by Sam Ford
"Help me with him," Old Mother ordered, snapping Jazreal to attention.
The cousins had both worked extensively with their grandmother in the art of medicine, hoping one day to carry on her lineage and take her place. Holding the boy down, Lydia sliced the boy's pants from ankle to knee. The sight was only slightly better than the smell. As Lydia moved her hand away, some of his skin sloughed off with it. The leg was pallid and swollen, streaked with blue lines. His toes had started to turn black.
"Hold his head," Old Mother ordered Jazreal as the boy screamed. "Don't let him see. Give him something to bite on."
"Right."
Jazreal slid to the boy's neck, holding his face. His skin was hot to the touch. She sliced the hem of her dress off at the knee. With a devilish grin, she placed a hardtack biscuit between the folds for him to clamp down on. He faded fitfully between wake and sleep. Let’s see how you like it.
Old Mother turned to Red Hair. "We need water. Do you have Coanenepilli?"
"Uh..."
"They also call it Passi Flower?"
"I know it," the female guard exclaimed.
"Find some. Quickly!"
"Right!" He ran off along with his companion, not even realizing Old Mother had spoken in their own language.
"This doesn't look good," Lydia whispered.
"Rattler?" asked Jazreal.
"Or a Razorhead. He's going to lose the leg. They were too long in getting him here."
"Oh, the boy is most assuredly going to die. That is no longer your concern to worry about." Old Mother rose, shutting the door. "Come to me, my girls."
"Old Mother?" Lydia questioned.
"It is time, my sweet child."
"We're leaving," surmised Jazreal.
"No!" cried Lydia. "We're not abandoning you!"
"Yes, my child. This is where our paths diverge."
Lydia hugged her grandmother, squeezing her eyes tight against the tears. Jazreal hesitated only a moment before joining her, hugging tighter.
"I love you," Jazreal said, her voice scratchy with emotion.
"I love you too, Old Mother," Lydia cried.
"And I love you as well, my girls. My precious girls. I am so very proud of both of you."
"We'll head home, put together a war party of all the tribes and come back for you," Jazreal promised.
"No." Old Mother pushed her away, searching her face with her own clouded eyes. "No, Jazreal. The spirits whisper to me as of late. Dark things are stirring, things which concern you. This is where your journey begins, not ends."
"But--" Jazreal looked to her cousin in confusion, only to receive the same look in return. "What journey?"
"Have you both been practicing what I taught you? The language of the white men?"
"Yes," Lydia answered.
"No," Jazreal admitted.
"Your futures lie here--in this land. Come, listen well, children," Old Mother intoned. Jazreal started to sit on the floor before realizing that was perhaps not the best idea given their current circumstances. "It is time I told you the story of my grandfather. He was a gallant man, a stranger from a far-off land, with skin not much darker than this poor boy's here. How he came to live with our tribe I do not know. I was just a girl when he passed into the sky. But I remember he loved my grandmother very much."
"Wait, are you saying our forefather was a white man? Like these slavers? But that's not possible. Our people would never take in someone like him," Jazreal scoffed.
"Who do you think Lydia got her eyes from? And these freckles?" Old Mother booped Jazreal on the nose. She scrunched it, annoyed. "Regardless of what you may think, Jazreal, he was a good man. He taught our people many things--the language of his people, maps of the world, and the way of the sword and shield. He always said the knowledge he possessed came at a terrible price. I remember he would have a far-off look, staring east toward the mountains. I know now he was missing home. I would like to have seen his land in more than my dreams. Alas, the spirits had other uses for my eyes.
"My grandfather gave our people many gifts, but none more precious than this." Old Mother produced a rod of iron half as tall as a man, wrapped in linen and bound tightly. The cloth fell away to reveal a magnificent red sword the color of rust, ornately carved with scroll work and runes. It hurt Jazreal's eyes to stare directly at it.
"What is it?" asked Lydia in a hushed tone.
"For that matter, where was she keeping it?"
