Mystic Warrior

by Tracy Hickman

  “Maddoc, you’ve got to get these men to disperse! If the Pir see this . . .”

  “But, Galen, I didn’t assemble these men! They came at your calling from the dream.”

  “I don’t care who called them here or where they came from! They’ve got to break up! The Pir will see them like this and think they’ve got some kind of uprising on their hands!”

  “Ah! I get it!” Maddoc winked at Galen. “You want them to be a secret cadre!”

  “Yes, fine,” Galen said, exasperated and desperate. “Anything to get them to break this up! Just . . . Hey, where did they go?”

  The circle was gone and the crowd was filling in the space, quickly erasing any trace of what had just happened. All that remained was an intense murmur running through the crowd in the street, and the suspicious looks they often cast in Galen’s direction.

  “They move like the shadows in the night!” Maddoc intoned in a voice filled with conspiratorial drama. “They are everywhere and nowhere . . . watching! They are the Secret Circle of Brothers Forged by Galen’s Will!”

  Rhea shook her head sadly. She took her husband’s arm and turned him back toward the Hall.

  “Don’t you worry, Galen!” Maddoc shouted as they moved into the crowd. “I’ll come up with a better name soon!”

  Galen tried every other sword on the rack.

  None of them would have him.

  He stood facing the one sword that did not scream at him with a sound that made his teeth hurt. It was also the one sword that he was loath to touch.

  “You did this, didn’t you?” Galen said to the sword at last.

  “Of course I did,” the sword replied. “It was all a matter of convincing the other swords that you are mine. To be honest, it was not that hard. They don’t see the potential that I see in you. It isn’t every season that I get to enjoy training a true warrior!”

  “A true warrior?” Galen scoffed. “You must not be a very sharp sword after all.”

  “Clever,” the sword replied, “but sharp is the one thing that I am. With my help, Galen, you’ll acquit yourself well in the wars. You’ll be a true, tragic hero who—”

  Galen straightened suddenly. “Wars? What wars?”

  The sword sang with the thrill of its memory. “The Dragon Wars, of course! The armies of Vasska and the other four dragons meet in fierce battle on the Enlund Plain! Oh, it is glorious to see, Galen! The forces of the great dragons colliding in armed combat. Desperate deeds and heroic sacrifice! It makes me proud to be a part of it!”

  “What are you talking about?” Galen protested, folding his arms across his chest. “We aren’t at war!”

  “But the Dragon Wars have been going on since the fall of Rhamas,” the sword protested.

  “That’s over four hundred years!” Galen could not grasp it. “No war can last that long!”

  “Ah, yes, more’s the pity,” the sword replied. “I’ll admit that it is difficult to sustain a really good war for very long. One side or the other so often runs out of supplies or money or will or just people to fight. Then, too, the life of a sword is all too often a short one. Only the heirlooms have much chance of being taken from the field of battle and preserved. Of course, those swords never get to see much action, either. I suppose I’ve really got the best of both: I’ve seen a lot of action over the centuries and am still around to cut an edge.”

  Galen took a step back, studying the sword. “So you do. We killed a man yesterday, you and I.”

  “Him? Well, I beg your pardon, but that one hardly counted! He fell on me! It’s actually rather embarrassing. All the other swords are laughing at me, but that’s not your fault. I mean, how were you supposed to know the ox was going to impale himself on—”

  “Shut up!” Galen said.

  The sword went silent.

  “You talk too much for a sword,” Galen said at last.

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” the sword replied, “but you have to understand that I don’t talk to just anyone. You’re only the fifth ‘Craftis’ I’ve met, and each of those was so crazy that they didn’t make any—”

  “Craftis?” Galen squinted. “What is a Craftis?”

  “Someone who can speak to crafted objects. You know, things made by hand?” The sword seemed excited as it spoke into Galen’s mind. “I think that the makers must imbue something of themselves into everything they make. It takes someone special—someone even special among the Elect—to hear and speak to that something. I remember every life that I have taken, too, and sometimes I wonder if each of them imbued me with some of themselves as well. I don’t know about such things, I’m just a sword, but I am a sword that can help you stand out in the war!”

