His mood was broken when he passed the small hill west of the hut, on his way to the well. Its clarity of proportions made Kenlahar think that it was man- made. In his fever the Hermit had often spoken of the barrow, warning him with scowls to stay away from it.
Warding off any questions by making signs in the air with both hands, he would say only, “Evil!” Kenlahar gathered that the Hermit had once tried to dig up the grave and that something had happened. Kenlahar could not discern what, only that it had left the Hermit in great fear of the barrow. His curiosity about the mound of earth had been checked. Yet, through the long days he took care of the dying man, Kenlahar had taken to spending more and more of his time on the knoll, though he was repelled by it as well.
That afternoon, he took out the Star Axe, which he had left in his traveling pack once he had reached Swamp’s End. It was one of his rare moments of peace, for he was torn between the urgency to leave, and his duty to the Hermit. He had been brooding all week and it was a rarity for him to walk the crest of the hill without a thought. But today, holding the Star Axe in his hands, he felt his spirit being cleansed by the wind, his body feeling as vibrant as the quaking aspen that grew on the mound. The blade was clean, with a bright silver color. Kenlahar searched for signs of rust, then for even a scratch on the smooth blade. It was indented on both sides, curving in a crescent, with room for a narrow haft.
He realized with a start after carrying it so long, that it still didn’t seem to weigh anything. It appeared to be sharp, yet when he scraped the blade against his fingernail it did not flake the nail. Curious, he returned to the side of the shack, where the Hermit kept a grindstone. He set the blade of the axe toward the grindstone and began to pedal it into action. Sparks flew off into the snow. After a few minutes he tried the blade; it again seemed dull. As an experiment, he threw it at the nearest tree. It glanced off the tree and sheared the bark cleanly. Kenlahar picked it up and pressed it against the bare wood. Without leverage, it sank half an inch into the wood. It would cut anything but his own flesh!
Now he had the time he had wished for, so he cut the strongest fibered wood he could find and shaped a handle for the blade. A small tree at the crest of the knoll provided him with a short, thick stock. Warming the wood over a fire, bringing out the reddish sap, he formed a handle. The hardened pitch was resilient and captured his grip. When he was finished, he felt and looked at his handiwork with satisfaction. It was not as fancy as some he had seen, but it was strong and light. When he had finished attaching it, the weapon handled as balanced and light as a child’s wooden sword, but with deadly effect. Slightly ashamed at his fascination with the talisman he never intended to use, Kenlahar angled it back into his travel pack and tried to forget it.
He was chopping wood with a normal axe when the rider appeared. He stood waiting as a creature that he had never before seen, but which had played such strong roles in the books, appeared on the road. Horses did not exist on the island or in the Tream, and until now the visitors to the Hermit’s shack had been the poorest of the Queen’s subjects.
The rider was an even stranger sight than the steed. Kenlahar had never seen such a wild display of color. The cloak was rich blue and lined with fur. The pants and tunic were a matched soft red, and yellow boots rose to his knees. The wearer of these colorful clothes was a young man whose face seemed soft and plump, in contrast to the coarse, lined faces of the peasants.
Kenlahar was shocked out of staring when he saw the look in the stranger’s eyes. He recognized the look. Though that look had been reserved for him alone at the House of Lahar, Kenlahar realized that this boy probably looked on all peasants with contempt.
The stranger began to draw out his sword and Kenlahar hastily bowed his head low. When he looked up again, the noble had already dismissed him. “They said that there is an old hermit who lives here,” the young man said arrogantly. “I wish to speak with him.” Kenlahar suddenly felt an urge to upset this complacent young man. “He is ill, my lord.”
The stranger drew back and looked nervously at the shack, “111?”
Kenlahar disguised a smile, but decided not to play with this dangerous young man. “It is age, my lord. Nothing more.”
“Ah,” the noble said, looking relieved. He glanced at Kenlahar and said, “I am going to stay here for a few days and I wish to be as comfortable as possible. If I am satisfied,” he tossed a gold piece, “you’ll get more. Now stable the horse. I’ll want him in good condition when I leave.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kenlahar started to lead the horse away.
