The Fire Sword

by Colin Glassey

  “I will.” Kagne couldn’t tell if the response was a statement or a question.

  “And as we go to him, we will collect Sandun from the Kitran and take him with us also, to serve the True Master.”

  Polkinombu made a low whistle, like a bird’s call.

  “You and I can do this,” Kagne entreated him. “We can walk unseen in the night.”

  Polkinombu looked at him and then looked away. “Hard…and yet possible. But you will find the Fire Sword—how?”

  “I know where he is. I can feel him. Feel his presence. Just as I feel the True Master.” Kagne slowly drew the metal circle over his head and showed it to the krasuth.

  “There is power in this,” Polkinombu said slowly, without touching it. “Where did you find it?”

  “Sandun and I found it inside an ancient city of the Junithoy.”

  “It is…a complicated thing,” Polkinombu said, his eyes unfocused. “It holds, defends, clarifies.”

  “Together we can go unseen. Sharing this, we can be stronger.”

  “Such sharing is not necessary in this locale; the True Master grants me more than enough power. But you speak of secrets that are known only by my order.” Polkinombu looked at him with a measure of respect. “Truly you have advanced far. The True Master will be pleased.”

  “We must leave tonight. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Now is the time.” Polkinombu nodded. “Meet me here at dusk.”

  “I shall, Polkinombu. I shall.”

  Kagne walked back to his bedroll, thinking hard. What was he going to take? Food? Water? His bow?

  And then the thought came to him, as though from outside: Why take anything?

  Why indeed?

  He was going to meet the True Master, whose power he had sensed as far away as Tokolas. Whoever the True Master was, he (or perhaps she) was unlike anyone else. People in Kelten often went on pilgrimages, and when they did, they usually took little more than a robe and a staff. Was he going on a pilgrimage this night? Was the less he carried, the better?

  No, he reasoned. Pilgrims didn’t travel through Sogand armies to reach their destination. Also, pilgrims know where they were going and what they would see when they reached their destination. Kagne was taking a leap into the unknown, and whether his foremost reason was to save his friend or because he wanted to learn the mysteries of the krasuth, he couldn’t say. First, he needed to reach Sandun. So: weapons, water, food. And one more thing.

  Kagne approached Basil’s sleeping spot. Basil’s dog looked at him and cocked his head to one side. Kagne smiled at the animal and scratched the dog behind his ear. Basil rolled over and looked at him, his face haggard, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke in the city. “What?” Basil asked.

  Kagne sat down and leaned in close. “I need to borrow your Piksie knife.”

  “Why?” Basil looked suspicious, weary.

  “Promise me that you tell no one what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Promise, how?” Basil said with a flicker of hope in his eyes.

  “Swear it, by the Book of Saint Pellar.”

  Basil sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Very well. I swear to tell no one, by the Holy Book.”

  Kagne whispered, “I’m going with the krasuth to rescue Sandun. From the Kitran camp we will go…farther.” Kagne paused, but he needed to say more. “If I succeed, you may not see me…you may not see us for some time.”

  Basil made as if to say something dismissive; however, as he examined Kagne’s face, he plainly thought better of it. Basil shifted position to look at Kemeklos and the lands on either side. Kagne let him think.

  “I know something of what the krasuth can do with fog and wind. But your notion is impossible, suicidal,” Basil concluded. “The Kitran will have dogs, rings of guards around their camp. Could you sneak into the middle of this camp, on a moonless night, even with a dense fog?” He shrugged. “We don’t even know where Sandun is. You’d be discovered by patrols as soon as the sun was up. We tried to find him earlier today, but now we must accept that he is gone.”

  “It can be done. The krasuth thinks so. I think so. And I can guide the krasuth because I know where Sandun is.” Kagne’s voice deepened. “Basil, when Sandun and I went inside the mountain chasing Ghost Wolf, a bond was forged between us two.” Kagne closed his eyes and found Sandun again. He pointed, north to Kemeklos, beyond it. “He is there: ten, eleven miles north. I am the only one who can do this. But I need your knife.”

  Basil looked at Kagne thoughtfully. “I remember when I first met you outside the temple in Sirosfeld. You got down on your knees and swore an oath to serve Sandun.”

