Jay D. Blakeny The Sword, the Ring, and the Chalice 01 The Sword

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Alexeika reached down and pulled Severgard from her father s hand. The great
sword had been handed down through seven generations of her family. Long and
heavy, it had been forged by a dwarf swordmaker who used magicked metal mined
in the
Mountains of the Gods. The blade was made of black steel, and runes were
carved along it. The hilt and guard were wrapped in gold and silver wire, and
a great flashing sapphire was set in the pommel. She struggled to lift it.
Gore was drying on the blade, and its stench was rank and tainted. She
wrinkled her nose in revulsion. Nonkind had died today on this blade. She
wiped it clean, knowing it would have to be scrubbed with both salt and sand
and oiled later.
Tugging off her father s belt, she choked back a fresh sob, but she slid
into its scabbard and knotted the ends of the belt together before slinging it
across her shoulder.
By now Uzfan had finished with the salt. He poured the last of it on Prince
Volvn s tongue.
Is it enough? Alexeika asked.
The looters were close enough to see them. In their sinister black cloaks,
they yelled and cursed. She could smell their evil, a stink as foul as that
which had been on . It made her want to run.
Is there enough time for his soul to leave? she asked.
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Uzfan shook his head sorrowfully. Nay, child. His presence is too strong. It
does not want to accept failure.
She felt sick to her stomach, but she was her father s daughter. She knew what
had to be done.
Child, shall I
No, she said firmly, swallowing hard. She drew her father s dagger and held
it aloft.
This was a son s duty to a father who fell in battle. She told herself to be
strong.
Uzfan did not argue with her. He pulled off Prince Volvn s helmet and the mail
coif beneath it. The hot, dusty wind ruffled the dead man s gray hair. Uzfan
tipped back his head, exposing her father s muscular throat.
She crouched, her fingers holding the dagger so tightly her whole hand shook.
Tears filled her eyes anew, stinging them. Forgive me, she whispered, and
plunged the
dagger through his throat.
Something pale and gossamer-light floated upward from his body. It encompassed
her for a second, bringing with it a sensation of warmth and well-being. Then
it was gone, his soul, gone to the safety of the third world.
She wept, but there was no time. Shouting at her, Uzfan gripped her shoulder
and pulled her upright. She stumbled and started to run, then turned back and
grabbed the tattered banner.
Hurry! Uzfan shouted.
The riders were too close. She heard them whooping and yelling shrilly. All
around her darkness seemed to be descending. A bugling roar of something
unearthly made her glance back. She saw a darsteed coming after her, bounding
with a stride twice as long as a horse s. Its nostrils blew flame, and next to
it ran a hurlhound with fangs bared and dripping yellow poison. It bayed at
her, and her heart lurched in fear.
Uzfan shouted, and a great cloud of dust whirled up between them and the
riders.
The swirling cyclone caused the darsteeds and horses to rear to a halt. Two of
the hurlhounds came running on, straight into the cloud. They were swept off
their feet and flung high into the vortex.
Alexeika saw the look of strain on the old priest s face and knew he could not
hold the spell long. Gripping his arm, she ran with him, pushing him when his
old legs faltered. At the far edge of the field, Shelena waited on her pony,
holding the reins of
Alexeika s frightened mount. Larisa and the boys were already fleeing, the
boys beating the heavily laden donkey with sticks to make it run.
Uzfan stumbled and fell, despite her efforts to catch him. She crouched low
and pulled him upright.
Dirt streaked his face and coated his beard. He was gasping for air, his face
purple with exertion. Behind her came a triumphant cheer as the cloud
dissipated and the looters surged through.
Most of them fell on the bodies with a savagery that sick-
ened Alexeika. The hurlhounds tasted salt and fell back with yelps of pain.
Come on, she muttered to Uzfan, pushing him forward.
She thought the looting might distract the horde enough to allow her and the
old man to escape. But the sound of pursuit came again.
Uzfan looked back and murmured something that made her ears ring. A column of
fire blazed up behind them, cutting off the pursuers a second time.
The smell of magic filled the air, making Alexeika cough. She urged him on,
hoping he did not kill himself with such exertion.
Hurry! Shelena called. Her pony was rearing with fear. She barely managed to
control it.
When it whirled around beneath her, she flung the reins of Alexeika s pony at
her and galloped away. Alexeika lunged forward and caught the reins just in
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time to keep her own mount from bolting as well.
Talking to the frightened animal, trying to soothe it while it reared and
pulled back, she got Uzfan astride it and jumped on herself. Wheeling the pony
around, she let it run.
An arrow grazed her shoulder blade, stinging harshly though giving her no
serious harm. She glanced back, but the looters did not follow her away from
the battlefield. The man swathed in black who had shot at her lowered his bow
and gave her a mocking salute, then turned his darsteed around and headed back
to the carnage.
The pony ran and ran, over the hill and up the next, until the woods swallowed
them and they slowed to a jouncing, weary trot through the cool shade.
I don t believe it, Uzfan muttered in his beard. We got away. We got away.
Do they not know what they let escape? There must have been no Believers
controlling them.
They let us get away.
No, Alexeika said firmly. You frightened them with your magic. Are you
feeling better now? Should I find a stream so you may drink?
No, he said, his voice sounding weak and shaky. Do not stop. We dare not
stop.
By the time they reached camp on the banks of the fjord, it was late
afternoon.
Alexeika could hear the women keening, the sound rising and falling like a
brutal wind.
She bowed her head, struggling with her own emotions, but she refused to wail
and tear her clothing and mourn in the way of female serfs.
The camp was a large one, although it did not contain all the families of the
men and boys who had died today. Many had come to join the war, leaving their
homes to fight the darkness. But now, those who remained the old men, the
women, the children sobbed and grieved in their tents or else stood as though
turned to stone in the midst of some task, their faces ravaged with sorrow.
A few gathered around as Alexeika drew her weary pony to a halt. They stared
at her in silence, watching as she carried her father s sword into her tent.
Draysinko, a man no older than thirty but spared from fighting because of his
crippled leg, was waiting when she came finally outside again. She had washed
her face and eaten the few bites of food she could choke down. Severgard, now
clean and oiled, lay in its scabbard atop her father s cot. Tonight, she would
light the Element candles and pray for him the same way he had taught her to
mourn her mother, in dignified privacy. Not for her the grieving of the serfs, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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