“Wait!” The stranger looked at him sharply. “You speak differently. Where are you from?”
Kenlahar’s distrust of this young man urged him not to let himself appear to be anything other than a peasant. “I’m sorry, my lord. I have always talked this way. Since I was a child. I injured my mouth…” he shrugged.
“I see. You peasants can never care for yourselves.” “Yes, my lord.” Kenlahar disliked himself for the ease with which he fell into the role of servant. That night he fed the noble the last of the fresh vegetables and a side of ham he had been saving in the event that the Hermit recovered enough to eat it.
The Hermit was sleeping most of the time now, and he only once awoke to inquire about the visitor. When he had been told, the Hermit merely shrugged and went back to sleep, muttering that there was little the Queen and all her nobles could do to him now.
The young noble, who had not bothered to tell them who he was, ignored both him and Kenlahar, who retreated to the stable for the night. He awoke after a terrifying dream that he could not remember and pulled the Star Axe from his pack. He placed it in the straw near his head and fell into a deep sleep.
The old Hermit woke in the middle of the night, lucid and clear-headed. A few feet away, in the crude bed Kenlahar usually occupied, the Prince of Kernback slept fitfully. The Hermit wished more bad dreams on the Prince. The hate he felt for the Prince of Kernback was unusual for the gentle herbalist. He had planned all his life to replace the Prince with the Son of Lahar. The old man knew he was dying. He had had a long life, many times the span of most men. In his youth he had traveled from the very stars, and had attended Lahar himself.
He was sorry now that he had ever joined the others of the Raggorak in the overthrow of Lahar. His life since then had been spent trying to right that wrong, and atone for the deed. Slowly, over many hundreds of years, he had convinced the others of the Raggorak, subtly and stealthily, of the need for a return of Lahar or one of his descendants. Then the extraordinary birth of Kenlahar had occurred. The event still mystified the Hermit. Could the stranger really have been Lahar himself, as the Healer Corn maintained? There was no denying Kenlahar’s possession of Alcress!
Now his role in the restoration of the family was fulfilled. He could not help the Axe-bearer any longer. The Hermit could extend his life unnaturally, but unlike the others of the Raggorak he had grown tired of living. He slipped his hand through the layer of blankets. There, at the bottom, he found the pitted meteorite. For an hour he debated calling together the Raggorak. When he had been under the influence of the poisonous herb, he had seen the future—and he was content. He could not call forth his brethren of the Raggorak to warn them of their fall. He replaced the meteorite under the layers of blankets, and went back to sleep.
The next morning the stranger had gone from the hut. Kenlahar hoped for a little while that the man had left the Borderland, but the noble appeared that evening in time to demand a dinner. Kenlahar learned to his horror that the stranger had been digging into the barrow. The one good aspect of the Hermit’s illness was that the old man did not learn of the sacrilege.
Over the next few days the Hermit’s condition seemed to take a sudden turn for the worse. Kenlahar was kept busy tending to his needs and those of the Border Folk, who began to show up in greater numbers as the fame of his healing powers, and news of the old Hermit’s illness, spread through the Borderland. He was surp
rised at the reverence in which these farmers and laborers held the Hermit. In all the previous month, this respect had not shown itself; only when it became apparent that the Hermit was dying did the people make their feelings known.
Even more surprising to Kenlahar was the way this respect was beginning to be shown to him as well. One night, as the mourners watched, the Hermit woke from his delirium long enough to make a sign of benediction over Kenlahar’s head. After that the Border Folk began to look on him in awe.
Early one morning, the Hermit died in his sleep. Kenlahar had somehow hoped that the old man would survive the illness—there had seemed something enduringly ancient about him.
The stranger had left the hut before light; either not noticing or not caring that the Hermit had died in the same room where he had slept. Sadly, Kenlahar told the peasants as they arrived. The news seemed to spread quickly. By noon the hilltop was overflowing with mourners. Again the number of people who lived in the Borderland surprised Kenlahar; there were many more than he had imagined. The peasants removed the body from the dwelling and with quiet dignity carried it to the hill, a narrow path in the crowd opening before them. Curious, Kenlahar followed the delegation. There was little to see, until the body was in the ground. Then the skies were filled with the wails of a thousand women, and children threw themselves on the soft, loose earth. Even the men seemed overwhelmed, some tearing the hair from their heads.
