Guilds & Glaives

by David Farland

  “But you said no blade could harm him.”

  Bakri glanced over at her and was distracted for a moment, for her hood had come down once more and her long straight hair bannered in the wind.

  “My uncle has kept from all women for fifteen years because a soothsayer once told him he would never be killed, or even injured, until he met a deadly maiden, in gray.”

  “Your uncle?”

  He had not meant to tell her that, but he pressed on. “Don’t you see? The soothsayer must have meant the sword, not any woman. Ghaffar’s learned of it—he knows. He means to hide it or melt it away. But I can slay him.”

  “He is your uncle?”

  “That is not my fault,” Bakri insisted. “His heart is black. He would rather ride a hundred leagues to raid the smallest village than pass food across the table.”

  He could see that she did not yet believe him, so he spoke on. He feared that she might bolt, now, and he had foolishly given her the faster horse. “He did not mean to tell me his secret,” he confessed. “He was drunk when he confided it to me. Once he sobered, he beat me nearly to death as a demonstration of would happen should I whisper a word to anyone of what I knew. It was three months before I could properly walk again.”

  She did not doubt that Bakri spoke the truth, for his uncle’s cruelties were legendary. “What will you do once you slay him?” she asked.

  Bakri had not thought that far. “I suppose … I shall rule in his place, but not in his way. I think men would serve better out of loyalty than fear. You would have better men, too,” he added. “I have seen it with horses. Aye, you must be stern, but if you treat them well, they will risk their lives for you. If you give them only kicks, they will serve only so long as you control them. And,” he added, “I would study the Holy Koran, and see that my men did also, for my mother used to tell me wise sayings she had learned within its pages, and my uncle will not suffer the book to be anywhere near him.”

  With these words she grew more intrigued, for she loved well the Koran. With her father’s guidance she had memorized nearly half the surahs herself and was teaching them already to her youngest brother. She saw the potential in Bakri, you see, and it was that which kindled her love, for women love nothing so much as a man who needs a few improvements.

  “The sword,” she told him, “is not with my family. It is hidden in the wilderness.”

  He could scarce believe her. “If it is so marvelous, why aren’t they using it?”

  “My grandmother did not like the thing,” she said. “It had brought my family victory for generations, but my grandmother said the price was too high, and on my grandfather’s death she made my father swear that he would hide the thing away. This he did.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  Still she hesitated, and bit her lip as she considered him. She knew she might be making a mistake, but she was young, remember, and was growing taken with young Bakri. “If you can keep up,” she said, and set her mount curvetting, spun it, and dashed away over the flatlands to the north.

  Bakri let out a glad cry and set Kutb galloping in pursuit. They rode out into the scrubland this way, under the stars, the moon unveiling itself or hiding behind clouds from moment to moment like a flirtatious maiden. Sometimes Bakri chased and sometimes Adilah, so caught up in the joy of the moment and the thrill of being young and beautiful that they almost forgot the grim purpose of their journey until they arrived at a low line of rocky hills standing starkly up from the plain.

  Adilah paused to refresh her thirst, then arrowed east. Twice her father had led her past the cave, telling her that, as the oldest, she must know the location of the sword, should her family need it one day. “For if I fall in battle,” he had said, “the sword’s resting place would be forgotten.”

  Still, she had seen its location in daytime, and things look different by night, so that she did not find the proper place until the early hours of the morning.

  The two dismounted and stood looking up at a blocky cliffside. It was as if Allah had set aside an unfinished block of stone after smoothing out one side, for neither could see clear handholds in the thing, just the near vertical surface stretching some forty feet. “The cave is there,” she said, although neither could see it. The stone was but a black wall of darkness topped with a sky strewn with stars.

  “Well then,” Bakri said, hoping he did not sound too discouraged, “I shall climb there.”

  He divested himself of his cloak and took everything from his belt but his sword. He wound a coil of rope around his shoulder, for Adilah had insisted she would join him.