"This," Old Mother smiled her old, toothless grin, "is a Spirit Sword. While in the scabbard, it goes easily unnoticed by those it does not wish to be seen by. It is a weapon with powers beyond the reckoning of man. Red steel for a red people, a gift of salvation. It belonged to my grandfather, brought from across the sea. And now it is yours."
Old Mother placed the sword in Jazreal's hands. For all its size, it weighed practically nothing, little more than a hefty stick. Jazreal offered it to Lydia, who quickly shook her head. She had little use for weapons, no matter how dire their situation. Rewrapping the bundle in linen, Jazreal tied it to her back. Surprisingly, she almost forgot about it after a moment. It truly did not wish to be seen.
"My girls." Old Mother hugged them close, tears in her eyes. "Stay close to one another. Help each other."
"Yes." Jazreal sniffled, wiping her nose with her arm and pretended not to cry.
"We will." Lydia didn't even bother pretending.
"Lydia." Old Mother held her face and kissed her forehead. "You are Jazreal's strength and shield. Yours is the wisdom. Follow your head but listen to your heart. It will not steer you wrong. I presided over your birth and held you in my arms. I shall now repeat my first words to you. Beautiful Lydia, noble, kind and humble. The day you cast your sister aside, you shall be struck down.”
"Jazreal." Old Mother held her face and kissed her forehead. "You are Lydia's fire and sword. Yours is the passion. Trust in your friends but keep an eye on your enemies. True love will be yours--you have only to embrace it. I presided over your birth and held you in my arms. I shall now repeat my first words to you. Generous Jazreal, devoted, loyal and true. The day you cut your hair, you shall surely cease to be.”
"Now." Old Mother stepped back. "It is time for you to go."
"Old Mother..." Tears streamed down Lydia's face like rivers carving their pain through soft stone.
"Enough of that. Quickly now, before they come back. You know in your hearts the songs I've taught you. You carry the best of us with you. I will be with you every step of the way."
There was a knock at the door, followed quickly by a second one and a rattle of the latch. Red Hair was yelling. Jazreal could understand him well enough if she concentrated, but right now all she could focus on was Old Mother's smiling face. The old woman gave her a slight nod, hands folded, gesturing towards the window.
Jazreal took Lydia's hand firmly in her own and did not look back. She paused for the briefest of moments at the window. The shutters were open to the warm air. Below them rested a convenient bale of hay. Jazreal looked at Lydia and they gave each other the reassuring smile which can only be born of fear.
Squeezing one another's hand, they jumped.
Chapter IX
Secrets and Swords
The light woke Cale from his slumber. It was still early, not yet midmorning, but a light wind had blown the dispersant weather away in the night. The sun shown strong in a beautiful blue sky filled with white fluffy clouds and large circling birds. Wait, circling birds?
Cale sat up, holding his head with a groan. Someone must have whacked him good, because he had a knot on the side of his head. His hand though, for all the blood he'd spilled yesterday, had healed splendidly. He held up his left hand to compare. There was no sign of a wound at all--virtually none that any had ever been there. Only a faint yet distinct scar on the palm of his right hand remained. Cale stood shakily to his feet. Only then did he look around. Only then did he realize why the vultures were circling.
He was st
anding in a field of dead men.
They were some twenty yards from the river along the roadway. A great apple tree stood nearby, in sharp contrast to the mangrove oranges along the river. Blood soaked into the pale earth, turning it dark and red. The men lay scattered about in twos or threes, missing limbs or heads or having been run straight through. Three were farther out, facing away, as if they had tried to flee. All fell where they’d died. All of them surrounded Cale.
And the sword.
Cale approached with great trepidation. He had no memory of what happened last night, only of swinging what apparently was not a tree root and chopping off Hobbes' arm. The sword was a little more than half Cale's height. The color of burnished rust, it reflected copper in the sunlight, almost winking, with runes etched in a deeper hue. Cale could not make them out, though long he stared at them; symbols at once familiar yet unknowable. There were many languages he did not recognize and fewer still he could read. Perhaps this had been the weapon of some wayward lord or great knight of the old kingdom? There were still bits of finger bones clinging to the hilt. Cale picked up the sword to pry them off.
