Shard

by Wayne Mee

  Thorn's brow creased into a puzzled frown. "But you said there were three Swords of Power? What happened to the third?"

  Mithdar passed his hand over his pipe and drew forth a cloud of grey smoke. Thorn was too caught up in the tale to notice the absence of a tinderbox.

  "The third sword, Thorn, was broken. Some of the pieces, however, were saved and reforged by someone so completely evil that a strange 'force' was imparted into the new blade. Though the original swords were neither good nor bad, they were powerful; and raw, absolute power is a very dangerous thing. The newer, smaller sword however, is evil, for much of its master went into its making."

  The stem of the tinker's pipe pointed directly at the blade hanging by Thorn's side. "You, my young friend, now carry that third sword."

  Thorn felt as if he must sit down, for his knees had gone suddenly weak. Mithdar steadied him with his hand and guided him to the log. The little Kirkwean sat as one in a daze.

  "Hard to comprehend, isn't it? That such a thing of beauty could be evil. And you have only carried it for a few weeks. How much harder to believe if you had worn it for a number of years? It is said that all the Swords of Power exert a strange hold over their 'owners'; so much so that, sooner or later, each comes to look upon them as 'part' of themselves. They 'care' for them much like a parent or, in a few rare cases, as a lover." Mithdar frowned. "The reforged pieces, the evil 'Black Blade' whom some call Shard, is said to be far stronger than the other two combined!"

  The old man saw the struggle for comprehension taking place in the small Kirkwean, and pity moved him. "But take heart," Mithdar continued softly; "for Shard has not been overlong in your possession. A Sword of Power needs a great deal of time to 'take over' the one who carries it, and 'the more pure the heart, the longer the time'. That is why the procession of Erg-Leaths have, down through the long years, kept this particular one hidden away where none, not even themselves, could come under its spell."

  Thorn was silent for some time. When at last he did speak, the anguish in his soul could be seen as well as heard. "But if Brand Silverleaf didn't make it, who did!? And WHY was it ever made in the first place!?"

  "That, my young friend, is a very long tale indeed. One of which I know many parts, but not the whole. Besides, sitting here at the edge of The Tarn is certainly not the best place for its telling! Let it be enough for now that you use the sword as little as possible".

  Thorn half drew the blade from its scabbard, them rammed it back quickly. "Couldn't I give it to you or one of the others? Erin's strength is three time mine; wouldn't he be better able to resist its power?!"

  Mithdar shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Thorn. Giving it to another would only place them in an even greater danger than you, for I'm afraid not even your friend Erin with all his strength nor I with my limited knowledge could long resist its terrible power. Even if you were to throw it away Shard's power is so great that, sooner or later, it would only find another innocent victim. No, my young friend, your Erg-Leath chose you to be 'The Wanderer', and so you must be the one to carry the Black Blade."

  Mithdar's dark eyes looked directly into Thorn's blue ones. When he spoke, his voice held the gentle sadness of the night wind. "It is not always the size of a person's frame nor the amount of his wisdom that helps him to resist evil, rather it is something deep inside him. You are The Wanderer, the one chosen to bear Shard, just as Brand Silverleaf was chosen long ago. That is what being 'The Wanderer' really means."

  Thorn sighed, his earlier suspicion now replaced with shocked wonder. "Who ARE you, Mithdar? How is it that you know all this?"

  Mithdar's smile lit up his weathered face. "Just an old man who travels from place to place and has a passion for legends and lore --- old poems too." The tinker's voice took on a distant, musical quality.

  "Beneath the stars, beneath the moon,

  Beneath the heat of the sun.

  No rest, no peace, no hearth nor home,

  Till the Swordbearer's task be done."

  "That doesn't sound very pleasant!" Thorn muttered.

  Mithdar smiled again. "It is part of a very old lay or 'song-poem' called 'The Broken Shard'; but again, now is not the place for such things." Mithdar reached for his staff an made ready to rise. "In the morning we will head for the Ithilian Silv at Gareth Withrin. It may be that the older and wiser heads of the Nim-Loth will have clearer council to give you."

  "The Nim-Loth," Thorn repeated, the mere mention of those ancient folk momentarily eclipsed the distress he felt over his sword. "And I thought that they had all vanished ages ago, and now existed only in old tales!"