  Kagne smiled briefly. “I did. I remember it well.”

  “I’ve known you for more than a year, Kagne. I’d say I know you as well as I know my own brother. If I can’t trust you…all right, I believe you. I’ll go with you.”

  “For several reasons, you cannot,” Kagne told him gently. “The fewer men, the easier it will be to slip into the Kitran camp. And the krasuth and I have talked on several occasions, so there is a degree of trust between us that no other man here shares. Finally, there is a stage to this plan, following Sandun’s rescue, that is secret, hidden.” Kagne almost said the words: the krasuth wants me to meet the True Master and join his order. But he didn’t. That would raise too many questions, questions that he could not answer.

  “There is an important part of your plan that you won’t or can’t tell me?”

  Kagne nodded.

  Basil slowly pulled his shirt up and undid the soft leather belt that held the stone cutter to his waist, and then he handed it to Kagne.

  “Use it then, with my blessing. Bring Sandun out of the wolf’s den. Return it to me when you have succeeded.”

  “I will,” Kagne said gratefully. “You have my word. Remember, we may not be back for some weeks or even months. Don’t give up hope. Good-bye, Basil.”

  “Having sworn your oath, can I tell Sir Ako and the others about your plan, someday?”

  “Our absence will be noticed tomorrow, by noon perchance. No one knows where we are going. If you can prevent them from chasing us, I’d rest easier knowing that good men didn’t die trying to find us.”

  “Kagne, I…Sho’Ash be with you.”

  “Give my regards to the others.” Kagne shook Basil’s hand. “We will meet again, under different skies.”

  “That we will,” said Basil. “That we will.”

  Renieth was dead.

  It had been a horrible death, and Sandun knew a gross measure of the pain and agony that Renieth had suffered was due to his presence. Renieth’s torture had been inflicted, in part, to intimidate and terrify Sandun, chained tightly to a stake just yards away from where Renieth was tortured to death. If Sandun hadn’t been there, Renieth likely would have been executed cleanly when he refused to submit to Nilin.

  But no, Nilin had ordered Renieth tortured, and Sandun had been forced to watch and listen and smell the horror, the screams, the shouts, the cries, and finally the sobs. Oh, they had broken him; Renieth was raving at the end, begging for mercy, but it was all in vain. They murdered him, and Nilin, sitting in his chair under his canopy, had watched it all, gloating, salivating at the agony his torturer inflicted on Lord Vaina’s minister.

  Nilin Ulim was everything Sandun had expected: cruel, monstrous, savage, and terribly, brutally stupid. Renieth had information and knowledge that could be obtained by trade or by careful discourse. Further, Lord Vaina would have been willing to ransom Renieth for a goodly amount of money. Killing Renieth was pointless. He commanded no soldiers; his death didn’t immediately hurt the Red Crane Army of Kunhalvar. Instead, killing Renieth was a hideous, purposeless waste.

  But then, evil was like that. Destruction, death, pain, with no aim, just to terrify the weak and impress the bruta
l. Sandun thought a man like Nilin was somehow dead inside, and pain was the only means he had for staving off the black despair and formless hate that filled the man’s mind.

  Seeing him in person, Sandun could tell Nilin was a man and not a Kitran. Naturally, he had heard rumors that Nilin was half Kitran, and maybe that was true. To Sandun’s eyes, Nilin seemed much like the usurper king Oniktes, only less cunning. Nilin was tall; he walked with authority; he looked like a real leader…until you saw his face and the evil dripping out of his eyes.

  Further, torturing Renieth had been a waste of priceless time. How many messengers had come bearing news and been turned away while Nilin ordered another type of excruciating pain for Renieth? Five? Ten? Sandun had lost count. Sandun was certain the decimated Kitran cavalry needed reorganization. He also thought a real general would be making plans to attack Lord Vaina’s army. Lastly, Sandun suspected that, despite the confusion within the Radiant Prince’s council, Kemeklos was being evacuated. Yet Nilin, the supreme commander of the Kitran horde, sat in his chair, wasting hours as he supervised the torture and death of the junior minister. It was absurd, and yet it could be said that Renieth’s final day was spent performing one last service to Kunhalvar. Likely enough no one would ever learn that Renieth’s death agonies were, in part, holding back Nilin’s warriors from more important actions.