Hello.
Mysterious voices elicited, nay, demanded a high-pitched girlish scream of terror. So as not to embarrass himself too much in future retellings of this story, Cale swore to henceforth call the sound emanating from his mouth a Manly Battle Cry. He also discovered he possessed an affinity for climbing nearby apple trees in times of great distress.
"Hello?" Cale called out slowly.
There was no wind, no sound. Only the rippling of the river and the birds in the trees greeted him. He could see no one from behind the foliage. He cautiously climbed down, checking every step on the way. He knew he had heard a voice. It was very clear. But there was no one around. Only the eyes of the dead stared back at him. Only the dead--and the sword.
"I don't know if you can hear me, but please, please don't kill me," he called once more, and then reached for the sword. "Hello?"
Hello.
Cale dropped the sword and backed away quickly.
It talked, it actually talked! He managed to not scream at least, but his heart was racing. Summoning his courage and curiosity, Cale picked up the sword once more. This time he held fast.
Hello again.
"You can talk?" Cale's voice was barely above a whisper. He held the cross guard at eye level, not knowing where else to look. The hilt had a humming sensation.
Yes, I can speak. But only you can hear me.
Cale heard the words, not with his ears, but inside his head. He could feel the vibrations of the words through his skull, like hearing the earth groan. His hands tingled, too. Every time the sword spoke, it tickled his hands and his ears, buzzing like a bee. It was a most unusual feeling.
"It tickles." Cale rubbed his ear.
You will grow used to it.
The longer he looked, the more questions formed in his mind. His curiosity won out over his fear as he studied the strange blade.
"Who are you?" It was as good a place to start as any.
I am a Spirit Sword, Cale Tannor. Your Spirit Sword.
"You know my name?"
Of course. We are bonded, you and me.
"I don't understand."
Have you not heard of the Imperial Knights?
Of course. It all came flooding back to Cale. The Imperial Knights. Sword Talkers. The Red Witches, with their magic swords which tormented the realms of men. Legends said they had been cast out long ago, never to return. Evidently, legends could be wrong.
"You serve the Red Witches?" Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. The sword went cold and still in his hands. It was several minutes before the sword responded.
Where did you hear this?
"From stories," Cale said slowly. Was he in trouble? Cale decided the best thing to do was to answer honestly. "In books. Legends, mostly."
It is a term used by our enemies. This is all you've learned about Spirit Swords?
"I suppose." Cale didn't have a better answer and replied sheepishly.
Then I shall have to start at the beginning. Hold your head high, Cale Tannor. There is no shame in ignorance, so long as you are willing to learn. Do you agree?
Cale nodded. Then he thought better of it and answered out loud. "Yes."
No need to worry, I can see you.
"What?" asked Cale. "How? Are you magic?"
There is no such thing as magic. We are bonded. I can see as far as you with perfect clarity. I hear much better than you as well. Even when we are separated, my eyes and ears are my own, now that you have woken me from my slumber.
"I don't understand. You keep using that word, bonded. What does that mean?"
I am a Spirit Sword, imbued by the Creator with the fire of creation, sent to guide humanity on the paths of virtue. You are my Bearer, my wielder and my sworn brother. It is to you I have been sent, to you I will counsel and to you I will serve.
"Sent? But I found you in the mud..." Cale looked at the finger bones on the ground, and then turned back to the mangrove trees, his mind racing. There was a man buried there, in the mud beneath the trees. He had not always been there, though, and rivers moved over time. So if there was a Sword Talker buried there, that lead to the next logical conclusion. "How many of you are there?"
