The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  But it was too late. The hidden mind and memory, sealed from the demon by rage, leapt to life at last. Kenhodan of Belhadan’s jaws unlocked, blood flowed down his chin, and his voice roared like the thunder of heavy cavalry at sunrise.

  “Shekarū, Herrik!” He screamed. “Ottar shen Cleres! Ottar ken Toren!”

  Fire streamed from the sword, and the demon quivered and jerked, straining to destroy him. Ruby brilliance glittered, shivering the cavern with indomitable might, and Kenhodan writhed in torment. His left hand snapped from the pommel…but the gryphon remained. Fans of yellow light flashed from the carving’s golden eyes, gouging at the demon. The fracture lines had vanished, fused seamlessly, and the gryphon spread its wings and screamed with remembered rage, its golden light like knives against the rags of demon might.

  Wencit half rose, crouching towards Kenhodan, and his own muscles mirrored the strain in that sorcery-wracked body. His blazing eyes burned the air about him, and his ancient face contorted in agony…or hope.

  The sword rose slowly, and the gryphon clawed its way towards Kenhodan’s head. The light of its glowing eyes touched his chin, his mouth…and then shafted into his eyes in a flood like destruction.

  No human throat could have shaped the noise that rent the air. It sprang from the demon as it confronted its doom, and head-sized chunks of ceiling shattered loose in stony thunder, leaping and cracking as they hit the floor. The sound of battle blazed into the maze, stunning Chernion and Bahzell, for the golden eyes were suns, and the fury of a gryphon’s battle cry shrieked through the very bones of the earth.

  The violet-green shroud snapped, stressed beyond endurance, and the demon mouth gaped in stricken terror.

  Then it vanished.

  Kenhodan staggered back under the weight of memory—memory of horror. Of killing blows, savagely given and returned. Of clinging ropes of blackness and an iron mace, battering his armor, snapping his ribs. Pain, his own blade gleaming like lost hope as it sheared and bit. Sorcery raging at his mind, clogging his senses. Blood pumping from his own wounds, more blood gouting over his arm as his sword slashed sorcerous mail, ribs, lungs. His foe’s death scream and the thunder of iron on his helm.

  Darkness.

  He reeled, clutching selfhood as the memories ripped him apart, and breath sobbed in his lungs. Tears of fire traced white lines in the blood from his broken lips, and his muscles trembled and crackled as he fought the merciful darkness which sought to claim him.

  He lost that battle. He fell on his face against the stone, the sword beneath him, and it was no longer a thing of iron or steel, of polished edges and inanimate metal. It glowed, alive and sentient, throbbing with its own fierce life. A distant shriek—a gryphon’s scream of triumph—echoed into the darkness with him, but the sword glowed beneath him like a beacon.

  The Sword of the South—restored.

  EPILOGUE

  Hope Reclaimed

  Wencit knelt beside his fallen friend, and hands which had shattered a continent trembled as they brushed the red hair. He took Kenhodan’s head into his lap, waiting, and his face was grim.

  Kenhodan stirred finally. He moaned softly and his eyes opened, dark and haunted, and Wencit cradled him like a mother with a fevered child.

  “Wencit?” The voice was strange: Kenhodan’s…and yet not.

  “Yes, Sire?”

  “How long?” The eyes were wide, unfocused, and the lips moved stiffly.

  “Thirteen hundred years and more, Sire.”

  “Don’t…call me that. Never call me that again.”

  “Why not? It’s what you are.”

  “No. I’ll never be that again. Never!” A callused hand rose to brush Wencit’s cheek, gently tracing the angle of the bearded jaw and the deep lines grooved by time and sorrow. “Thirteen hundred years,” the strange/familiar voice murmured. “It’s too much, Wencit. You use yourself too mercilessly.”

  “Perhaps. But if I do, I use others just as harshly. Forgive me.”

  “Forgive?” The voice laughed. “I can’t. I made my choices knowingly. There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “There is,” the wizard said softly. “Far more than you know. And you must make another decision, one you’ll hate. Will you reclaim what is yours?”

  “Must I?” The voice was unutterably weary now. “Haven’t I paid enough?”

  “You have,” Wencit said. “But not yet enough for victory.”