  There, apart from the girl, with only the unyielding stone and tiny wedges and projections to focus upon, he found himself doubting reality. The rock was not quite as smooth as it had seemed, but he had no easy time finding handholds. He pressed up and ever upwards, slowly, upon uncertain footing. Was this but a dream? Had he really ridden into the hills in search of a sword he meant to use to cut down his uncle? Could he dare? Even with a mighty blade, could he really slay such a man, a lion among warriors? Briefly—only briefly—he even wondered if he should lower himself back down, take the girl prisoner, and return her to the cell.

  But he would not do that.

  At last he saw a narrow opening in the rock a man’s height higher, and a sword length to his right. Grunting, he shifted his position and pushed on. This was the hardest stretch yet, and twice he nearly fell, but finally he was gripping the mouth of the cave and pulling himself within. Out of breath, shaking with muscle fatigue, he crawled into the wide, dark chamber beyond and sat for a moment before returning to the cliff and lowering a rope. Adilah attached a bundle with a small lantern and a flask of oil and he hauled these up and lit them. He saw that he rested within a large natural cave. The light barely stretched to either side—a little over six good paces—and could not reach the depths. The floor was fairly smooth, sloping only a little downward, and the ceiling arched above him. A thick spider’s web lay over the upper half of the cave opening, but apart from the insects woven into their shrouds he saw no other sign of life within the place.

  He secured one end of the rope about the bottom of a stalagmite, then lowered it once more. Adilah tied it about her waist and, using a combination of his pulling and her climbing, she joined him, flush and bright from her exertions. His flesh stirred as she took his hand for help through the opening.

  She smiled at Bakri, taken now with the adventure, but the youth was troubled. “It is too quiet here,” he said. “Too empty.”

  “We must go to the back wall,” she told him. And so they did, she carrying the lantern, he with hand to the hilt of his sword.

  Yet there was nothing to the rear of the cave but a field of rocks and boulders and a narrow rift too small for even a child to slip through. He wondered if the sword would be hidden within and stopped in surprise when Adilah bent down beside the field and pushed over a mottled brown rock. A cavity lay beneath it, and within that cavity was a black lantern, which she brought forth. She smiled nervously at the boy, then rubbed the lantern’s side. Immediately there poured forth a stream of white smoke, and both she and Bakri sat back.

  “What is this?” the youth demanded. “Where is the sword?”

  “The sword is guarded by a djinn,” Adilah told him. “You must let me do the speaking.”

  Bakri had never expected this, nor did he expect the beautiful woman formed all of vapor who appeared within the smoke. Her hair was white, blending now and then with the discharge from the lantern so it was challenging to know where smoke left off and hair began. Her dress was all of shifting shades of blue, as though it had been woven from the sky when it was in different moods. She barely took note of Bakri, looking instead directly at Adilah with eyes formed all of the shifting blue of her dress, for they had no pupil, or whites.

  “You have called,” she said, “and I have come.” The djinn’s voice was musical and bright, but different from the speech of men, almost like the ri
nging of bells.

  “I am of the clan Njed,” Adilah said, bowing her head with great respect. “I have come for my father’s sword.”

  “I see.” The djinn stared down at her, face placid, expressionless. “I have need for the sword and would trade you for it.”

  Adilah looked up. “I am interested in no trade: it is the sword I need.”

  “You have not heard my offer,” the djinn told her.

  “Speak, then,” Bakri suggested.

  The djinn glanced at him, then back to Adilah.

  “I shall offer you a palace, and a handsome prince, and you shall want for nothing, living a life where all comes to you with ease.”

  “That I do not want,” Adilah said.

  “Then I shall offer you the very prince of horses,” the djinn said. “He will sire a breed of champions, swift as the wind, surefooted as the antelope, hardy as the lion. They shall make you a wealthy woman.”

  This sounded of great interest to Bakri, but Adilah answered without even glancing over to him.

  “I do not wish a horse,” she said.

  “Then I can only offer you the sword. But it shall bring enemies and heartache.”

  “I shall take the sword, then, and all that comes with it.”