The sword smiled, pleased with Cale's logical progression. Though Cale could not say how he knew it smiled. The weapon had no mouth with which to speak and no eyes to see, nor ears to hear. Yet it did all those things just fine. Should it be any surprise that it could smile or frown? Would others be able to tell by looking at it? Could it also read his mind? Was Cale just going crazy?
No Cale Tannor, you are not going crazy. I cannot read minds, but I am quite adept at reading facial expressions. You are correct. You are not my first, and you are the latest in a long line of Sword Bearers. Though I will admit, you are my youngest. There was a time when we Swords were as numerous as the stars in the sky. For a thousand generations we raised up Imperial Knights, serving our Bearers till they passed over, then bonding anew. Now, I fear I am the last of my kind. All my siblings have fallen asleep.
A thousand generations, he’d said. Cale furrowed his brow, figuring the sums in his mind. "Just how old are you?"
It is the blessing and curse of Swords that we have no reference for time. A million lives and one flow through us, a conduit for the human spirit, memories of long forgotten pasts lingering before our eyes. So I cannot say how old I am for certain. Yet I do remember the dawn.
"'Dawn'? You mean this morning?"
No, Cale Tannor. I mean the first dawn.
Cale set the sword down, stabbing the tip lightly in the dirt so as not to hurt it. Then he backed away slowly, chewing his thumb. This was beyond anything Cale had ever heard of. Not only were the Spirit Swords real, but he had found one. And it talked! The books had never mentioned that. What other stories would he find to be true? Could they split stones or ride on air? Could they kill a man from across the room? Could they kill Cale? Were the Red Witches actually evil, or were these tales written by the enemies of the Imperial Knights, as the sword had said?
Where did myth end and truth begin?
Cale set to pacing, pondering these questions. He did not heed the rocky soil, nor his bare feet, nor the birds feasting upon the field of dead men. No, there was one question he needed answered above all others.
"Prove it," Cale said defiantly. "Prove what you say is true, that you are real and I'm not crazy. The legends say you have magical powers. Show me something which will make me believe this is all--"
A jet of flame erupted from the sword, red hot and scorching the earth. Cale shielded his face, falling back as the birds of the field took to the air in panic, fleeing the fire. A column of flame shot into the air, twisting into a swirling cyclone of death twenty feet high. The fire whirled, shifting from red to orange and out to yellow and then bleeding into greens and blues. Tongues of flame licked the grass, the tree
leaves and even the bodies of the fallen. Wide-eyed, Cale backed away from the magnificent display.
Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the fire vanished, leaving only the birds screeching in the distance. Cale reached out with equal parts trepidation and wonderment. The blade hilt was cool to the touch. Though his family was not religious, Cale instantly fell to his face on the ground.
Stop that! I am not some heathen god to be worshiped. I am a creature of creation, just as you are. We are brothers, you and I.
Cale sat back on his knees. He and the sword were the same height now, looking eye-to-eye, as it were. Cale threw up his arms. "That was incredible! How did you do that?!"
Swords hold the fire of creation in their soul, the same as man.
"Well, I sure can't do that."
You just did.
"What?"
We are bonded, you and me. It is a symbiotic relationship, between Spirit Sword and Sword Bearer. The power is stored within you, while I am the conduit of release. One cannot function without the other.
Now that he mentioned it, Cale was feeling rather tired. "What else can you do? I mean, can we do? Together?"
With me at your side, you will be able to move faster, leap higher and react quicker than the average human. Through me, you will have access to the wisdom and experience of my past Bearers. I will also be at hand to provide the counsel of the Swords. My spirit, my wisdom and my heart are at your disposal.
"Like a book?" Cale instantly saw the parallels and immediately felt more at ease.
Like a book.
The idea of access to near limitless knowledge excited Cale far more readily than any sword or magic weapon did. He could hear stories, learn skills and study forgotten arts. He could return home and help fix his family's farm. Maybe even figure out a way to get the tannery back to please Pa.
Realizing his own thoughts, Cale looked downcast. Then he noticed the bodies around him and a terrible thought occurred to him. Once more, the talking sword got there before he did.