  “Victory,” the voice said bitterly. “We cared so much for victory, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “And you still do, don’t you, my friend? You—sitting there with your burning eyes—you care enough to pay and pay and pay, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Wencit said simply. “Someone has to.”

  “Then I suppose I have to care, as well. But I don’t want to, Wencit. Oh, how I want not to!”

  “I know.” Wencit touched the red hair gently. “I know—better than anyone. But you won’t be alone, and with the hurt and pain, there will be love. I swear it, Sire.”

  Kenhodan’s relaxed face writhed at the title Wencit gave him, and the head in the wizard’s lap twisted.

  “I’ll do what I must, Wencit, but I’ll have no throne! Spare me that, at least. All I ever wanted was a harp and someone to hear me play.”

  “I know…my friend,” Wencit said very softly. “And if you wish it so, so it will be. Yet there are things to be done which only you can do.”

  “If I must, I must,” the not-Kenhodan voice said, “but no thrones! I’ll pay what you demand of me, but you have to promise me that. No more thrones, no dynasties. Surely I’ve earned that much, Wencit?”

  “You have,” the wizard told him gently, “and I promise what you ask.”

  “Thank you,” the voice murmured. “I could die indeed for that.” Then it sharpened, even as it became more distant. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  “No, My Lord. Not yet.”

  “Good,” the voice said, barely audible now, “but I’ll have one more promise from you, Lord of Rūm.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Let him live—not me. He’s a…cleaner man than I can ever be again. Let him conquer me, not be conquered by me.”

  “It will be as you wish,” Wencit whispered, and a single tear trickled down his ancient cheek.

  “Thank you,” the voice was a ghost. “He deserves to live.…”

  “Farewell, My Lord,” Wencit whispered even more softly as the voice vanished and the green eyes slipped shut. But those eyes were closed only for a moment. Then they opened again, and they were Kenhodan’s once more, gazing up at the wizard.

  “Wencit?”

  His voice was unshadowed by the strange timbre.

  “Yes, Kenhodan.” The wizard rose, lifting him effortlessly. “Forgive me. I goaded you deliberately—I had to for you to survive the demon.”

  “You knew,” Kenhodan said wonderingly. “You knew what the spell was.”

  “I did. Don’t ask how, but one day you’ll know how I knew.”

  “Always ‘one day,’ eh?” Kenhodan laughed weakly and patted the wizard’s shoulder. “Somehow that doesn’t bother me anymore.

  “I know.” Wencit hugged him briefly, then stood back. “And in the meantime, I believe I told the Border Warden we’d find you another blade somewhere, and it would appear I was right. You’ve acquired a sword of royal lineage, my friend! Look.”

  Kenhodan stared down for the first time at the blade he still held, seeing the mirror-bright steel and feeling the hum of power. It burned through him, is if the weapon were forged of fire and light, not steel, and the ruby gryphon pommel stared at him with proud, distant eyes of inset gold.

  “Tomanāk,” he whispered. “It’s…beautiful.”

  “It is,” Wencit agreed softly, “and only one man may bear that blade: you.” Kenhodan swallowed heavily, eyes rising once more to Wencit’s face, and the wizard went quietly on. “It was last borne by Toren Swordarm to th
e Battle of Lost Hope. What you hold is the imperial blade of the House of Ottovar. I still dare not explain everything to you, but I will tell you this: you need never feel shame for your past, and in your veins flows the blood of Ottovar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise.”

  “You’re joking!” Kenhodan gasped, his eyes huge. “The House of Ottovar died thirteen hundred years ago!”

  “So it was thought. So I let it be thought. But that house lives…both here and in Kontovar. What began as a battle between Ottovarans can end only in the same way, Kenhodan. The Dark Lords gather power in Hacromanthi. Soon they’ll reach out to Norfressa, for I’m an old man, even for a wild wizard, and they know it. My power’s peaked and begun its decline. When they’re certain of that, when they’re confident it’s declined far enough, they’ll strike. You and that sword—and one other I’ve awaited until now—are our only hope.”

  “No,” Kenhodan whispered. “No!”

  “Yes.” Wencit was compassionate but unyielding. “You’re of a house bred for this battle. You have no more choice than I…and you know it.”

  “Wencit,” Kenhodan touched the wizard’s arm while the sword hummed in his other hand, “I’m not equal to such as that! You’re a wizard—you may be able to endure it. But I’m…only me. I can’t do it!”

