She fell back by the cart. “Kozmer?”
“Hmm?” He sounded groggy.
“I know you’re not asleep in there. I can feel your sowen. It’s a bundle of auras, all vibrating. You’re meditating on something or other.”
“Maybe I’m meditating in my sleep.”
“You’ve been coy for three days now. I want some answers.”
“And you think I’ve got them?”
“You know more than I do, and that’s a start.”
Kozmer sat up and took in their surroundings, blinking even though the light was dim. They were passing through a forested stretch, along a road through the hill country. The occasional ruin of a house or barn appeared gloomily among the trees, speaking to a different past. Brigands infested the hill country these days, and lone travelers were scarce as a result. Narina had led them up here, deciding that fighting a few lawless sorts would be better than involving herself further in the crowlord wars. So far, however, they’d been left alone. All the better.
“Right now I’m wondering about this battle-axe we’re carrying,” Kozmer said. “How did Zoltan get his hands on such a weapon?”
“I presume the warbrands sold it to him, like we’re selling weapons to Balint. That’s their right.” She shrugged. “Better a battle-axe than one of their falchions.”
“This axe is a superior weapon, all the same. Hundreds of hours of work, imbued with lethal auras. Zoltan came very near to landing a serious blow when you were fighting him.”
“He wasn’t going to kill me. Not with that weapon, nor with anything else ever constructed.”
“No, but imagine such a weapon in the hands of a sohn. How would you have fared? For that matter, how can you be sure that its intent wasn’t to kill sohns? That it wasn’t placed into Zoltan’s hands in the hopes that it would separate your head from your shoulders?”
“So you’re proclaiming a war between the temples, based on a single well-made battle-axe?” Narina asked.
Kozmer took his staff and worked his way down from the back of the rolling cart. He came up alongside Narina, slowly gaining on her as she continued. Up front, Gyorgy tossed a stick to the dog, who bounded ahead with his long, skinny spine bending and unspringing like a bow as he raced to fetch it.
“How old are you?” the sohn elder asked.
“You know the answer to that. Twenty-seven.”
“Ever had a partner, thought about getting married?”
She gave him a sideways look. “You know I haven’t. It’s not the time for that.”
“When is the time?”
“I was waiting to be a master sohn—you know how distractions would have affected my mastery. Anyway, I hadn’t given it much thought. Mostly it’s the fraters who get married and keep families, not the sohns.”
“But some of us do. Your father, for one.”
“But you never thought to get married.”
“Actually, I did, Narina. Did more than think about it, in fact. I had a wife and a daughter. They were from the outside, so I maintained them in Hooffent. They could have lived up near the grazing pastures, which is closer, but the babe was an infant, and winter was coming on.”
“Weather is harsh up there,” Narina said with a nod. “It’s no place for a child.”
She waited for him to continue. Something about his tone, and the way he mentioned an infant—but no childhood—warned of a bad ending to his story.
“I had a dream one night. I was standing at the edge of a frozen lake high in the mountains. A cold wind was blowing, but it didn’t bother me. The ice cracked across the lake, and a demigod burst through the surface, roaring and shaking water from its wings. The water formed crystals as it froze and fell to earth.
“Each feather of the dragon looked like a long, slender diamond gleaming in the winter light. When the dragon opened its mouth, its teeth looked like icicles. It flew toward the plains, and when I looked into the sky, I saw the volcanoes on the edge of the range erupting fire.”
Narina was alert now. Dreams of dragons and demigods were not to be taken lightly. Her father had told her once of a dream of demons that had led him on an eleven-month quest through the mountains and across the Narrow Sea to the land of the wizard monks.
“I shared the dream with your great aunt—on your mother’s side. Your Aunt Martuska was a master sohn, and we’d studied together as youths. We were friends of a sort. . .and rivals. I thought she’d laugh at the dream, or give it a joking interpretation that made me sound a fool. Instead, Martuska fell silent. Her face turned gray.” Kozmer waved his staff at Gyorgy, who’d caught something of what the old man was saying and had let his pace falter to come near and eavesdrop. “Keep playing with that scroungy beast. Maybe if you wear him out, he’ll stop trying to run off with my walking staff.”
“I’ve been throwing this stick for an hour. He never wears out.”
“Let Gyorgy listen,” Narina said. “Wherever you’re going with this, I have a feeling it’s going to affect us all.”
“Aye, that it will.” Kozmer nodded. “All right, then. Let the boy listen.”