  Again Mithdar smiled down at his startled young friend. "The Nim-Loth are indeed and 'old race', and many have sailed westward and left this land; but there are still many that have chosen to dwell for awhile yet in Oma-Var. As for being part of 'old tales' as you put it, you may be surprised to know that many consider your race to exist in just the same manner. Beyond the Wold and Del Lingus, 'Wee'ns' are thought of by most to be a folk found only in legend and song."

  Thorn sighed deeply. "It's all suddenly become so complicated. At first I thought of it as a 'great adventure'. Carrying a sword; going out into the wide world; travelling and seeing new places. Meeting Dingle's Delgii and fighting fierce Karns all seemed like an 'exciting game'! But now ---" His voice trailed off into the twilight.

  Mithdar placed a gentle hand on Thorn's sagging shoulders. "I fear there are indeed evil times ahead for us all, Thorn; for I have heard grim tidings out of both the south and the east. And now, from what you and the others have told me, the north, where these war-like Slathlanders dwell, is also unsafe. But I will aid you all I can, and you seem to have three brave and willing companions to help you on your journey. I, for awhile at least, shall be the fourth."

  Thorn looked relieved to hear that Mithdar would join them, but there was still a haunted look about his features and his trembling hand hovered ever near Shard's hilt.

  "But for now," the old tinker continued; "let us eat Timin's fine stew and warm ourselves by the fire, for it must be put out soon before it is fully dark. We are far too near The Tarn to leave any 'lights in the window' Come morning we set off for the Nim-Lothian Silv at long Lake. There you'll see real 'legends' come to life!"

  Thorn glanced down at the shortsword that hung at his side. "I fear I've had quite enough of 'living legends' for awhile, though I dearly would like to see a real Nim-Loth." As Mithdar stood to leave, Thorn held him back a moment more. "I -- I want to thank you for telling me all this, and though I'm terribly afraid, I will go with you. I just hope that at Long Lake we find a few more answers!"

  In the darkening twilight the two of them walked back towards fire and friends.

  ***

  Chapter 16:'THE BATTLE OF TOL YIFFRIN'

  The morning dawned crisp and clear. High above the rising sun caught the spray from the falls, creating a multicolored rainbow. Each drop seemed to open a tiny window into eternity.

  Down below the Tarn was also awakening. Unlike the sparkling beauty above, the ancient swamp pulsed with a darker, more sinister life. Fragile fingers of swirling fog drifted about the five travelers, controlled by an invisible hand older than Time itself. Creatures both big and small awakened to chirp, croak or crawl their way into another day. Dark, murky waterways stretched off in all directions. Tiny waves lapped at clumps of snake-grass and gnarled roots. Something splashed in the hazy light. A shrill cry followed, only to be cut short by the endless cycle of life and death.

  The Tarn awaited; vast, hungry, unforgiving.

  Mithdar led the group to the far end of the pool. As promised, there were several boats tied to a sagging wharf. After inspecting them all, Erin chose the second largest. There were oars and a long mast with a furled sail on the bottom. The packs were quickly loaded and all climbed aboard. Kel took the bow and Erin the stern, while Mithdar and the two Kirkwean sat amidship. Erin expertly stepped the mast and hauled up the sail.

&n
bsp; "Faith, man!," beamed the mercenary. "T'is grand to be havin' a keel beneath me after all those weary days afoot! What be our course, master 'pot-peddler', for all these weed-choked waterways look the same to me!"

  Mithdar pointed to a larger opening than the rest among the flooded forest of weeds and willows and Erin trimmed the sail. The morning breeze had freshened and soon the small craft was gliding down the black waterway. Tendrils of fog still swirled about them and the morning sun had not risen far enough to penetrate the thick, overhanging branches. Timin clutched his fish-spear and felt as though he was descending into Erg's darkened smithy!

  By mid-morning they had entered the first of the many long, narrow lakes that linked the countless flooded hills and dales that made up the Tarn. Islands dotted these lakes like scattered green gems left behind by a careless giant, while the shores were a mixture of rough rock, weed-choked coves and towering pines. Kel's upturned eyes studied every rock and root, looking for the smallest sign of danger.