  “You can, and you must. Wizardry isn’t what makes a man endure. It’s not even a very good basis for choice.”

  “Choice?” Kenhodan laughed unsteadily. “You just said I don’t have one!”

  “Every man has choices. You can slay yourself with that sword or bear it into battle. You can run. Perhaps you can even hide…but only at the cost of knowing what you’ve done. Knowing who you’ve abandoned.” The wizard’s hand was gentle as he touched Kenhodan’s face. “I know about choices, my friend. Believe me. I know.”

  “I do believe you, but—”

  Kenhodan broke off as something scraped behind him. He spun like a cat, his sword flaring with power, and two figures lurched into the cavern. Bahzell tottered, glaze-eyed with anguish, balanced on the tip of his massive blade and braced on Chernion’s good shoulder. The assassin staggered under that massive weight, little bigger than a child beside him, every line of her slim body eloquent with strain, and both of them were gray-faced with pain, but each carried drawn steel, Chernion in her left hand.

  “We heard too much noise,” Bahzell gasped. “We came to help.”

  Kenhodan’s face softened, and his sword lowered. He glanced at Wencit, and his face was filled with sorrow…and acceptance.

  “Choices, Wencit?” He smiled sadly. “I think not—not with friends like these.”

  “What?” Bahzell’s voice was twisted with pain as he stared at the sword and his champion’s senses felt its terrible power. “What choice might that happen to be?”

  “Never mind, Mountain.”

  Kenhodan sheathed the blazing glory in an empty scabbard which somehow fitted it perfectly and was once more the man the hradani knew. He and Wencit moved towards their companions and gently eased Chernion aside, taking Bahzell between them. Not even the iron-thewed hradani could withhold a moment of anguish as they lowered him to the floor, and Kenhodan’s eyes burned. He gripped Chernion’s shoulder tightly for a moment before he bent over Bahzell’s crudely splinted leg. They were so battered they could hardly move, yet they’d come to help. Worlds were very abstract causes beside the fierce loyalty of friends.

  “It really isn’t important, Bahzell,” he said softly. “Now let’s see to that leg properly so we can get you home.” He squeezed his friend’s forearm and smiled through the haze of his tears.

  “Gwynna and Leeana are waiting for you.”

  APPENDIX A

  Glossary

  Ada—the third continent of Orfressa, not inhabited by the Races of Man.

  Angthyr, Grand Duchy of—the largest feudal territory of the Kingdom of Angthyr.

  Angthyr, Kingdom of—a moderately large independent kingdoms south of the Empire of the Axe. The largest of the Border Kingdoms.

  Axe Hallow—Capital city of the Empire of the Axe.

  Axe, Empire of—the most powerful and populous realm of Norfressa, ruled by the House of Kormak.

  Axeman—any citizen of the Empire of the Axe, but especially any civil bureaucrat or soldier of the empire.

  Banark Bay—a huge bay on the west coast of Norfressa, subdivided into North Banark Bay and South Banark Bay; the site of the first major Ottovaran colonies in Norfressa, notably Man Home, the main port of refuge.

  Banefire—an incendiary compound similar to Greek fire.

  Battle of Lost Hope—the final battle of Toren Swordarm, last Emperor of Ottovar, in which his entire army was slain.

  Belhadan—the third-largest city of the Empire of the Axe, Belhadan is the largest and most important seaport of northern Norfressa.

  Belhadan Bay—the site of the city of Belhadan.

  Belhadans—citizens of the city of Belhadan.

  Bellwater River—the river border between the Grand Duchy of Kolvania and the Kingdom of Angthyr.

  Blue flower, the—periwinkle; the Orfressan flower of the dead and remembrance.

  Border Kingdoms, the—small independent states forming a buffer between the Empire of the Axe and the Empire of the Spear. Most of them are allied with the Empire of the Axe.

  Bortalik Bay—a large bay at the mouth of the Spear River; a major port, controlled by the Purple Lords.

  Bridge of Angthyr—the major bridge across the Bellwater River between the Duchy of Kolvania and the Grand Duchy of Angthyr.

  Brothers of the Axe—also “Axe Brothers;” the elite heavy infantry of the Empire of the Axe.