  The djinn did not move, but suddenly in her hand was a long, straight sword, pointing downward. She extended her hand and Adilah rose, putting hand to the pommel. Bakri stepped forward and put his hand upon the hilt as the djinn passed it over. Her hands felt like nothing—he might as well have been waving his fingers through mist—and he did not understand how she had clasped the weapon.

  Adilah relinquished the blade to him after no more than brushing the pommel with her fingers. He took it gingerly, then turned its blade toward the light, studying its surface. He saw that symbols had been etched into the blade. Many were characters he did not know, for one set named a pharaoh in a dead tongue, and others were letters of Greek and Latin. Some few were in Arabic, but while Bakri recognized them, he did not understand them, for he had never been taught to read.

  Taking the sword in two hands he lifted it toward the cave ceiling. He found it superbly balanced, and knew the sort of joy a man knows when riding the finest horse, or when winning the smile of the fairest maid. This was a blade of kings. He grinned over at Adilah, then remembered the djinn and looked over to her.

  “The first of your enemies are here,” she said. And as she vanished, who should appear in her place but Habab and two guardsmen. They looked astonished, at first, to find themselves in the cavern, but at sight of Bakri their hands fell quickly to their blades.

  Bakri threw a shielding arm in front of Adilah and urged her back.

  “How did you bring me here?” Habab demanded.

  “We need not be enemies,” Bakri told him. He had wielded a sword, it was true, but never against three men at once.

  Habab’s wide smile showed blackened teeth. “Oh, I think we do,” he said, unlimbering his blade. “I’ve followed you since you left the fortress. I think your uncle will reward me well for bringing him that sword. Maybe he’ll even give over the girl.”

  The two warriors with him were muttering about the witchcraft that had brought them from the bottom of the cliff, where they’d waited, but Habab barked them silent.

  “Lower the sword, boy, and I’ll make this swift. You’re no match for me.”

  “Don’t!” Adilah shouted. But she need not have worried, for Bakri did not mean to give up so easily. His uncle had once told him that he who strikes first wins, and he’d seen it was often true.

  Thus he stepped forward with a mighty blow.

  Habab sidestepped and brought up his sword to parry, then felt the weapon ring in his hands as the Gray Maiden struck with such force it notched into his blade. Habab staggered back to gain time, flexing his numbed fingers. One of his men ran forward with a shout, only to meet the boy and the sword. Bakri’s blow sheared off the top of his opponent’s head and he collapsed in a spray of blood.

  Bakri laughed now, sounding a little mad, and urged the others to come at him. Adilah had backed toward the exit, warning him to be cautious even as she bent to the ground to look for rocks.

  “You come from the left,” Habab said to his remaining soldier, and they advanced on Bakri. Habab knew he had simply been too cocky. Certainly, the sword was sharp, but it was said to be a great blade, which was why he supposed that the master desired it. He had not been cautious enough. The boy was young and apt to be rash and nervous, for he was no veteran. “Are you worried, boy?” he asked. “I’m going to get close and cut you from ear to ear.”

  At that moment Adilah hurled a rock. It soared through the empty space a foot to the right of Habab’s companion, but it distracted the fellow long enough for Bakri to drive forward with a brave shout and deliver a blow that tore the man open from shoulder to navel, straight through cloak and leather armor. The fellow sank, keening in agony.

  Habab snarled and ran in. Two wild blows set Bakri on the retreat, and a third might have taken him in the neck, but that Bakri parried, not with the flat of his weapon but the edge. And so mighty was that sword that Habab’s already weakened blade broke upon it like a wave upon a rock. The point twirled away from him and rang against the cave wall. Habab stumbled, and the last sound he ever heard was of that point tinkling as it hit the floor, for at that moment Bakri clipped the older man’s head from his shoulders.

  Bakri then stood panting, looking at the carnage he had wrought. He lifted up the blade and saw the blood streaming down it in rivulets. “Gray Maiden,” he said, “I know now why men praise you.” He turned to Adilah, still a little stunned.