  Just before noon he found it.

  All followed Kel's outstretched hand. Up ahead near the right bank, still two bowshots away, a boat was pushing out from the reeds. It was larger than theirs, with half dozen crew were armored, thick necked and brandishing spears and tulwars. Bloody minded Karns! A sail was hoisted and the craft set a course to intercept them.

  Erin swore and pushed on the rudder. The breeze had quickened and was from the stern, forcing the Karn-craft to tack into the wind. Erin's wolf-grey eyes scanned the waters ahead. "There!", he said, pointing with his jaw at a small island off to the left. "If we beat the quiffers to that isle we can take them in the shallows when the bastards try to land!"

  Tense moments passed as the two boats raced towards the tiny, tree-covered island. All on board looked to their weapons; Kel strung his bow while Thorn took his sling and a handful of stones from his belt pouch. Timin pushed on his dented helmet and grabbed his fish-spear. Only Mithdar made no move to defend himself, but sat calmly gazing at the small isle fast approaching.

  The Karn-craft was still more than a normal bowshot away but gaining when the Chin archer let his first shaft fly. It struck the furthermost Karn square in the chest, toppling him backwards into the rest. The boat swerved and momentarily lost control, then righted itself and swung in behind it's prey. Now both craft had the wind at their backs and the race for the island was on. Erin inwardly thanked all the gods that he half-way believed in that Karns seldom used bows, preferring spears and javelins as throwing weapons.

  In the cramped space both Kel and Thorn fired volley after volley, but the Karns had raised their shields and arrow and stone did little damage. The small isle seemed to crawl closer.

  Then Mithdar pointed straight ahead with his staff and Timin gave out a strangled cry. "More Karns!"

  Erin looked up to see another boat tacking its way around the head of the island, trying to cut them off from landing. "Kel!," he bellowed. "Get those bastards!"

  Both the Chin and Thorn took aim and let fly. An arrow pierced the Karn at the tiller and a stone took the one beside him in the temple. Both bodies slumped forward and the sail began to flap in the wind. The heavier boat pitched sideways and grounded itself on a submerged reef about ten vels from the shore.

  Spears and curses were hurled at them now from both Karn-craft and Erin bellowed for all to duck as he came about. A heavy spear thudded into the stern just below the tiller, causing the rudder to lock. As Erin frantically tried to pull it free, their own boat ran aground on another weedy sandbar. Seeing their prey trapped, their pursuers howled and pressed onward.

  Erin grabbed his shield and drew his longsword. "Timin, Mithdar! Here to me!"

  A thrown axe slammed into the mercenary's upraised shield just as the two craft came together. Erin's sword shot out and took the lead Karn in mid-leap as he attempted to board. Timin jabbed his small spear into the belly of another, only to have it wrenched from his trembling hands as the startled Karn toppled overboard into the shallows. Yanking out his Slath shortsword, the little Kirkwean began flaying about from side to side. The old tinker had cracked one Karn on his head with his staff and was now using it to push clear of the attacking boat. On the far side both Thorn and Kel were still raining down death on the second Karn-craft, though four of them had jumped into the shallows and, shields raised, were wading towards them.

  Then Erin gave a ear piercing war-cry and leapt into the nearest boat, his sword Glenrig cutting a red swath of death on all sides. Timin called after him but was suddenly propelled backwards by a spear that had struck him a glancing blow on his helmet. The stocky little Kirkwean slammed into the low gunwale, teetered for a brief moment, then toppled overboard. Thorn, seeing Timin fall, dropped his sling, drew his infamous shortsword and launched himself at the four Karns still wading towards them. A cry wrenched itself from him that had not been heard in Oma-Var for centuries; a cry so fierce, so primeval, that all that heard it shuddered. 'Cirimoth dag Shard!'

  The Chin and the tinker were now the only ones left on board. Mithdar was laying about him with his staff, cracking skulls and ribs with every swing. Kel, having seen Timin's fall and Thorn's rescue attempt, cast aside his longbow and, his two 'a-sa' gleaming, sprang like a silent panther into the shallows to aid the two Kirkwean.