  Sandun wondered if he was strong enough to do the same.

  It was sunset now. After Renieth was dead, after Nilin had eaten, after he had gone into his tent and made his women cry out, Nilin walked over to Sandun and spoke.

  “Kelten, you see now that my power is unshaken. The city of the deluded rebels is mine. The head of their boy prophet will soon be brought here and placed next to his father’s skull and that of the old man who foolishly led them against the empire. Kemeklos belongs to me, and all the fertile lands around it will bow and acknowledge the First Empire once again.”

  Nilin picked up one of Renieth’s severed fingers and tossed it in front of Sandun.

  “You see how I treat my enemies. There is no hope for any of them. My forbears conquered this land, and these rebels, these wild dogs, will soon have their backs broken, their bellies opened, and they will drag their entrails across the scorched earth, howling in agony and fear, before I cut off their heads. That is the fate awaiting all the rebels of Serica!”

  Sandun finally spoke; his voice seemed shaky in his ears. “You have lived up to every evil tale we that we Keltens tell about Sogands. We came across the Tiralas seeking only knowledge and trade, and you tried to kill us.”

  “That is because you were in our way! In my way!” Nilin shouted. “This land is ours. The Great Eagle promised this land to Beeshe Tem, and Tolu Tem redeemed that promise when he conquered all—everything. This land is ours. The people: ours. The birds, the beasts, the gold—it all belongs to us, the Kitran, the sons of Beeshe Tem. It is ours to use as we please, in whatever way we please. Everyone who lives here must kneel before us or die, as your friend here learned after much suffering of pain for his defiance. That is what is in store for you as well. Serve or die!”

  Nilin had worked himself up into a near frenzy. Sandun didn’t know who Nilin was speaking to any more. The world? The ghosts of the dead? Nilin pulled a wineskin hanging from his chair and squirted a long stream into his gaping mouth. He returned to stand before Sandun, the vein no longer throbbing across his forehead.

  “My chief advisor believes you could be useful to us. He says you are called the Fire Sword and that to have you on our side would inspire the weak-minded Serice. It seems like nonsense to me; you don’t look impressive. I’ve also examined your sword. A pretty toy, but there is no fire in it. However, as you are a Kelten and not a rebel against the First Empire, I give you this chance: work for me, and I will spare your life.”

  Sandun already knew he could not agree, but he asked the question anyway: “What would I have to do?”

  “Help me reconquer Serica, of course,” Nilin replied. “You will lead the mercenary army, which will act as the base for my death-dealing cavalry. You will be well rewarded: riches and women enough to satisfy your needs. The river rat that turned back my army has become stronger than any expected. The full might of the First Empire must be summoned…it will be summoned! The Great Host will lay waste to northern Kunhalvar and kill or enslave the people. Every town, every village north of the Mur will be burned. All who do not submit must be driven south to drown in the river. Terror and fear will force the Serice to stop their useless resistance. Then we will build boats and cross the Mur like a wave of black. Tokolas will burn as heaven’s torch, and all will look upon our wrath and bow to us!”

  Again, Sandun noticed that Nilin had stopped talking to him and was instead ranting, giving voice to the pure evil of Naktam that had taken over his soul.

  “Well?” Nilin looked down on him with an imperious glare. “What say you? Serve me, and you will prosper.”

  “No.”

  “No? No? No!” Within seconds, Nilin was spitting mad, a transformation bizarre and disturbing to see in an adult. The behavior was like that of an infant. “So be it! Tomorrow you die. Your death will be long and agonizing. Your lifeless head will go before us on a spike as we ravage the lands south of here. Think on the agonies you are shortly to experience. It will be worse than what your friend suffered—much worse!”

  At a command, Sandun was gagged and somewhat carelessly blindfolded; he could still see out of one eye. The guard who gagged him punched Sandun in the face several times, just for spite, causing Sandun to grunt in pain.

  In previous years, Sandun had imagined that final notice of his impending death would be demoralizing—terrifying. But now he found it was not so. An anger raged inside him, barely held in check by his mind as much as the chains on his body. He felt stronger and angrier as time passed.