Then suddenly there was silence. Kenlahar started when he realized that all eyes had turned to him. One decrepit old peasant slowly approached him. “You are our Herbalist, now,” the man said, as if he was bestowing a title upon him.. Without asking for any acceptance, the people began to quit the hillside, leaving Swamp’s End as Kenlahar had first seen it—empty and deserted.
The imperious stranger showed up at twilight again, and merely shrugged at the news of the Hermit’s death. Kenlahar made preparations in secret to leave Swamp’s End. There was nothing to keep him there; no duty to any but the people of the Borderland, The same kind of duty had not kept him at the House of Lahar nor, after that, the village of the People of the Cormat. His search for the secret of the Star Axe had precedence over all other callings. Besides, he told himself, he had not asked for the responsibilities that people seemed to want to give up to him.
He was awake the next morning when the noble left to dig up the barrow. Kenlahar’s fear of the barrow had worn off, as if a hex had been removed. He decided to follow the stranger and watch the excavation. While the stranger jealously reserved the right to dig in the sizeable hole he had already created, Kenlahar walked idly around the barrow.
Overnight the barrow seemed to have grown in its sense of evil, yet Kenlahar no longer felt constrained from searching its secrets. He kicked at the dirt at the base of the mound; something metallic flashed in the cloud of dust. The earth seemed to peel away for him, the top layer of grass revealing beneath it dry roots and a chalky soil that made him shiver when he rubbed it between his fingers. Without thinking, he reached for the shiny object, and fell to his knees with a cry, flinging the offending object from his hand. The young grave- robber quickly emerged from the barrow’s wound and irritably strode to where Kenlahar knelt stunned.
“What is it?” he asked. Kenlahar just pointed to the rusted blade of a dagger, which gleamed red in the dust. With a sudden look of joy, the stranger sprang toward the blade—but at the last second hesitated. He gingerly touched the blade and then, encouraged, picked it up. He examined it, apparently finding marks in the metal. Triumphantly, he held it up to the sunlight and addressed the heavens, “I have found it! My long search has ended!” Suddenly, he seemed to notice Kenlahar watching him. Suspiciously, he asked, “What is your name?”
Kenlahar felt he should quickly allay the noble’s fears. “My name is Kenlahar, my lord,” he said as humbly as he could. “I am happy that you have found what you wanted.”
“Know then, Kenlahar, that you are addressing Prince Molnar, heir to the throne of Kernback! And this,” he said, holding up the dagger, “is Toraq’s Dirk—and Toraq’s Bane! It is a most powerful weapon, to be defeated only by the Star Axe—which is forever lost in the mire of the Tream.” Kenlahar was astonished by the identification of the blade. Toraq’s Dirk, a curved dagger, had absorbed much of the Sorcerer King’s power on the day it had turned against its master, and had become Toraq’s Bane. Supposedly guarded by one of the Raggorak, the Sorcerer King was unable to acquire his most powerful weapon, even if he had known where it lay. Yet legend had it that the evil of Toraq’s Bane still attracted evil to it.
Kenlahar bowed low, excited by the information he had just been given, but not for any reason that the Prince might have thought. If this man was indeed the Prince of Kernback then he was the person that Kenlahar had traveled to see. Surely a Prince would be able to supply the help that the House of Lahar needed, and surely he could help Kenlahar find Balor and the Companions! But again caution told him not to reveal anything yet. The Prince of Kernback’s next words could not have been more welcome. “I command you to accompany me to Kernback. You shall be my servant.”