  “Will the djinn return?” he asked.

  “I do not think so. She was tasked only with guarding the sword until we asked for it once more, but …”

  “Well, she tested us,” Bakri said. He considered the blade a moment more, then bent down and wiped it clear of blood with one of the soldier’s cloaks. “And we have passed. Allah willing, we have seen the last of her.”

  They found the horses of their attackers picketed very near their own and supposed Habab had planned to ambush them when they came down from the cave. It was then but a few hours before dawn, and though Bakri and Adilah were both spent, they rode out, knowing that their best chance lay with striking tonight. Never again would Bakri have free rein to ride into the fortress. If he did not return now, he would be viewed with great suspicion, and getting close enough to his uncle to strike would become nigh impossible.

  They were an hour still away from the fortress when the pre-dawn light showed upon the horizon, and Bakri knew that they would have to press hard. Their horses were as tired as they, but they forced them into a gallop. Thus it was that they reached the village outskirts just as the sun’s light first touched the earth, but poor Kutb’s heart burst and the horse dropped like a stone, sending the boy tumbling from the saddle. He rose and staggered to the side of his mount, too stunned yet to mourn the faithful beast.

  “Ride with me,” Adilah said, but her horse was shaking and flecked with foam, and Bakri thought it likely that it too was ruined. Instead, he offered up his hand to her and helped her down.

  “Stay here,” he told her. “I will find my uncle.”

  “I am going with you,” she insisted.

  There was no time to argue. He found the strength to stride forward and before very long he came to the village fountain. Not until they were nearly abreast of it did a set of long shadows detach themselves from the nearby building. There were nine men there, awaiting them, two closing on every side, and Bakri knew from the profile that the one behind the two directly ahead was his uncle.

  Ghaffar’s presence was no accident. Habab had seen the boy heading toward the dungeons and had reported his exodus to his master before following. Another man might have supposed that the boy had left with the beautiful young woman, never to return, which would surely have been the smarter course. But Ghaffar had been roused to
action, certain that the boy meant to return and kill him. Thus he had wakened all his men and set most upon the battlements, watching the distance. He himself had led another four all around the walls, testing stones to make sure that all were secure, for it was one of Ghaffar’s fears that there might be a secret way in or out. Of course, nothing was found, which had made Ghaffar that much more agitated, and he had lost his temper and sliced open a man he had caught rolling his eyes at him. He had sworn that all men who did not obey would meet a similar fate, then strode back into the fortress.

  All this had taken place in the hours before dawn. At the same moment that Habab was breathing his last, Ghaffar had been tossing and turning on his bunk. When the woman all in blue appeared before him he’d sat up, shivering, certain that his reckoning was come. He begged her not to kill him, but she merely regarded him with lambent blue eyes.

  “The boy has the sword and rides for you,” the djinn said.

  “He shall never breach my fortress,” Ghaffar answered, hesitant, for he was not sure what this spirit wanted.

  “If you sit in your shell like a turtle, he shall rouse your enemies and force you out, and you shall die. You must be ready to meet him.”

  A crafty look came into Ghaffar’s eyes as he considered the glowing woman floating beside his bed. “Who are you, and why do you offer counsel?”

  “I was tasked with warding the sword. It is useful to me. I shall deliver the boy to you, and you shall deliver the sword to me.”

  “So that you, then, can kill me with it?”

  The djinn stared at him a long while. “You have no interest for me. I want only the sword.”

  Ghaffar frowned. Here, obviously, was a creature of great power. “Why don’t you simply take it yourself?”

  “I cannot intercede directly,” the djinn told him, “owing to the oath I swore to the sword’s original holder.”

  To Ghaffar’s thinking, this seemed direct enough intercession, but he was not familiar with the obsession with rules and rituals held by djinn and demons. There are those who say the difference between man and such creatures is souls, which is partly true, even if djinn have them, but another key difference is adaptability. The djinn was fundamentally unable to conceive of breaking an oath Ghaffar would have tossed aside like a bone sucked of marrow.