“Go on,” she urged.
“Martuska had had her own dream. In it, she was swimming in a lake of molten rock, deep in the caldera of a volcano. The fire didn’t burn her. Demons swam from the depths, cackling and screaming. The creatures followed a river of lava out of the volcano, and Martuska saw them swimming toward the highest peaks of the mountain range. A vast storm was brewing over the snow-covered heights.”
This sounded a lot like her father’s dream. What had he told her? That he’d crossed the Narrow Sea to visit the wizard monks. He’d departed intending. . .something. Her father had been vague on that part, only saying that when he returned, his energy had been spent, and he’d returned to the temple and abandoned his quest.
Kozmer continued. “A few days after my dream, a frater reported a firewalker sohn passing below the temple on the post road. The firewalker descended into the plains and was soon fighting alongside a certain crowlord. I spoke to Martuska, and we both came to the same conclusion—something must be done.”
“I see. So that’s when you left the temple. Both of you, right?”
“What choice did we have?” Kozmer asked. “We had been called. One of us—maybe both—would die in the end.”
Gyorgy had been listening to this with a puzzled expression, and now it seemed he could no longer hold his tongue. “I don’t understand. Were the sword temples fighting? Was there a war between the demons and the demigods?”
“There’s always a war,” Narina explained. “But both sides are constrained. Mostly. The demons stay within their flame and molten rock. The demigods chill the earth and sky from their icy lakes. Ice and fire—they keep the world in balance.”
“Like the crowlords,” Kozmer said. “When one rises, the others pull him down again.”
“The temples are in balance, too,” she told her pupil, who still looked confused. “Until the time comes when either the demons break from their fire, or the demigods awaken, or both. Then there is a great conflict, chaos across the land.”
Kozmer twisted his hands around his staff. “The auras shift. That changes the sowen. Makes us more powerful. Perhaps. Or simply more chaotic. I’m not sure how it happens, or why, but we become like crowlords.”
“Meaning we fight for dominance,” Narina said. “Until there is one remaining.”
Gyorgy’s eyes widened. “Oh, the sword saint.”
“Yes,” Kozmer said. “The one who has killed his rivals and taken all their power for himself.” He cast a glance at Narina. “Or herself, as the case may be.”
“But that must have been decades ago,” Narina protested. “Nothing happened.”
“Something most definitely happened, my friend. First, Martuska headed west on the post road, according to her dream. I traveled east, following the flight of the dragon demigod in my dream. When I came into the plains, there was a war. I chose a crowlord and sto
od by his side, opposite my rival from the firewalkers. Others came, too. Several sohns died over the next year. There was an attack on the warbrand temple. Crowlords laid waste to each other’s lands—many of the ruined castles we’ve passed date from that time.”
Kozmer lifted up his shirt and showed an old scar that cut from his naval, up his belly, and to the base of his ribs. The scar had a rope-like appearance, improperly healed, which was rare to see on the body of a sohn, who could heal themselves. What’s more, the scar was darker than the surrounding skin, almost black.
“A firewalker?” Narina asked.
“Their blades cut deep. They leave a trail of fire. I was never the same fighter after.”
“And the other man? Your enemy, I mean?”
“Woman. She died by my hand.” There was no satisfaction in his tone. “And all for nothing. The wars ended soon after. All sides exhausted. There was no last standing crowlord, no sword saint. Instead, we all limped home, and there was peace, after a fashion.”
Why hadn’t she heard of this before? She didn’t know what surprised her more, that she’d never heard of these half-century-old wars, or that the three temples had made such a terrible mistake as to think that a sword saint would rise in the land, and let it drive them into open conflict.
“What caused it?” she asked. “Were they false dreams, nothing more?”
“They were real enough. Many of us had them and heard the call. There were other signs, too. Once, a dragon flew above the mountains and ice and hail fell from a clear sky. Fire demons reached the sea on a river of lava. Everything seemed about to fall apart. But then. . .? I don’t know. The dragons and demons went back to sleep. The compulsion that had drawn me died, and I only wanted to go home and never speak of it again.”
His face darkened, and his tone turned black. “When I returned from the war after three years of fighting, I passed through one devastated land after another. I never thought I would be personally affected—our own temple was nearly unscathed in the fighting. Then I heard that Martuska had fallen in battle against a warbrand. When I reached Hooffent, the village had burned. Not by fire demons, but at the hand of an army. The few survivors were shattered, unreliable witnesses.”