When the two men began their ‘journey the next morning, the Prince riding his stallion and Kenlahar walking behind him, the Border Folk lined the dusty road. None tried to stop him, though their unhappiness at his departure was obvious. Guiltily, Kenlahar bowed his head and trudged on. The people misread his attitude as weariness, and soon a skinny nag was produced, apparently from someone’s farm. Its young owner pressed the reins into Kenlahar’s hands. Seeing that he could not refuse the gift, Kenlahar reluctantly accepted. There seemed to be even more inhabitants of the Borderland than he had ever dreamed, and all had turned out to silently see him off. Finally, the two travelers left the lowlands, leaving the eerie watchers behind, and began to climb toward the mountains.
The setting up of the first night’s camp set the procedure for the rest of the journey. The two men half fell from their mounts, staggered to level ground and collapsed on their sleeping blankets. Kenlahar, however, was soon ordered to rise again and start a fire. On the fourth night of this routine, something happened which changed the nature of their relationship. On this night, Kenlahar could not find enough loose dry wood. He removed the Star Axe from his knapsack and soon had cut a large pile. He gathered the wood and turned toward the camp.
Prince Molnar stepped from behind a tree into his path. “Give it to me!” he said, and reached for the axe with an assurance that the command would be followed without resistance; never in his life had he been disobeyed, and such was the confidence in his voice that Kenlahar almost responded to it without thinking. It was the look of greed and triumph in Molnar’s face that alerted him.
“No!” he cried, and sprang backward, raising the Star Axe in readiness for a fight. For a few seconds, Prince Molnar did not change his expression. Then his face contorted in a succession of emotions—disbelief, followed by growing anger and fury. Kenlahar had seen Molnar practice with his sword, wielding it with blinding speed; now he prepared for a short struggle he was certain to lose—unless Alcress could somehow save him. But the axe had shown little inclination to do anything since that first blinding flash. He was beginning to doubt his inheritance, and he did not think he could depend on its mythical powers. He prepared himself for death.
Warily, Kenlahar watched the fury slowly recede from the Prince’s face; his freckled cheeks were regaining their usual pallor. Molnar’s mouth slowly quirked into a smile, but the eyes remained cold and angry. His shoulders lifted in a short shrug. “It does not matter,” the Prince said in a mocking tone. “I was merely curious.”
Kenlahar was taken aback by the retreat. If he did not have faith in the Star Axe it appeared that Molnar did—even if he could not yet be certain that it was the ancient weapon. But never again would Molnar believe Kenlahar’s servile demeanor. What had perhaps been only casual curiosity would now turn into an inquisition. “Forgive me, sire!” he said, though neither was fo
oled. “It is a worthless tool, yet it means much to me. It is all I have of home.”
“It is not important, I said,” Molnar answered, and turned his back and bounded up the trail.
That night as he fell asleep, Kenlahar could see Molnar’s eyes gleam at him speculatively in the light of the campfire. He pulled his blankets closer around him and resolved to keep the Star Axe out of view for the rest of the trip. His dreams were peaceful, until suddenly he saw a face in his dreams that he knew instinctively was that of the Sorcerer King. He struck the evil face with the Star Axe, and the weapon melted in his hands. He woke, drenched with sweat. The tingling sensation of intense pain remained. Molnar sat, as if struck, on the ground between the two beds.
The Prince recovered first. “You were having a nightmare,” he said. “I tried to wake you and…a flame… leaped at me from the axe!”
Kenlahar thought he detected a mixed note of fear and loathing in Molnar’s voice. The Prince was making no effort to rise and Kenlahar was sure that he could see the red gleam of Toraq’s Bane half hidden beneath Molnar’s legs. “I am fine now,” he said, as if he suspected nothing. “I am sorry for what the…ah, axe …might have done, for it was without my conscious will.” He purposely turned from Molnar and looked at the sky. As he expected Molnar quickly got up. Kenlahar thought he heard the sound of a knife going back into its sheath.
“Let us go back to sleep,” Molnar said, behind him.
Kenlahar agreed and soon both were settled back in their bedrolls, as if nothing had happened. But Kenlahar was unable to sleep, and hours later rose and, with a firebrand, bent over the area where the Prince had fallen. To end all his doubts, the imprint of the curved blade of Toraq’s Bane was clear in the dust. It was only with his hand on Alcress, which he no longer bothered to hide, that Kenlahar was finally able to sleep.
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