  As the night fell, a presence in his mind became glaringly obvious; it was like a small sun. He could feel it, feel its warmth. Every time he looked up at the pole star, he expected to see the presence, whatever it was, glowing, shining with power. Sandun didn’t know what the presence was, but it was aware, conscious, watching. Somehow its power was related to his sword, related to the gold circle, perhaps related to Ghost Wolf.

  Questions about the bright presence nagged at him, but what burned uppermost in his mind was vengeance. All he wanted now was a chance, a moment of freedom, and he would strike down Nilin Ulim. Nothing else mattered. Nilin was the center of a monstrous wheel of destruction. He was a terrible evil, the ultimate willing servant of Naktam. Sandun was positive the Kitran army would fall apart with Nilin dead. Sho’Ash grant that he would be able to strike the blow that would end him and so hasten the day of final reckoning.

  The aches and pains from being shackled meant little to him. His mouth was parched, and he could hardly breathe through his nose due to all the dust. Yet all this was like a pinprick to Sandun, mere sand in his shoes. His pain was like a few twigs added to the bonfire of rage that burned inside of him. Sandun worked through his killing of Nilin obsessively, step by step, moment by moment, over and over again. A second of freedom was all it would take. He gave hardly a thought to what would happen to him afterward. He was in the middle of a camp of Sogand warriors; there would be no afterward. That didn’t matter. His life was nearly over. The only question was: Would he get his revenge before the end?

  He was confident he would get that chance. He didn’t know why, but his certainty grew as the hours passed. He felt stronger and more vigorous as he flexed his muscles and strained against his chains. The bright presence came closer in the night. He felt it; he fed off it somehow. He knew where it was located: on a low hill, just northeast of the camp. He could see nothing with his one eye through the blindfold, but he could see the presence in his mind. Sheets of strange colors washed over it, slowly changing. It was different from Ghost Wolf; the colors shifted ponderously and g
littered like diamonds.

  In his mind’s eye, he could also see his sword inside Nilin’s tent, hanging in the air, maybe off one of the inner tent poles. Even with his eyes closed, Skathris glowed so brightly that he was surprised every time he craned his head and looked. Nilin’s tent was dark, and the two guards in front of it were barely to be seen in the starlight.

  Long after midnight, he felt a third presence in his mind, faint at first but growing. It was like the presence on the hill, but much weaker. Then he recognized it: Kagne. Kagne was coming to free him. He would get his chance to kill Nilin!

  Filled with rage and hated, Sandun didn’t consider the danger Kagne was facing or the risk he would face if Sandun did kill Nilin. Though he didn’t know it, Sandun was broken, driven into a form of madness by helplessness, fear, anger, and grief. A different Sandun would have tried to warn Kagne away. A different Sandun would have seen Kagne’s coming as a heroic rescue effort and not simply thought of him as a bit player in his suicidal drama of bloodletting. But that part of Sandun was long gone.

  Instead, Sandun added additional details to his planned killing spree. He would be moving so fast no one would have a chance to stop him. He urged Kagne on, willing him to move faster. As he did, he discovered another entity with Kagne: a veiled, hidden power. It was alive, a person…but who? Sandun studied this other entity in his mind. At first, Sandun thought it must be Basil, but he soon gave up on that idea. It was the hidden quality of the other person that made it obvious after a while. The krasuth. Only someone trained in the use of the secret power could both have it and also conceal it. Suddenly it all came into place. Kagne and the krasuth were traveling together, cloaked by fog, invisible in the night, coming to find him.

  I am here! Sandun wanted to shout out loud. I am ready! He was ready for his last seconds of freedom. He was ready for his final act.

  A hundred thoughts came up in those last hours as Kagne and the krasuth moved ever closer. His rage was like a pot of boiling tea, black and bitter. Memories surfaced like bubbles only to turn into steam and vanish, unconsidered, unconnected: Ashala, Sir Ako, Basil, Lord Vaina, Valo Peli, Miri, Gloval, Gushi, Gipu, Tebispoli, King Pandion, Master Eulogo, Seopolis, Sister, Hepedion, Mother, Sun Street, Father.