  Galen sighed. “Well, if I need a sword, I suppose it might as well be you. Do you have a name?”

  “A name?” the sword responded. “What? You mean like ‘Doom-bringer’ or ‘Human-cleaver’ or something ridiculous like that?”

  Galen shrugged. “Look, I was just asking . . .”

  “S’shnickt.”

  “S’shnickt?” Galen frowned.

  “Yes, you can call me S’shnickt,” the sword moaned. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Very well . . . S’shnickt,” Galen said, reaching out for the sword at last and taking it from the rack. It felt cold to his touch. He loathed holding it but knew that if he were to survive to get home, he would need the sword’s help. “I guess we’re partners.”

  The metal rang with joy.

  “Get me safely through the war, S’shnickt,” Galen murmured. “I’ve got to return home.”

  “Return home?” the sword said. “But, no one survives the war! You’ll die valiantly, but that’s about as much as you can hope for.”

  “No one ever comes back?”

  “No one . . . just us swords.”

  It was then that Galen noticed the pommel on the sword.

  It was a shining black stone.

  25

  Twelve Suns

  You say this Galen has formed his own followers? Are you absolutely sure about this, Gendrik?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Gendrik replied, swallowing hard. His throat was choked and dry. He did not understand any of this. Lord Tragget had summoned him to the Hall of Truth before dawn and he had barely had an opportunity to wake up before he found himself being ushered into the Garden, of all places, on a secret mission for the Inquisitor.

  Now that same Inquisitor, his master, was leaning so far forward in the Judgment Throne that the servant feared for a moment his master would fall off. Tragget’s face looked nearly purple and his eyes blinked furiously. “Gendrik, by Vasska, I’ll send you to the wars myself if you’re so much as making up a single lie . . .”

  “I saw it myself, Father,” Gendrik squeaked. “You did ask me to watch this particular Elect, as you may recall. I was following your instructions when it happened.”

  Tragget leaned slowly back into the Judgment Throne. His long, narrow hands reached forward, gripping the ends of the throne’s arm rests until his knuckles were bright white.

  Gendrik tried to swallow again. He never did care for the Hall of Truth. It was the domain of his master and his work required that he visit it from time to time, but that did not make the doing of it any easier. The hall was long and narrow, with windowless walls crafted out of polished obsidian and a ceiling that closed to a pointed arch twenty feet overhead. One entered the room through a large double door in the west end, and the Judgment Throne sat on a dais at the east end. From where he stood before this throne, Gendrik could see two arches on either side of the dais. One led down to one of two side exits from the Temple. The other archway led directly to the jailer’s chambers. It was a unique feature of the Hall of Truth that one never knew which archway led to safety and which led to destruction at the whim of the Inquisitor. Great vertical drums in both hallways pivoted at the same time, causing a left turn to become a right turn or vice versa. One’s fate before this throne, therefore, was known only to the Inqu
isitor until it was too late to question the sentence.

  The Inquisitor was as much a mystery as his room. Tragget pressed his fingers together, touching them to his lips in thought before he spoke. “Go on, Gendrik, omit nothing.”

  “Y-yes, my lord.” Gendrik was sweating despite the chill in the windowless room. He could not help himself. “Well, this woman woke Galen up—”

  “Rhea Myyrdin.”

  “Yes, my lord, Rhea Myyrdin.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, she was upset about her husband—Maddoc Myyrdin—having gone missing from the barracks. It seems he had a difficult night last night and had not slept well.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” the Inquisitor murmured.

  “Excuse me, Your Lordship?”

  “Never mind . . . continue.”

  “Well, let me see . . . Galen replied that he hadn’t slept well either. Then this Rhea wanted to know if Galen had seen her husband in his dreams.”