Kozmer swallowed hard, and his aged face took on a withered, corpse-like appearance that only passed when he gave a violent shake of the head. “I looked for my wife and daughter, but they were gone. I never knew if they’d died in the fire, if they’d been murdered and thrown into the river, if they’d been carried off and worked to death. Whether they’d died easily or suffered to the end.”
Narina put a hand on his shoulder. The bones were sharp against her hand. “I’m so sorry.” She waited a long moment to see if he would say anything else before she prodded. “And you think it’s different this time, that it’s real?”
“I don’t know if it’s different or not. This may simply be another period of pointless convulsion. Let’s hope so. What comes after may be even more terrible. But it doesn’t matter. If the temple sohns feel the compulsion, and if bloodlust takes the crowlords, one after another, there’s no avoiding it.”
Narina continued walking in silence. She hadn’t felt any compulsion. Nor had there been dreams. If Kozmer had shared this story a few weeks ago—or even if her father had, for that matter—she’d have dismissed it.
Yet something had pushed them into action. Even now, her sister would be crossing through the mountains, perhaps retracing the steps of their great aunt Martuska half a century ago. And of her father, who’d traveled to the land of the wizard monks, perhaps seeking a solution to the madness.
Maybe other sohns had felt the call, even if Narina hadn’t. What would happen if Katalinka and Abelard reached the other temples and found enemies ready to cut them down?
For that matter, what if there were already a rival here on the plains? Miklos had a sword from their temple—some sort of lesser falchion—and Zoltan himself had carried one of their battle-axes. Someone had given these two men the weapons. Did that mean a warbrand had been actively arming Zoltan and his champions? Maybe that was why her father had agreed to deliver such a bounty to Balint Stronghand, Zoltan’s rival. As a counterweight to the treachery of others.
Thinking of her father brought a final, more chilling piece of evidence to mind. One sohn was dead already, wasn’t he? Joskasef, master of the bladedancers, speared to death in a treacherous attack. Zoltan had done it.
But now Zoltan is dead, by your own hand. There won’t be any more trouble from that quarter.
In any case, she was now the master sohn of the Divine School of the Twinned Blades. And while she wasn’t yet convinced that a great war had begun, there was something to Kozmer’s story, that much was clear. It fell on her to lead the temple in whatever struggle was to come.
#
Narina expected to lead them across the Vestanovul River before encountering Lord Balint, but the northern crowlord’s army was on the southern banks when they approached, invading Zoltan’s land in great numbers. The small company was still several miles from the river when a pair of outriders found them. The riders shouted a challenge, then seemed to recognize who they were dealing with. They jerked back on the reins, turned abruptly, and galloped away at top speed.
“I bet they recognized Brutus,” Gyorgy said. “Can’t be many goats his size in the lowlands.”
“Most likely, there’s exactly one, and he’s it,” Narina said.
“It won’t be long now,” Kozmer said, his voice flat. “Are you still planning to hand over the weapons and run back to the mountains?”
Narina had given the matter a good deal of thought in the hour since they’d last spoken. “We’ll speak to Balint first. And there’s the matter of finding Andras and returning his dog. Maybe the crowlord can help us find him. But I have second thoughts about surrendering the weapons themselves.”
Kozmer raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “How do you mean?”
“Zoltan is dead—isn’t that why Balint Stronghand needed them in the first place? There’s no longer a need. Say we tell Stronghand we’re returning his coin, but keeping what we’ve made.”
Even Gyorgy looked skeptical at this, and Kozmer let out a long sigh. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?” the elder asked.
“Maybe so, but there’s no way to be sure without talking to him. At the least, I want to know his intentions.”
“With our weapons? To kill his enemies and seize their lands, I would imagine,” Kozmer said. “What else does a crowlord want?”
Five minutes after the initial encounter, a larger band of riders came down the road. There were at least twenty in all, armed with swords and spears, but cautious in their approach. Their leader, a thin man with sharp eyes, pulled ahead of the others as they came to a halt.
“Masters of the bladedancer temple,” he said in a strong voice, “I’ve been sent to escort you safely to Lord Balint Stronghand. Will you come gently and with peaceful intentions?”
Narina met the man’s gaze without glancing at her two companions. She gave a short nod. “Lead the way, Captain, and we will follow.”
-end-
THE STORY ISN’T OVER. . .
Book Two: Crowlord
Book Three: Shadow Walker
Book Four: Bladedancer
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Sword Saint Page 22