  Cape Storm—the major tape marking the southern terminus of the Fradonian Banks off the west coast of Norfressa.

  Carchon, Duchy of—a duchy of the Kingdom of Angthyr.

  Cardos, Isle of—a large island at the mouth of Belhadan Bay which helps protect the anchorage from winter gales.

  Cleres—the next to last emperor of Kontovar; the father of Toren Swordarm.

  Coast Guard—the capital of West Barony in the Kingdom of Angthyr.

  Corsair Isles—the island homeland of the Shith Kiri Corsairs.

  Corsairs—the Shith Kiri.

  Council of Assassins—the ruling council of the Assassins Guild.

  Council of Captains—the council governing the Shith Kiri Corsairs.

  Council of Carnadosa—the ruling council of black wizards in Kontovar, named for Carnadosa Phrofressa. First established to oppose the House of Ottovar in Kontovar and now dedicated to the conquest of Norfressa.

  Council of Ottovar him—also “White Council,” see below.

  Council of Semkirk—a council of magi and mishuki named for Semkirk Orfro, established in Norfressa to train and govern magi in the use of their talents and to combat black wizardry.

  Council, White—also “council of Ottovar;” the council of white wizards originally established in Kontovar by Ottovar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise to enforce the Strictures of Ottovar and govern the actions of wizards in general.

  Cragwall Pass—one of the major passes through the East Wall Mountains.

  Curse of Kontovar—a hradani term for the inherited compulsion towards violence impressed upon them by sorcery during the final wars in Kontovar.

  Direcat—a very large, highly intelligent Norfressan carnivore physically similar to a sabertooth tiger.

  Dog Brothers, the—members of the Assassins Guild.

  Dorfai Saramantha—a famous elvish poet, sage, and scholar.

  Dragon Ward—a smell barrier created by Wencit of Rūm to confine and protect the dragons who survived the Dragon Wars and their descendants.

  Dragon Wars—wars between the Races of Man and dragons in Norfressa, fought over the area now included in the kingdom of Angthyr and Duchy of Kolvania.

  Dwarf—one of the five Races of Man. Renowned for engineering, stonework, and the design and construction of complex machin
ery.

  Dwarvenhame—the most recently added province of the Empire of the Axe, lying between the Dwarvenhame Mountains and the Ordan Mountains.

  East Wall Mountains—a virtually impassable mountain range forming the eastern border of the Empire of the Axe, traversable by armies through only a few passes. Generally called simply “the East Walls.”

  Elf—one of the five Races of Man. The elves were granted effective immortality by Ottovar the Great and Gwynytha the Wise in return for their renunciation of the powers of unchecked wizardry.

  Eloham, Bridge of—bridge of King Emperor Eloham, a long bridge crossing the Snowborn River between Sindor and Losun.

  Ephinos—an extremely powerful tranquilizer/anesthetic.

  Fall of Kontovar—the destruction of the Empire of Ottovar in Kontovar and the near-genocidal counterattack of the White Council. See also “Strafing of Kontovar.”

  Fradonian Banks—a very dangerous chain of reefs and shoals along the northwestern coast of Norfressa. Sometimes called “Korthrala’s Teeth.”

  Fradonian Channel—the passage through the Fradonian Banks to the harbor of Belhadan.

  Gramerhain—a crystal used by wizards for scrying purposes.

  Graumau—a large arcane monster combining traits of ape, cat, and rat.

  Great Retreat—also “Long Retreat;” see below.

  Greenleaf River—the largest river which lies entirely within the Empire of the Axe.

  Gryphon Banner—the standard of the Emperors of Ottovar: a red field bearing a crowned gryphon rampant.

  Gryphon Guard—the elite personal guard of the ruler of the Empire of Ottovar.

  Gryphon Palace—the residence of the House of Ottovar in Rollanthia.

  Gryphon Throne—the state chair of the rulers of the Empire of Ottovar.

  Gut, The—a huge the lord north of Belhadan in Vonderland. Completely frozen during the winter months, it is the primary water access to Vonderwatch, the capital of the Province of Vonderland in the Empire of the Axe.

  Hacromanthi—literally “Grave of Evil” in ancient Kontovaran; the name given to Kontovar the Last White Council’s final counterstrike against the Council of Carnadosa.