  “Wait,” the Inquisitor said abruptly, leaning forward. “Say that again!”

  “This Rhea asked Galen if he had seen Maddoc in his dreams. I remember it clearly as it seemed like such an odd thing to ask. His reply was just as strange: he said he had seen him.”

  Tragget’s eyes were intent, his voice quiet but strained. “Did he say he saw anyone else in his dream?”

  Gendrik thought for a moment.

  Tragget waited out the silence.

  “No . . . no, my lord, he didn’t mention anyone. It was about then that they were leaving the barracks. I had some trouble staying with them and following their conversation. This Rhea woman said she had looked all over the Garden for her husband. Galen said that she should not be too worried about the whole thing as Maddoc would probably show up soon enough, being as they were in a prison and there wasn’t much chance of him going very far. It was about then that the circle formed up.”

  “The circle?”

  “Yes, my lord, the circle of mad warriors. They seemed to come out of nowhere. They just appeared out of the crowd, opening a space around this Galen Arvad fellow. Oh, the space was twenty feet across—is that important?”

  Tragget relaxed his grip on the chair long enough to reach up and rub his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Well, sire, I managed to get to the edge of the circle just as they all saluted this Galen Arvad with their swords. It was about then that Maddoc Myyrdin arrived with his own sword and started jabbering on about how they were all Galen’s men and Galen said that he didn’t want any men. Not that thirty-two men are much of an army—”

  “Thirty-six,” Tragget corrected.

  “Your Lordship?”

  “You mean there were thirty-six of them,” Tragget said with growing impatience.

  “Oh, no, my lord! There were thirty-two of them in the circle . . . well, thirty-three if you counted Maddoc Myyrdin. I remember that quite clearly because of the swords. Each sword had a different blade and handle but they all had a black stone fixed to the end of the—”

  “A what?” Tragget asked sharply. “A black stone?”

  “Why, yes, Your Lordship . . . didn’t I mention that before?”

  “A polished black stone at the pommel?” Tragget was leaning forward once again, his blue eyes wide, the look on his face dangerous. “At the bottom end of the handle?”

  Gendrik gulped. “Why, yes! I remember counting the swords because it was so unusual. I checked with the weapons master later about it. He said that I must have been one of the madmen, too, because there were no swords with a black stone in the handle in his armory. I was worried for a time, sire, that they might not let me out of the Garden after that one!”

  Gendrik watched Tragget anxiously. The Inquisitor once again was rolling things around in his mind, his gaze fixed on some distant place. It unnerved Gendrik. He had been much more than Tragget’s torusk master; for several years now he had been the eyes and ears of his master in the streets and towns they visited. He knew from experience that the longer an Inquisitor thought, the worse it could be for the people standing before them. “Sire, if it pleases you, may I go now? I’ve much work ahead of me . . . all in your service, might I add?”

  “Gendrik, quiet! I know full well that you have more than a month before the caravans leave for Enlund.”

  “But Your Lordship, one of the Aboths informed all the torusk masters yesterday that the caravans would be leaving twelve suns from now.”

  Tragget looked once more directly at Gendrik. The torusk master tried to swallow but found he could not. His mouth had gone completely dry.

  “Twelve suns!” Tragget snapped. “That isn’t nearly enough time!”

  “Well, no sire! That’s why I’ve got to beg your leave and get back to work right away! Fear not, sire; twelve suns is a short time, but the caravans will be ready to take them.”

  Tragget furrowed his brow. “You are absolutely certain about these swords?”

  “Certainly, sire; thirty-three of them, all with black stones in their handles . . . Is it important?”

  Tragget leaned back into the throne. “No, Gendrik, it is not important but you have done well. Take the arch to my right and go with my blessing.”

  Gendrik stared at the right archway, hesitating.

  Tragget stood up, stepping purposefully past Gendrik down the hall. The Inquisitor called after him as he departed. “Do not worry, Gendrik! You are still of use to me.”

