ridgepole.

  “He’s right!” One boy yelled, his voice cracking. “Smoke all across the sky!”

  Voices rose, a couple of worried shouts. Rel cut across them all. “I’m riding to the capital. Send someone to warn your neighboring villages!” He pointed south and north, then nudged the stallion, and rode on.

  Chapter Eleven

  Delfina Valley

  TSAUDEREI would later reflect that it was inevitable that the secret of the antidote to Siamis’s spell would get out—and it was probably as equally inevitable that it would be Derek who spread it.

  After a week of drill with the orphans, followed by chat with Derek over breakfast, Senrid discovered he was wrong in his assumption that Derek was a king when Derek, fretting over how the days were dragging by and nothing was being done to rescue Sarendan from the enchantment, confided to Senrid the promise he’d made to Peitar.

  Thunder rumbled over the distant peaks as Derek and Senrid floated high over the lake, which rippled below, a deep, stormy gray-blue. “Peitar is my oldest friend, better than a mere king,” Derek said suddenly, startling Senrid. “He’d put the orphans’ lives above his own, if he knew what was going on. I’ve got to find a way back down the mountain so I can rescue them before the mages get around to breaking the spell on Peitar.”