  The four Karns had managed to almost reach the boat when Thorn jumped. Seemingly on its own, the black sword flashed through the air, biting deep into a thick-skinned neck. The Karn grunted, staggered back, then launched himself forward, its meaty paw swinging a double bladed axe. Thorn ducked under the blow as his strange blade plunged itself deep between the attacker's ribs.

  Kel, catching the rusty yet deadly tulwar of a grim-faced Karn in the curved cross-piece of one of his 'a-sa', twisted and snapped the pitted blade off near the hilt. At the same time he thrust his second long knife deep into the startled creature's throat. The body sank, staining the clear water a blackish-brown. Glancing quickly about, Kel saw Thorn down his second Karn and advance on the third. Then he saw Timin. The little fellow was floating face down in the shallows. The Chin drove forward and hauled the unconscious Kirkwean back to the relative safety of their boat. Mithdar reached down to pulled him aboard.

  Erin, having cleared the front boat, turned to help the others. There was little need. Only a few Karns remained alive, and these were beating a hasty retreat. Of the four that had waded towards them, Thorn had killed three.

  In shock, they watched as the little Kirkwean hacked the floating bodies into bloody pieces. His eyes wild, Thorn's sword arm rose and fell again and again. Each time the gore-covered blade fell, those soul-searing words rang out:

  'Cirimoth dag Shard!

  Cirimoth dag SHARD!!

  CIRIMOTH - DAG - SHARRRRD!!!'

  ***

  Nex struggled up the slope, his blistered feet throbbing through the bleeding rags. Behind him came Ragnol Halfhand, leaning on a makeshift staff. Further down the rocky slope Tartif picked his way over the broken ground. The two Slathlanders and the three-fingered foreigner were exhausted. Gaunt cheeks and wind-burned skin showed that they had not fared well since Erin and his group had taken their weapons, armour and boots and 'cast them adrift' in this wilderness of tree, root and stone.

  For countless days now they had been heading northwards, living off roots and berries and what wild game Ragnol had been able to snare. Both Nex and the cadaver-like Tartif were 'true son's of Slath', and though they knew a ship and the ways of the sea, on land they were as 'babes in the woods' when compared to Ragnol's arts of survival.

  Still, they hated the arrogant 'foreigner' and secretly plotted to kill him.

  "I could do it nice 'n quick like!", Tartif had whispered to Nex early on in their journey. "When the bugger's sleeping I could bash his bloody head in with a quiffing rock!"

  Nex had been sorely tempted. The hatred he felt for Ragnol was bordering on an obsession. Nex not only blamed Ragnol for the failure of the entire expedition, but for his humiliation
at the hands of the one-time 'slave'. Every foot-weary vel and every bone-chilling night had seen that hatred grow, festering into an invisible sore that ate away at his empty stomach, until now he burned with one all-consuming desire --- to exact his revenge on Ragnol, the demon-spawned 'Wee'ns' and the arrogant bastard called Erin Ap Conn!

  "He'll pay!," Nex had hissed. "They all will! But first we must reach our homeland. Halfhand, for all his cowardly ways, has the skills needed to get us back --- but once within our own borders, his 'woodsy-ways' will no longer be needed." Tartif had shown his gap-toothed grin and the two of them set about eating the half-cooked rabbit that Ragnol had snared.

  Now, two weeks later the three of them stumbled down the eastern slopes of the northern Tol-Eldars and stood facing a long, wide forest. It's colour was more black than green, and even in the light of mid-day it looked dark and forbidding.

  "Weirwood!", Tartif croaked, his sunken eyes unusually bright. "I've heard many a tale of THAT place!" He made a curious hand gesture and sank to the ground.

  "T'is but a forest," Nex snorted. "Wood and earth instead of these Slath-cursed mountains! There'll be game there, and we can spear us a fine boar instead of stinking hares!"

  Ragnol snorted and slumped down, though taking care not to get too close to his 'travelling companions'. "T'was my 'stinking hares' that's kept us alive till now. Besides, have you ever speared a boar? Great yellow tusks they have, enough to rip a man open in the blink of an eye!"

  Nex spit and wiped his mouth on his filthy sleeve, while Tartif, as though in a trance, sat gazing at the dark forest.