  Tragget stood as Edana entered the sitting room.

  “I was in audience,” Edana complained, angrily pulling the holy crown of the Pir from her head and tossing it in a chair at the side of the room. “The hall was filled with petitioners! They are there still for all I know, wondering—as I am—why the Voice of Vasska had to suddenly leave.”

  “My apologies, Mother of the Pir, but this could not wait.” Tragget stood near the large hearth, his hands clasped together nervously. “Are the caravans to Enlund leaving in twelve days?”

  Edana stopped brushing back her crown-tangled hair, looking curiously at the Inquisitor. “Yes . . . yes, they are. I see that you are taking the duties of your office more seriously. It is true; the caravans will be leaving after twelve suns have passed. It is the will of Vasska.”

  “The will of Vasska? Holy Lady, it is not enough time!” Tragget pleaded with an angry undertone in his voice. “The Council has tasked me—you have tasked me—to discover what the dragons fear in these madmen. I’ve made some great progress in this regard. Just today, in fact, there was an incident—”

  “That disturbance in the Garden?” Edana said easily.

  “Well, yes. I was not aware that you had heard of it.”

  “The Elect are always forming groups.” Edana shrugged, lifting the mantle of her office from her shoulders and draping it over the crown and chair. “There have even been a few insurrections organized from time to time. The dragonstaffs always quell them. Besides, the Chosen Elect are always dead in the war before anything substantial can come of it. You think this is different?”

  “It was different, yes. It involved a unique man among the Elect. He is the reason we went to that Festival in the Dragonback.”

  Edana raised her eyebrow in interest as she settled into her great chair. “Indeed? Then you think that he is the man of the visions?”

  “I believe he may well be,” Tragget returned anxiously. “I . . . I don’t know but . . . well, there has been some evidence that he is exerting . . . extraordinary powers.”

  “Evidence? Really?” Edana’s eyes narrowed. “What evidence?”

  Tragget looked away, his hands working nervously in front of him. “It’s . . . it’s difficult to explain. The Elect who appear to serve him all wield swords that are somewhat alike. They all have a black stone in the handle. Now, before last night we have no record of any such swords in the armory, yet now they exist.”

  “And you think this man—”

  “Galen Arvad,” Tragget urged.

  “Yes, you think this G
alen Arvad had something to do with these strange weapons?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?” Edana asked quietly.

  Tragget turned, slowly pacing the room. “Well . . . I th-think that it is s-significant that each of these w-warriors has an identical change in each of their s-swords and that they all give their allegiance to Arvad. It is clear that he is the focus of this strange phenomenon.”

  “Black stones, eh?” Edana mused. “Where did these black stones come from? Why are they significant?”

  “I d-don’t know where they c-come from,” Tragget responded, “nor do I know why they are significant. That is why I need more time! Twelve days is simply insufficient for me to learn what I need to know!”

  Edana pondered for a while before answering. “Tragget, this change in the caravans was neither my doing nor the will of the Council. Vasska ordained it directly. There is urgency in the war that must be satisfied at once. There is nothing I can do about that; it is out of my hands.”

  “I am making progress, Holy Lady,” Tragget responded with deliberated words, “but I do not believe I can get what I need in only twelve suns’ time!”

  “Do not question the will of Vasska! We are all a part of the Pir and we will all of us do our duty,” Edana replied coldly as she stood. “I am not interested in hearing about your weaknesses or deficiencies. You have twelve days to get what you need from this Galen Arvad before he falls before his duty to the Pir. It was in the vision, Tragget, and it will happen as prophesied, but only if you stop complaining and find a way to make it happen.”

  Edana turned toward the door, resettling her mantle about her. “We are destined to rule even Vasska—it is up to you to find a way! Make it happen and don’t bring me any more excuses.”

  With that, she snatched the crown from the chair and exited the room.

  “What do you think, Lord Inquisitor?” the master stonecutter tentatively asked.

  Tragget stood before the colossi, considering them in the failing light.